Random acts of honesty

1. The tiny square of the house next door that I can see from my bedroom window is beginning to bore me. The red and white gingham curtains in the flat upstairs, which do not fit the window correctly, are irritating me. How difficult is it to buy curtains that fit? The way the light from my kitchen window falls on the fence is bugging me to distraction. Occasionally, there is a cat sitting atop the fence. Sometimes one of mine, sometimes one of the neighbourhood strays, which breaks up the monotony. Sometimes. It would be nice, just for a while, to have a different view, one that didn't make me feel as if I'm staring into emptiness and my future caged within the confines of the garden fence.

2. I have let this illness define me and become my life. Not just the anxiety and the agora, but the migraines - especially the migraines, which are right now completely dominating my existence. I wish I knew how that happened, and what happened to the person who formerly pushed through it, who carried on regardless, who did not let it hold her back, who had aims and goals and priorities to achieve, and did so, no matter what lemons life threw at her. When did she give in - when did she roll over and die? It is all I think about, all consuming, all I talk about; I catch myself doing it and it disgusts me, but somehow, I am unable to stop - I open my mouth and there it is, involuntarily, a potted history of the last day, or the last week - what's triggered me, what hasn't, is there a rumble coming up through the floor from the traffic outside or is it my legs vibrating, can I eat this, can I drink that, what do you think this symptom is? When did I become so afraid of my own body? No wonder I am sitting on my own for weeks on end - I even bore myself these days.

3. Somewhere in my past, I made a pact that I would not love. I do not remember doing it, or the moment that the deal was sealed, only that it was. And now, here you are, blowing all that away with the touch of your hand or the tone of your voice, and I wish I knew how to tell you that I love you without the fear that it will drive you away, as it has done everyone I have ever remotely felt anything for. Fuck - I adore you. I worship you, I love you so much it physically hurts me to feel it. You give my life meaning, you complete me, you understand me, you do not judge, you provide balance and stability in this otherwise disordered chaos, and I live for the moments when we are together. This, from the person who does not love? What have you done to me? Why did it take me thirty five years to find you - and what the hell do I have to do to make it real? I can not give any more of myself to you without telling you, or at least, not without turning myself inside out in the process.

4. I am going back to work full time next week, through financial necessity rather than the will to accomplish anything. Six months out of the loop has left me flat broke; it is a simple choice - do it or lose my home by Christmas. At this point in time, I can think of nothing I would rather do less. Six months ago I was clamouring to get back in the door of this place, and now I am there, I want nothing more than to run away. And the saddest thing is, I don't care. I really, truly, honestly do not give a flying fuck. The honour of the institution that meant everything to me this time last year has faded, and the institution now feels like a prison, somewhere I desperately don't want to be. I have no idea how I'm going to deal with this, or how long it will be before I am deemed too unreliable and fired - and I am terrified.

This neurologically-induced post of self absorbed rubbish was brought to you by the letter D and the number 42.