annanotbob2's Diaryland Diary


Day 256

Broken. I don't usually write when I feel like this because it's too awful and shameful but when I read through old entries there were just gaps and no sense of what it had been like through the bad times.

Everything feels too hard. Today I cancelled my music lesson, again, because I was in a state about my counselling. The bereavement counselling is finished; instead I had an appointment back with R, my usual counsellor. He texted me late yesterday to check that I was still on - we'd booked this before the bereavement ones started as you can't have two lots running simultaneously - and I was but then he reminded me that I was meant to be meeting him in his office. I said OK, because that's what I do, I fucking agree, but then I started to panic about it. It's legal to have face to face, because it's medical, but is it safe? It's a small room, with a small window and you can't do counselling with the door open, so no through draft. I got into a total state about it, and I don't even know why because of course I didn't have to go - once I told him we did it on whatsapp video call, which is pretty cool, much better than a phone call, but I wasn't able to be honest about it with him, not honest enough anyway.

By the time we finished I was exhausted and couldn't do anything except sit and fiddle round on my fucking phone. I thought I'd be OK if I didn't go to the first writing group and I did feel a bit better after I'd emailed the teacher so I had a go at the Klimt painting, but I made a big fucking mess of it - it's all rectangles and neat straight lines on the bloke's side and I was far too agitated and wobbly so it's just lots of crappy blodges. It doesn't matter, I know it doesn't matter, but I can't let it go. I can't calm down and do it properly, or shrug my shoulders and start again, I just get totally demented.

I'd been indoors all day so I took the dog down to the seafront for a walk, but it was almost dark by then, with drizzly rain that got down my neck and up my sleeves and everywhere and I just felt so fucking miserable and alone and hopeless. We've had a skip delivered to take away all the stuff that's accumulated, like the old bath and kitchen counters and loads of stuff and there was room for me to back out of the drive alongside it, but I fucking couldn't and sat in my car and cried and cried in front of the fucking neighbours and people walking past until Bloke noticed and came out and did it for me.

I don't know, when I write it all down it seems trivial and nothing much - it doesn't explain why I feel so terrible. It got worse when I got home, my mind full of awful shit - like there seems to be an endless stream of posts about people who are missing and then you hear nothing more. Are they all found. or do they return or are they never heard from again? When Sutcliffe died the other day it occurred to me that there hasn't been a serial killer in the UK for years, since Shipman, I think, but is that because no one's doing it or because they aren't getting caught? And then I'm stuck with that thought. Or about Son coming down for Christmas and one of us infecting the other with Covid and who knows where that ends up. I'm done. I kept pretty fucking cheerful for about 230 days of global pandemic which is amazing but I'm done now, I'm fucking done.

10:30 p.m. - 25.11.20


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