McD’s Delivery, Love Island and Friends

Apologies for the blog hiatus yet again. Life’s been interesting and, as a teacher once told me at school, being interesting isn’t always a good thing. Where to start? Obviously last Thursday’s post was a complete word vomit of my anxiety. I focused on my manager rather than the difficult topic of Colleague P. I do that. I focus on anything but the problem and I look for problems elsewhere so I don’t have to focus on the thing most bothering me. That’s what happened last Thursday. I then hit self-destruct. I had a bit too much wine (mistake, don’t drink alone people, it’s not a clever idea) and then discovered that UberEATS delivers McDonalds. Yes, really, for the sum of an extra £2.50, a Big Mac can be delivered straight to your door. Obviously, the order didn’t stop at a Big Mac. No no, it also included a cheeseburger, large fries, lemonade and a donut. Oh, I’d also ordered a McFlurry but they were out of ice cream. Cue binge! I go to bed feeling sick at how much I’ve eaten. I’m also thoroughly ashamed. I’m the biggest I’ve ever been and I hate myself yet I’m sat eating thousands of junk food calories. Oh, Person C, you mighty fuck up.


Friday was an emotional shit show too. The day started with a psychologist’s appointment. Another toughie and more tears. The tears seemed to dry up for a bit but fear not, the drought is over and I’m once again perilously close to making myself dehydrated. A therapy session is usually more than enough of an emotional hit for one day. But it’s me, Person C, when have I stopped to do the healthy thing? Nope, instead, I’m going to the bank I’m hoping will issue my new mortgage as I need some paperwork validated. My mortgage is a painful subject for me. I’m excruciatingly embarrassed that I’m having to resort to interest only. If you’re a friend of mine, get ready to hear me explain about the mortgage to the nth degree as a way of trying to achieve validation that I’m not a fuck up. So, paperwork validated, it’s time for the one fun thing today, lunch with Friend MI. We sit outside and she listens as I unload my oversized emotional baggage. That doesn’t sound too bad, right? Exactly, it’s not. Lunch was a bit more expensive than I’d planned but it’s ok, I’m still within my monthly budget. So, let’s move onto emotional tornado number 2 of the day. The Mum visit.


Mum is coming not only to London, but more precisely, to my flat. I’m prepped for a tirade of comments about how it’s not good enough. Friend GG reminds me not to judge, she may just want to spend time with her youngest daughter. Friend GG, you were wrong. As I’ve mentioned a thousand times, I’ve never doubted mum loves me and I love her. But, yes yet another bloody but. She’s ‘horrified’ at the state of the flat. What must people think of me? What must they think of her who raised me? Right now, you’re probably picturing a smelly dump of a flat with no clean surfaces or floor. Some dirty dishes and mess, right? Well, in fact my flat is tidy. Everything is in its place. There is a pan that hasn’t been washed by that’s just 1 pan and it was a time thing.


Mum: Why haven’t you ironed your bedding

Me: Because it’s bedding and I’m only going to sleep in it

Mum: Why haven’t you washed the pan

Me: Because I didn’t have time

Mum: Why haven’t you filed this paperwork

Me: See the above answer

Mum: Why haven’t you cleaned the bathroom

Me: Because it’s hard whilst one legged

Mum: Why haven’t you hoovered

Me: See the above answer

Mum: Why is your fridge disorganised

Me: Urm what, I pride myself on my fridge


and finally…


Mum: Are you sure you have OCD as your flats an utter mess

Me: Sorry Mum, forgot about your invisible medical degree in comparison to my experienced and highly regarded psychiatrist


The Mum tornado continues for 5 hours. 5! Or, 300 minutes or 18,000 seconds. That’s a long time. During this, Mum almost literally pulls apart the things that aren’t ‘right’ in the flat. This includes the fact I’ve not ironed my underwear too (yes, mum irons her underwear, and you all thought I was the crazy one!). Mum also starts rummaging through my paperwork. She loves a good nosey. I think it’s some hormone that is released when a woman becomes a mum. A natural snoop-o-meter. Finally, as we sit down to do her internet ordering (on my credit card but this time I’ve actually asked her for the money), she asks me to look up a family friend’s daughter. Said Daughter F recently got married. To a Duke. And she’s now pregnant. Mum spends the next 20 minutes pointing out why Daughter F has really got her life together and then pointing out how lucky Mum J is as she’s about to be a grandmother. Cue the time for me to usher her out the flat and onto a bus. I go with her. Not as the dutiful daughter, the sooner she leaves, the better the chances I’ll still love her rather than want to punch her. No, like all the cool kids in town, I’m about to spend my Friday night in my psychiatrist’s waiting room. Yes, really, my appointment is at 1930 on a Friday night.


Enter emotional tsunami 3 of the day. We talk, I fight back tears, she looks at the MRI report of my ankle and doesn’t believe I merely stood up to answer the door. Apparently, the report shows more damage than I’d understood. She wonders if I jumped. Say, off a bridge. I swear, I really didn’t. Friend EM may be required to come and testify as much to Dr. E.


My return to work deadline is looming. It’s in just over 1 month. If I’ve not returned to work by then, I’ll roll onto income protection. Whilst I’m definitely in a far better place than I was, I’m not sure I’m corporate office ready just yet. 1 month is a long time, things can change, I hope I’ll be ready by then. But, instead of asking Dr. E if she thinks I’m ready, I return to my favoured ‘let’s ignore this and instead worry myself sick’ strategy. Great. On the bus home, at 2030, whilst watching others on their night out, the tiny violin of self-pity takes its residence and starts to play. I’m feeling emotionally worn out, frustrated and pretty gutted that for yet another week, I’m rocking my Friday out doing zilch.


Saturday briefly improved as I had lunch with friends and my goddaughter but then rapidly fell off a cliff when I passed a bakery and bought 6 (yes, 6) cakes. I couldn’t decide which one I wanted out of the blueberry brioche, raisin donut, flan slice, maple syrup drop scone, mini crumble, and finally, a date and pecan mini cake.


I got home and scoffed 3. Then it was time to say good night to the day with the help of diazepam, amitriptyline and an antihistamine.


Sunday was a day spent in pjs, eating the final 3 cakes and vegging. It did not involve some seriously overdue washing, painting my nails, colouring or life admin. In fact, to avoid washing, I went to the trouble of tidying the study. Yes, tidying the study was deemed better than washing in a nice hot shower. My brain guys, it’s really dumb.


Monday was finally time to shower and then throw some things in a bag ready for some baby therapy curtesy of Friends RH and KH. First up though, therapy. I don’t talk about what’s bothering me. I focus on all the faults Mum pointed out on Friday rather than the fact I’ve agreed to go to Wales with Father for 4 nights. Yes, this is happening. I’m going to the middle of nowhere whilst on crutches, to attempt a patch up of our relationship. It’s going to be just the two of us. No phones, no tvs, barely working Internet and an axe and a chainsaw. The maths doesn’t stack up well. Therapist L sees I’m avoiding the Father topic so asks me. That’s when we figure out that the 5-hour drive will be the most amount of time I’ve spent with Father (either alone or with others) in over 20 years. No exaggeration. So, not only a 5-hour drive, I’m then going to spend 4 nights with him. Shit man, this doesn’t seem like such a hot idea anymore.


I head to the station and overspend. The emotional eating kicks in so I get some crisps and some sweets for the journey plus a couple of bottles of vino as a thank you for friends. All this is way way waaay over budget so ends up going on the credit card. Bugger.


With friend’s company and cute little kids, it makes life feel easier. Partly because they take fantastic care of me but partly because I have other humans (albeit a 2 1/2-year-old and a 6 month old) to talk to even if I feel crappy. There have been a couple of moments, today (Tuesday) especially, when I’ve wanted to run and hide. I can’t though. Literally. Have you tried running with crutches? I’m ok, but I’m pleased when we head to bed so I can get some headspace and down time. Which reminds me, I’ve lapsed in doing the headspace guided meditation. I need to get back on that.


Whilst here, the teeth brushing has resumed. Sorry blog, it stopped for a few days. I’m disgusted at the reflection in the bathroom window. I’m not avoiding mirrors, they simply don’t have one.  The other thing they don’t have is TV. They have a TV, connected to a DVD box but that’s it. This means, I’ve missed 2 whole sessions, including the final, of Love Island. I think I may need to reconsider my friends! Clean but unable to binge the difficult feelings away, I load up the iPad to catch up. My Love Island addiction only started recently, in fact you may remember I spent a weekend catching up. I’ve been ignoring Friend LR’s texts in case she has a spoiler alert. Warning, spoiler alert: I really wanted Jamie and Camilla to win but I agree, Kem and Amber are a cute couple. The final episode made me cry, a lot. They read love letters to each other. I am also staying with a married couple who adore each other (sickening isn’t it) and me, well, I’m the literal crazy cat lady who needs to lose 3 ½ stone and in the process, have a lobotomy. I want someone to love me. Just the way I am (yes yes, pass the sick bucket, cheesy I know). Spoiler over


Finally, to round this all off, Father has just sent me a proposed menu for Wales. This highlight how little he knows me as my highest rating worse food is on it twice (lamb) but it’s sweet how much he’s trying. My immediate reaction is to say ‘yes, great’ and not tell him how much I dislike lamb. I’m still not sure I want to go, let alone eat lamb.


So, there we go, my messed-up mind is still messed up. My friends are still all awesome but I’ve not been 100% honest with Friend KH so not told her I’m struggling and want to cry in her lounge and I’m still not able to tell some people that their actions hurt me (Mum and Father).


I’m heading back to London tomorrow and part of me is already planning a binge. Part of me just wants to lock myself away in the flat and fall asleep forever and part of me wants to destroy this illness and get my life on track. I’m not sure which part will win but I’m seriously cheerleading the ‘back on track’ part of me.


life sometimes feels like I am drowning



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