annanotbob2's Diaryland
Diary
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Five again
I'm going to go back to fives for a bit as I'm losing track of my life and my blog so
- I'm right up against it mental health-wise, struggling against massive feelings that I can't go on, but unable to stop, just endlessly plodding through the tasks I have set myself, joylessly, and crappily, forgetting crucial parts of everything and losing things like keys, purse, diary again and again. And phone but that can be found quickly by ringing it.
- I don't know how to rest, or where to rest, more to the point. This house I sit in does not feel like a home, mine or his, even after three years. I never refer to it as my home, just use the name of the village. I am overwhelmed with feelings of wanting to go home, but I don't know where that is. Not with Bloke is the truth.
- Much of this will be better (or worse) when Elder Daughter has had her 'funding review' on Monday. This is the latest wheeze by which people with incurable diseases and their carers have to go over every excruciating detail of their incapacity in front of these bloody people to see if they are still in need of care and support. It doesn't matter if they are incurable, it still has to be done every year. Since last year this task has been 'outsourced' which means a private company is now doing it and expects to make a profit, so clearly someone somewhere will have their funding cut to pay for said profits. If it's not my daughter it will be someone else's. (Or son, obvs.) I cannot get my head around this. Having grown up in a world where we paid National Insurance and were then looked after if we needed it, I can only see the current system as disgusting, inhumane, immoral... and scary as fuck.
- Great stuff is happening with me and the writer-in-residence at the recovery centre. I'm trying to hold onto that. I like her a lot and also she believes in me as a writer and her belief boosts my belief in myself. I need to hold onto that. She's a published novelist (The Handsworth Times, by Sharron Duggal) - I bought it, in paperback, not kindle, as I want it on my shelf to see and be inspired by, but I can't fucking read it as the print's too small and I can't afford new glasses. So I will get it on kindle, but I can't afford that either at the moment. The camshaft is apparently split (?) on my car and it can be repaired but that's another £200 I don't have so Bloke is paying for it and lending me his car when he's not using it and this being under obligation to him is probably the main source of my head being done in, to be honest. I know, I could try being grateful and even graceful, but I can't, it just makes me feel like a cunt, all of it.
- But here's another bit I found on my old blog that I liked, from when I lived near the river, in a house with a ground floor below sea level so life took place upstairs, for me and my neighbour, coming up to Christmas 2005: "The downside of the decorations being up is that I've had to move my laptop round the table to allow the tree to be squeezed in between the table and the sofa. But now that it is, we can't close the curtains, which wouldn't be so bad, if I wasn't sitting here now, pretty stoned, trying not to stare into the illuminated kitchen window of the policeman whose house backs onto ours, as he does the washing up. He sits on the step in the dark sometimes having a fag as he's not allowed to smoke indoors since they had kids, so he could be sitting there watching me typing this, in an absent-minded, staring at what's in front of you kind of way, nothing with any intent. He's OK. We have a weird history, starting with chatting on the beach every summer, totally unaware that he was a cop, just neighbourly. I remember waltzing into the office at school, with some miscreant in tow, in full rant, and finding Neighbour in police uniform having a cup of tea. We were both amazed that we'd never talked about what we did. Then Son went doollally for about five years which included lots of police stuff, sometimes involving him. Son was always wild and abusive when he was arrested and he knew enough about Neighbour to be truly vile and personal. Then, when I was having my 'breakdown' or whatever it was, I discovered that Neighbour was also having one, but had about a six month head start on me, which lead to all sorts of moments, such as the one when he was on duty, in uniform, as I was walking through town on my way back from the psychiatric day hospital and he grabbed me, dragged me into a shop doorway and stood with his back to the street, crying his eyes out because he couldn't handle it at home or at work. I think he's OK now - no, I'm pretty certain he is. I actually first knew him in the seventies when I worked in the pub just down the road from here and his parents were a pair of real dedicated piss-heads who were in there all the time during the day, with him in his push chair. He's got an unusual name and a distinctive enough face to have been recognisable immediately when he moved in opposite. And all in all, it's not too bad that he can see in, just a shame that he's a cop and I like illegal substances.
Anyway, enough about him, I'm off to watch a film." I am grateful for: Bloke lending me his car and paying for mine to be mended really (although I am also narked and depressed about it); for wordprocessors which we all take for granted but which save so much fucking work compared to the olden days of typewriters and carbon copies; a cooler day with cloudy skies; for finding my favourite lamb recipe which I lost years ago but had written out in my blog - when I tried it without the resipe I had all the ingredients but fucked up the temperature and the timing - I shall make it this weekend I think; for a sea to swim in day after day - getting really warm now and we're still not even in August Sleep tight, dear friends
1:04 a.m. - 21.07.18
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