Thursday (December 4) allowed television to raise my youngest child again. Some headache. Some sinus crap, but mostly I just felt very hide-y. I think in part that the anxiety of my students as finals approach is contagious.
And there is the whole holiday season. Where I get to stress about pretty much everything. It is the gift to myself that just keeps on giving. But I have been doing okay in recent years taking it easier. Not trying to do everything. Not taking on too many things. But that doesn't mean I don't feel like I should...
Right. So back to Thursday.
Drove children to bus-stop only to find out that 8yo left backpack at home. So my children went to school in the bus and I drove to school following the bus.
Did not go to the Y.
Felt demoralized by the backpack thing (don't know why). Spent the day moping. When I picked up the children after school I went into active hiding mode.
Because every time I tried to talk to someone they started crying or yelling or having some kind of tantrum. So I hid in the dark until spouse came home. Once I stopped trying to communicate with the children everything calmed down. As soon as I emerged from hiding, the crying, whining, screaming tantrums resumed.
At night I made one smart move: not staying up after Spouse went to bed. I know from experience that if I stay up without anyone else awake I can lose track of time and projects and myself and suddenly it is 1:30 am.
So I smartly went to bed, but I wasn't tired. So I read. A whole book. And then it was 1 am.
AND the book I read had a very interesting main character with whom I identified. Which turned out to be not so great when we learned that she had a history of anxiety and mental illness and used pain to cope with mental crap.
And when I woke up in the morning (Friday) I felt like my spine had been coiled tight like a watch spring. And maybe my spinal cord was just a little too short. And all the parts of me that were attached hurt.
I took a bath, soaked my muscles and then rubbed my skin raw. Just the stupid part on my stupid wrist where I stupidly used to (anciently, decades ago) scratch the surface layers of skin away. Leaving a weeping sore. So that if I touch it, there is pain. Salt in the wound. And it distracts me from whatever stupid mental crap I am indulging in at the moment.
I really want to read the next two books that the author wrote with this character, but I think it is probably a not very good plan at the moment. It was supposed to be in the romantic fluff novel category but I made the mistake of getting away from the syrupy historical novels and into something more current.
I want to break this up into another post and so I am going to.
p.s. - did not take venlafaxine on Thursday or Friday. did not exercise at all this week except for tap on Wednesday. did not spend time outside. did not phone a friend. did not do crap.
Grateful Crap: I AM NOT FOURTEEN, FIFTEEN or SIXTEEN years old.
Quaker, teacher, parent,