too tired to think of a title
February 24, 2006,
Well, from last night's list, I managed to accomplish most items. I:
cooked dinner
cleaned out the fridge
washed the dishes
took out the trash
did four out of six loads of wash
taught Papa how to use the coffeepot--and the TV remote
folded Spouse's clothes
polished my shoes
found my swimsuit
started pulling my stuff together for packing.
I did not, however, find the time to dye my hair. I'll have to get that fitted in today, somehow.
Despite the fact that I'm exhausted, and was awake by three, because that's about the time Papa starts roaming around like a decrepit ghost. As I huddled in my bed, feeling a sort of wretched and desperate desire for sleep, it got later and later, and I still couldn't get back to sleep.
Shortly after the living room clock chimed four, I heard it. A sort of muffled heaving sound.
Raji was throwing up in the living room. In two locations, for your convenience.
So--out of bed, get the rags and the cleaner, clean it up, hold and reassure a poor old gassy, throw-uppy girl for a while, and go lay down again, praying for rest. Which doesn't come.
And I still have so damn much to do.
One of the worst things about the no-sleep thing this morning? My brain decided to admit a new brainworm to the party. Strangers In The Night starts rolling around in my head. The Petula Clark cover version, unfortunately. That was odd.
I have my 1-month follow-up visit for the Wellbutrin later this afternoon. I and I honestly don't know what to tell the Doc. I think there has been a bit of a change for the better, but really, it's been nowhere what I'd expected or hoped it to be. I don't know if I want to continue or not. I guess I'll just be honest with him, and tell him what I just wrote here. See what he thinks.I'm pretty sure that the injury has stood in the way of some progress--and the stress of this past week finds me eating for comfort, and breaking out in a fresh patch of eczema, and suffering from morning insomnia.
And it certainly fuels a depression to realize that everyone in your life, including the dog, has no intention of adjusting their expectations of you one jot--just because you seriously injured yourself. You are still expected to provide the clean house, prepared meals, fresh laundry, purchased groceries, regular walkies, rough-housing playtimes, and assorted other services they rely on taking for granted from you. Stop? Hell, you aren't even allowed to slow down a little.
But anyway--I thought the whole point of this drug was to even that shit out, and make it easier for me to handle the stress. Harder for the stress to drive me down. It seems to have failed there.
Reading: Just finishing "Butchers", by Peter Lovesey. Taking "The Magnificent Ambersons", by Booth Tarkington, on vacation with me.
Listening:XM Radio, "70's on 7". "Drift Away" (Dobie Gray) "Fly Robin Fly" (Silver Convention), and "I Just Want To Be Your Everything" (Andy Gibb).
One Year Ago, I was eating for comfort.
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