annanotbob2's Diaryland Diary ----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- Grumpy and moany. The first part of today was awful, loads of stress and anxiety about getting onto zoom for writing group, the mental health lot being Fucking Useless (it's official) about supporting our peer-led group - we're booked for an hour from 10.30-11.30 and we ended up with 20 minutes starting at 11.40 and being cut off at noon. Cunts. Then Bloke - I can't even say - no I must or I forget. I came out of writing group and he's not there. His car is in the drive so he hasn't gone far. The dog is still here so he hasn't gone for a walk or he'd have taken her - maybe he's gone to the shop round the corner. I'll phone him. His phone rings from his room - he's left it behind. Ah well, he'll be back in a minute - the shop is only ten minutes walk away. An hour later... no sign. Well, where the fuck is he then? By the time he opens the door I know for a fact that he's had a heart attack and is in hospital with no ID on him and have worked myself up into a massive state. But no, he'd gone for a walk and didn't take the dog because he didn't want to. He saw me crying with the release of the anxiety, shrugged and went upstairs to check his phone, made a call and was laughing within moments. Now I know, I know. He doesn't owe me anything - all I do is moan about him, where do I get off with all this? I don't know, is the answer. Because I was really freaked out when I thought something had happened to him but have barely been able to speak to him since. Ah well, I'm saving up for proper therapy. (Not joking, I am) I stomped out, crossly, with dog, over the hills and far away, in the sunshine and fresh air, calling M to tell her about it all and get it out of my head. She can't understand why I get so full of anxiety - well, it's not a choice, but I thought about it and while part of it is that I do have a diagnosis of chronic and severe anxiety and depression (which I 'manage' by rigid adherence to my self-care plan but still occasionally slip up), there were also two key events. My dad was late home from work on Christmas Eve 1965, when I was eleven. Mum moaned about him having gone to the pub with his workmates (though she would have said colleagues) till a policeman turned up at our door with his hat in his hands (never a good sign) to tell us that a bus had skidded into my dad's car and he wasn't expected to survive. He did, but with all his limbs broken in multiple places, a fractured skull, broken ribs, god knows what else. He was in hospital till the summer and came out with still both arms and legs in plaster casts. He gradually recovered enough to work again and drive, but he was never the same. Then in December 2004 I had a row on the phone with my friend Julia who lived in Spain. We used to row a lot - we liked it. I'd phoned her to tell her our friend Joan had died but she didn't let me get a word in and I was so pissed off I didn't call her at Christmas or the new year, though she didn't call me either. But she was lying dead at the bottom of a mountain - her Jeep had gone over the edge into a ravine and she wasn't found till mid January. So now I assume the worst. I feel safer assuming the worst and then being a fool than thinking it's OK and getting more bad news. Sigh and change of mood... Three Good Things: Take care, y'all. Night night xxx 11:13 p.m. - 15.01.21 ----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- |
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