Living For The Weekend

This is a blog about depression. If you are easily offended or take offence to my very sarcastic humour, please do not read any further. Mental illness is not a joke; it is not something to point fun at and I fully understand that. BUT…when the going gets tough, sarcasm and humour is my defence and so I will be parading it around all over this blog.

 

If you need help, please get it. Whilst I hope this has a happy ending, I don’t know yet and given I’ve not been able to fix myself, I really don’t want others using this as a ‘How To Be Happy for Beginners v2.0’

 

 

I sleep in yet again. This is becoming rather a common theme. I should now be typing that sleeping in is ok, coming home was a big energy drain and I shouldn’t be too hard on myself. That’s what the healthy person would say. I don’t though. I get cross at myself. That’s 3 chores I’d scheduled to do by now but haven’t. Being home is hard. I’d love to say it’s amazing having my full wardrobe, comfy bed, no questionable carpets and my cats. It is but all that comes with chores. The day-to-day life admin that we all have. Loading the dishwasher, putting washing on, taking the rubbish out, cooking food, taking my meds. These are all chores I’ve been able to walk away from for the last 4 ½ weeks whilst in hospital. I’ve written myself a very detailed timetable for the weekend and there are lots of chores on there. Instead of re-planning and getting cracking with it, I give up. I grab a packet of crisps and a chocolate bar and then…Yup, I sit on the sofa and don’t move. The cats come sit on my lap and I take that as validation that I don’t need to move.

 

My sister messages, she has a hangover, can we cancel going to Costco and just do dinner? Suits me, more reason to not move. In fact, now I am only going for dinner, I may as well crawl back under the duvet. Yes, that’s exactly what I’ll do. No sign of me doing what I promised and going to the local deli for a hipster coffee, no sign of at least getting dressed. No, instead I have a 2-hour nap and instead of washing, I spray what must be a can full of dry shampoo on my hair, throw on yesterday’s clothes and order a taxi. Yet again, no teeth brushed, no face wash and barely up and dressed. I grab a bottle of red and away I head.

 

Given the taxi was very boring, I’ll use this space to update you on mum-gate (i.e. mum not knowing the truth). She does now. Yes, I faced up to life and told her the truth. Not the whole truth and nothing but the truth but a slimmed down version of the truth that I think she can handle. She doesn’t understand and that’s ok, at least she knows I am not at a work nor at a yoga and mindfulness clinic. She offers to come to see me but I can’t be strong enough for her at the moment. No, I’ll leave that for another week. I tell her, rather insistently, I’ll call her on Sunday and not before. Sadly, this message didn’t sink in as I’ve got a few missed calls. Once I’ve determined she’s ok and it’s nothing serious via my sister, I decide to ignore and stick to my plan of calling her tomorrow.

 

Back in the taxi and I’m pulling up at my sister’s flat. She’s there in the doorway to greet me and looks like I feel…shit! Ah bless her hangover, it makes me look like I’ve put some effort into getting ready in comparison. They’ve cooked steak and there isn’t a steamed veg in sight! We chat about their upcoming nuptials, how mum is taking this, and how I am feeling about day care. We kindly skip over anything too important but that suits me.

 

I’m home and in bed at a very respectable 2230. Night meds consumed and Sudoku in hand. So, day 1 back in the big wide world didn’t go so great. Let’s call it a day and try again tomorrow. There is a new schedule planned, and scaled back a little, ready and waiting.

 

 

Sunday morning and I can’t sleep in. My supermarket delivery is due to arrive at 0900 so up I get at 0800. Do I jump in the shower? Do I wash my face? Do I brush my teeth? Do I get dressed? No. I have no shame, Mr Supermarket Delivery Guy gets to see my revolting hair, grey pjs and large dressing gown, the lucky lucky man. The delivery brings me breakfast, hot cross buns! The best part of Easter. After unpacking and arranging my fridge in the perfect order, it’s time to face up to the nuclear warfare that’s currently growing in an array of Tupperware containers. I would fathom a guess that pots 1 and 2 were portioned yogurt; pot 3 was cheese, chicken and pesto; pot 4 was veg soup and pot 5 was butternut squash. I love Tupperware. This means I am very reluctant to throw the pots away. This therefore means taking the lids off and scooping the living organisms out into the bin. This is not fun. I didn’t know I was going into hospital, I therefore had a week’s worth of food prepped and ready to go in the fridge. Oh yes, I am one of ‘those people’, I am a Sunday night prepper. I regret this now! Bet you aren’t surprised that I am a prepper though.

 

Ok, this is productive, that’s one chore done. Stack the dishwasher and that’ll be two chores. The buzzer goes and its Sky. I’m upgrading to Sky Q, it’s very exciting! There is a problem though. My account notes state I need a ‘high risk’ access team (i.e. through a roof hatch to you and me) but they’ve assigned it to an engineer that isn’t trained for ‘high risk’ access. Ok, great, so basically, you’ve rung my bell to tell me you can’t do it and you’re off? Well, in which case, back upstairs I go and there is no reason to get dressed today then. No, I am not sure how that logic was derived but it was so just go with it. My hair should probably join the mould in my bin in terms of revoltingness. The myth that hair can self-clean after a while appears to be just that, a myth. My hair is most definitely getting worse. I sit in my study area so I can look out the window and watch the world go by. Study area is a very fancy way of describing the little entrance area which is just big enough for a book case and desk. It’s lunch time but instead of having something that resembles a meal, I dig into a pack of sweets. Next challenge is to tackle the last couple of fiendish Sudoku puzzles. This takes longer than I was expecting and I’ve some how placed an Amazon Prime Now order for fizzy pop and more sweets, plus a colouring book with rude words. This is dangerous! It’ll be here in less that 2 hours! I should not be allowed to have access to such a delivery service.

 

The buzzer goes and the fizzy pop and sugar is here. I dig in whilst flicking through the colouring book. Now this is AWESOME! Somehow colouring in ‘BULLSHIT’ is more exciting than colouring in geometrical lines. I’d forgotten about my colouring phase 2 years ago and have now located the vast array of colouring pens I acquired. Yet another thing I didn’t do in half measures. Turns out, one set of pens is perfect for this colouring task. The results are below (apologies if the words offend you but they brought a smile to my face). This has kept me occupied for quite a few hours. No, my to do list did not get done but, I survived, I’ve not just festered under the duvet or on the sofa – for this purpose, I am deeming sitting at a desk and colouring more productive.

 

It’s getting late so time to face the multiple missed calls from mum. We talk around the subject of my mental health before I assure her I love her and I’ll call her during the week. This should be enough right? Wrong, I get 3 more calls from her over the evening including one to buy her something online. I can bet you my mortgage she didn’t call my sister for said help.

 

Next up, for some reason I am feeling brave enough to listen to my father’s voice message. This was a rooky mistake. My father has left a long message and it sounds like he’s close to tears. About what though? He doesn’t have a clue about me or what I’ve been going through. My aunt would have told me if she had told him and my sister hasn’t heard from him since before (yes, before, not on) her birthday. Her birthday which should be impossible for him to forget as it’s the day after his own birthday. A couple of frantic messages to my sister and neither of us know what’s going on. Sorry sister, this is one you are going to have to deal with. I just can’t right now. Sister gets cross at me, she thinks I should call him. No, I can’t and I won’t. Very mature of me, I know.

 

Back to colouring in swear words to try to avoid this feeling. I don’t think I can face day care tomorrow. This was my fear, I’d get home and then not be able to leave the flat again. I’ve sat in the same spot for 8 hours, I’ve worked my way through 2 bags of crisps, a bag of wine gums and half a bag of toffees whilst avoiding all forms of washing and only by colouring in swear words. It’s late, very late and in a perfect self-sabotaging way, I’ve kept myself up. The flat is a tip but I don’t care. I am going to bed and I am going to hope I can face the music tomorrow. This is not how I’d planned this weekend to go, this was not what I was meant to do. In fact, it’s the ‘perfect’ opposite of what I was meant to do. I hope I can make it to day care tomorrow. I think I need it.

 

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