Run Down

You: "Gah, I don't know, she writes these funny, insightful, intelligent, sensitive posts which make me yowl (yes, there is such a word) with delight, then she doesn't write anything for weeks... then months.... then all of a sudden she's BACK but she's blummin' well fed up.  *sigh*.  Think I might just un-follow and start to read stuff by people who are a lot less flaky than her....life's too short to trawl through misery blogs hoping for some kind of entertainment."

Gotcha!

Me: "It's been a while, I know. And I know what you're thinking.  (see above).  I have the door to my blog open wide and anybody wishing to flee the virtual building may do so with a cheery huzzah.  *waves*.  I don't blame you.

[Anyway - this was how I intended the post to start.  *clears throat*.  Here we go.]
 
Isn't it ironic that the only 'label' I can give my 'condition' (and it's also interesting that I give these words 'speech' as if they, too, are open for debate/ridicule/whatever) is *Run Down*.  That's how my mother used to say she felt when the tell-tale bottle of Sanatogen Tonic Wine came out of the Safeway carrier bag.

Before I got up this morning (10.49am-ish.  I went to bed at 7.20pm last night) I was sat up, staring at the curtains, making faces out of the folds and creatures out of the creases and picking my lips (like I do) (I know - One Flew Over...) and I realised that everything I do - everything everybody does is generally through a sense of being 'driven'.  And even the word 'driven' sounds like it's full of energy, intended to plough through, with a sense of purpose, direction and... well... a modicum of speed.


Of course my personal irony is that, considering I've been involved (for 'involved' read: 'target' because that's how they made me feel) in two car crashes, the fact that right now I feel 'run down' is all the more apt.  Run 'over' then half-heartedly scraped to the side of the road and left for pickings feels more like it, tbh but I don't want to get too over-melodramatic in case you've actually got this far without wanting to run me over yourself to make sure there's no more posts like this in the forseeable future.

My mother (not that I dwell on her too much out of counselling sessions... well, okay then, a bit) used to think that feeling run down or being miserable was the work of the idle.  Depression was a luxury item sold in shops that didn't even exist down our street let alone have wares on display for people for feel more comfortable around. And so it became another of the long list of words that weren't allowed to be used in our house.  Tits, arse, bugger, bloody and can't (yes, with an 'a') being some of the others. (For a comprehensive list, please enquire within).

Along with making faces out of inanimate objects and finding a new piece of lip to pull off, I also realised how everybody else's life is not helping my own.  My ever-present Blackberry sat beside me on the bed, it's cheery little lime green cover being all cute and compelling and because there were no red lights flashing to indicate anyone wanted to have anything to do with me what-so-ev-er, I thought I'd have a flick through Facebook to see what was happening in the outside world.

And drew the same conclusion I always do.  That everybody else is dealing with stuff and getting on with it; some are even making jokes about how bad things are - but I'm not.  I can't even see beyond the bedroom curtains.
My mother would say I was wallowing ("in self-pity") to get attention and she couldn't see what gave me the idea I was anything special.
[I'm working through sh*t like this with my counsellor, btw,  because I know - now - that things like this aren't the right kinds of things to be said to anybody, let alone your own growing daughter].

Here's my list of 'symptoms':
Physical: Tennis elbow (not helped by repetitive and constant use of staple-gun/unpicker at work - where I'm currently NOT).  Searing headaches - sometimes like an ice-pick through the rh-side for at least three seconds. Raw throat. Aching neck, shoulders, legs. No energy. At all. Not even to wash, currently.

Mental: I know - where do I start, right? Anxious; weepy; irritable; listless (great word); debilitating low-self-esteem to the point I question my ability to send a text message. When I click the 'publish' button on this, I'll switch the pc off for fear that nobody will read it, comment, or else tell me to 'buck up' like my (new) doctor did yesterday making me feel a zillion times more useless if that were possible.  Weepy to the power of a hundred. And fifty.

I'm going to stop now.   It could get messy.