The problem with blubbering on your blog about being down is that everyone goes on suicide watch. Long after you’ve hauled yourself out of your hole of self pity, people keep giving you concerned looks, patting your arm, asking if you’d like to talk about it.
No, I would not like to talk about it. I am repressed and only capable of expressing my emotions in written form, via the blog, which can then be read by anyone who happens to stumble across it. It’s a sad reflection on me and society but, hey, it gets me through the day.
On Friday I wrote a bleak blog post about being a crumbling, aimless mess. On Sunday, I’m feeling slightly more balanced about being a crumbling, aimless mess. But the bleak blog is still out there, floating in the ether.
Husband got quite cross about the blog. He happened to read it on the bus when he was coming home from work. I hadn’t mentioned I was feeling down, so it came as a surprise. And not a pleasant one.
Husband’s way of dealing with me being down – ie by getting cross – isn’t ideal. But he’s been riding the rollercoaster of my emotions for so long that fatigue has set in, so I understand his frustration.
He started talking about shipping me off to a counsellor. Blah. I don’t need a counsellor, I need a purpose. I was going to say “and a plastic surgeon” but that would be terribly shallow, so I won’t.
To get myself in the right frame of mind for a purpose, I’m finally getting serious about fixing my diet. Carbs and sugar make my brain miz. They make my guts miz too. They must go.
A little less wine (and whine) might help as well.
I can do this.
Being 44 isn’t the end of the world. It can be a whole new planet.
As George Bernard Shaw said (via my friend Fiona, via Facebook): “Life isn’t about finding yourself. Life’s about creating yourself.”
I still have so many ideas, my brain turns into a spinning, sparking Catherine Wheel sometimes.
My dreams haven’t died. They’re just buried under dirty laundry.
It’s time to dig them out.