Poor, poor pitiful me

sick-bulldog

Nothing quite brings the loneliness of a broken marriage into sharp relief like getting sick.

I’ve been crook for the past six days in a variety of locations – work, my parents’ house, restaurants, bars, cafes – and in the company of a variety of people – friends, family, in-laws, the kids …

It felt better to be surrounded by life and laughter.

But I finally admitted defeat and stayed home yesterday, sent an apologetic message to my boss and cancelled a drink with my friend Orsola last night.

Sigh.

I couldn’t even find the energy to blog. And I ALWAYS blog. But my eyeballs and brain hurt too much at 6.30am.

I take my hat off to all the divorced women who tell me how happy they are on their own and how they’ll never live with someone again. I was very miserable all alone yesterday, knowing no-one was coming home from work to make me a cup of tea, ask how I was feeling and hold my hand as I lay melodramatically coughing on the couch.

No-one was coming home full stop.**

Sigh.

My lovely dogsitter Glen called to check on the fur babies and I croaked my destroyed voice into action for the first time in 12 hours. I sounded terrible.

I ventured out once to get food for the fur babies … after running out of the tins of tuna in the pantry to feed them in desperation … and as I tottered back through the front door I had a little weep because I felt so crap.

Sigh.

Then I lay on the sofa with the fur babies, who curled up on my Kmart animal-print fluffy dressing gown and contentedly let off tuna-scented doggie farts, and wished the lonely day and night away.

The time might have passed a little faster if my antique DVD player – it’s so old it has a video cassette slot – hadn’t chosen yesterday to cark it. I had all my ’80s favourites – starting with The Breakfast Club – lined up for a twirl, but could I get the farking thing to work? No, I could not.

Sigh.

Being alone and sick and hopeless with electrical goods really sucks.

Song of the day: Linda Rondstadt “Poor, poor pitiful me”

** OK, DD may have crashed my pity party with a bunch of flowers and a quick, unexpected hug at dusk … and caught me looking dishevelled and spotty in ugg boots (and laughed at them …. :p). But that would get in the way of my dramatic tale of woe, written in a moment of mid-afternoon self-pity. Just forget I ever mentioned it and keep feeling sorry for me …

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4 thoughts on “Poor, poor pitiful me

  1. That sucks. Feeling sick is bad enough without feeling neglected too. I have a full house but when I’m sick I could perish in my bed alone for all the TLC that I don’t get. Sometimes I think they’d only notice after I’d started smelling really bad.

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