Sunday, 6 January 2019


Last day of this fortnight off from work, and I feel unfinished.

I've played a lot of board games, vacuumed up a lot of cat hair, cooked a lot of dinners, washed a lot of dishes. Four different family Christmas parties: in honesty, three of them were quite okay, but the trauma inflicted by the fourth one is going to take weeks if not months to fade away.

I did do some of the things I wanted to do - I think - I feel like I saw some friends - but I'm a little bit confused about this, there are some people that I feel certain I've hung out with recently but I somehow can't pinpoint when and where. Was it all a dream. Well, I did go to the movies - came away from that experience confused, also, and with no recommendations to make - went to the beach, that was quite nice apart from the big blue jellyfish freaking us out in the water and on the sand. I read eight novels, three of them by Agatha Christie. I've begun running, or trying to run, and I haven't yet managed to injure myself. I started some drawings of the night sky and the moon, and finished sewing a garment I began working on in December 2010. I got a couple of very nasty shocks which completely knocked out of me the small feelings of hope and optimism which had begun to stir with the warm days and long quiet evenings. I've put myself onto a diet: I want to get comfortably under 70kg and stay there, so it's no more sugar for me, minimal bread, and trying to address hunger between meals with small quantities of nuts and raw vegetables until my body catches on and no longer freaks out like it did when I walked past this box of of cardboard on someone's nature strip, this afternoon:

Today I went through my wardrobe and took out every garment that I felt was less than great. It's often really difficult to discard clothing that you made yourself, but today I found it relatively easy. The night before I had been awake from two until around five, in that horrible turgid sluggish effortful broken three-quarters-awake way. My exhausted mind was worrying fruitlessly, intrusively, at a problem that is not solvable by lying sleepless in bed in the early hours. Not an unusual experience, of course. But I have to go back many years to think of a night when I have felt so troubled. Some months ago, my yoga teacher talked about mothering ourselves, i.e. giving to the self the care we give our children if we have them, or that our mothers might have given to us. I often think of this as I lie in bed at night, on my side with my knees drawn in, and I wrap my arms around my shoulders and cradle myself, just as I am, tender and vulnerable and needing comfort and peace. And that is how I was when sleep finally found me.

I've put lots into the bin or into the cotton rag bag, and I've got two and a half huge bin bags full for the op-shop, plus a smaller pile of things that are excellent in themselves but no longer work for me and I will give some thought to how I might pass these on to people who would enjoy them.

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