annanotbob2's Diaryland Diary ----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- Oh If you read my post from yesterday I need to note that when I say the nice woman sorted it out for me, she got me back to where I'd been before I started. I didn't have the energy to fight my way back to having the amount of loan I'd applied and been accepted for, as I'd already had to refuse to accept "solutions" that would have left me with less money and higher repayments and I was done. I think I'm going to try and sell some art, to make some art to sell or sell some that I've got. At therapy this morning we ended up in a place I didn't expect, after I told her about all yesterday's palaver with the bank and the loan and how it had left me feeling exhausted. She probed a bit and things kept popping out, like the two lovely Salty Grief Warrior women, having the first anniversaries of their sons' deaths this last weekend, and how powerfully I'd been affected by their pain and the feelings about Sam. And guilt, guilt that at the end, before I knew it was the end, I'd thought, "I can't do this any more," and I so wished that I'd been able to make it through to the end of her little life without feeling that. And Mother's Day being on the horizon and still no word from Son, and Bloke with cancer, and and and.... The upshot is she wants me to REALLY grasp that the way I looked after Sammie for all those years was massive, monumental and I don't acknowledge that and how it's left me feeling, especially as she died and then the pandemic came along before we'd had time to draw breath. And I am knackered, existentially exhausted and instead of giving myself a period of recuperation, I endlessly take on new projects, new commitments, like the Zoe food thing, sea swimming, a fitness programme, songwriting, grief writing, singing in a choir - all new this winter. I came home, looked on my laptop, and there was a post from a woman I know from the MS families group, who looks after her husband with MS and he's coming to the end, but they live in a place with fuck all support, no carers, no respite, no wheelchair accessible vehicles or taxis, just her at home, day after day, cleaning him, feeding him, rolling him over, giving him his meds. She'd posted a 'humorous' thing about how she hadn't known it was going to be this hard. I replied, can't remember what I said, but she replied, that she didn't do much, she's in her bed most of the time. But she's given up on the rest of her life, even more than I did, and she can't see it and nor could I and I do find it hard to hold onto but I am going to cut down on what I do. I don't want to lose any of it really, but things can be fortnightly rather than weekly and we'll see where we end up. Then I lay on my bed most of the day, scrolling through my phone like a twat, then I did a fitness session, circuits, for fuck's sake. Lunges. Squats. I don't know what I'm grateful for today. My little dog, who's looking at me with her head on one side as if she's saying, come one, it's bedtime. I am grateful for her. 12:18 a.m. - 09.03.23 ----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- |
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