volcanic's Diaryland Diary ----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- blobbomania So... I feel like a blob today. I guess that's ok- after all, she says she does as well, and if it's good enough for her, then I can't complain. I'm tired. I feel all wimpy and achy, and there's nothing inspirational on the telly. I don't know why that surprises me- very little on the telly inspires me, as a rule. I think perhaps it's the actual lack of inspiration itself that's bothering me. I haven't had the motivation to write here for a few days. Firstly because it was the Fatboy's birthday- his tenth, would you believe- and Friday was taken up with balloons and pub meals and presents and fun, and then secondly, yesterday I was knackered after I took Fatboy and the dog I've been sitting for such a long walk that I ended up asleep on the sofa for most of the afternoon. But yes, blobbiness prevails. Blobbiness and a slight touch of anticipation psychosis. For those of you unaware of anticipation psychosis (and there may, I suspect, be more than a mere few of you, seeing as I just made up the term) it consists of the following symptoms: * The sufferer needs to want a particular thing to happen. * The sufferer then reads hopeful omens and signs in the most banal and trivial things, and takes these to mean that the "thing" is indeed very, very likely to happen. * The sufferer then sinks into a blue funk after said incident fails to occur. I'm now in stage three of anticipation psychosis. My stars somewhere (Where? Bizarrely I can't find that elusive horoscope now) said that everything was going to have some kind of miraculous magical ending on Feb 8th. That was Friday, and it was Fatboy's birthday. Somehow I managed to think that Arthur would doubtless get in touch for the happy day. I saw our mutual friend on Friday, and he was very particular (or so it seemed) about ascertaining my movements for the coming weekend, to the point where he insisted on repeating my arrangements back to me, several times. As we walked back from the corner shop together, I found myself telling him that even after all the shit that's gone down, if there was a way me and Arthur could do it, I'd be willing to try. I think I was hoping that this somewhat pathetic little message might wend its way towards Arthur, via our mutual friend, for whom the concepts of discretion and respect for privacy are quite loose ideas. And, of course, by last night, I was bathed and hairwashed and exfoliated and defoliated, because somewhere between my brain and my common sense organ the glut of possibilities had transformed themselves into a definite and I convinced myself that Arthur might well come round. When he didn't, I decided that he'd come today, instead. If I sound stupid and deranged by now, please don't be cross with me. The loneliness and the sense of hopelessness that pass over me like waves of cold gravy are quite unbearable at times. I'm still very cross with Arthur, inside. I'm cross that he didn't love me enough, and I'm cross that he didn't tell me when he first thought it, rather than letting me think he was going to buy me a big rock for xmas. For fuck's sake- I wouldn't have endured the torture of having big fake nails put on if I hadn't have thought there'd be a good excuse to be showing my fingers off. And then, when I think that, it seems that I was probably suffering from anticipation psychosis back then, as well. Oh jesus, I feel quite mad at times. At this precise moment in time, I feel quite rational, if a little tired and stressed. Work is stressing me out. In my foolhardy burst of enthusiasm that I cultivated to distract me from my post break-up pain, I managed to volunteer for all sorts of projects which are keeping me going non-stop at work. I'm mentoring a student, I'm the Compliance Group Member for the Clinical Benchmarking thingy, I seem to be the only one that can do e-mail on the ward's computers, and certainly the only one that can write incredibly verbose and persuasive letters to the Chief Exec. I know I'm stressing about it because I've dreamt about for the past two nights running. I know it's not good, and it's not healthy. I need to get a sense of proportion and priority back. I've booked a bloody holiday and I've got three weeks to find £300 to pay for it. I must be bloody bonkers. Anyway, needless to say, I haven't heard from Arthur. I don't suppose I will, now. I remember telling him about this ex of mine, and the fact that about a month after I'd finished with him, he e-mailed me to ask if I was absolutely sure. And I told Arth that I really respected the guy for that- that and the fact that he didn't hassle me with calls and letters and e-mails, and then waited a month before checking that I was sure. I think perhaps my anticipation psychosis may have lead me to think that Arthur would do the same, this weekend being a month down the line and so on. I must go in my bath now. I'm back at work in the morning, and I already feel like shite- if I don't get any sleep then I'll look like shite as well, which will make me even more miserable. I shall do my best to ensure that I'm slightly less deranged tomorrow, I promise. 10:31 a.m. - 10.02.02 ----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- |
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