Chalk it up as a Win.

Today I visited my GP for a review of my General Practice Mental Health Treatment Plan. This is not new to me, having been formally reviewed under this process on a 6 monthly average for the past 6 years. The questions are always the same and in the exact same order; the only thing that changes are my responses. On account of having a very stable but also good few months, I was happy when I was able to answer each question in a very different light to any pervious occasion.
I know how I feel, whereas others don't know unless I tell them. My GP has often been on the receiving end of many of my low moments and bordering on grim correspondence from both psychologist and psychiatrist.
Today, as most days over the past few months, I felt good. Today's answers reflected that. At the end of the exam my GP pushed her chair back from the desk and took a deep breath. She said in a quiet voice, "I think we just need to take a minute to appreciate this moment".
I smiled, quietly proud as she turned to me with a very faint glint of tears in her eyes and said, "We finally did it".
Yes we did. It only took 6 years. I just hope it will last.

I have nothing else.

I chastised a co-worker for spoiling us with such lavish morning teas only to get the response,
"You are all that I have. I have nothing else."
I instantly felt a sorry for her, until I really started to think about myself. If I stopped going to work everyday, what would I have?
"I have nothing else."

The silence depressed me. It wasn't the silence of silence. It was my own silence.

Halloween

It wasn't until I was on my late afternoon walk that I remembered it was Halloween. The usually quiet streets of suburbia was crawling with Trick-or-Treaters dressed as witches and ghouls, some wearing the traditional 'Scream' mask and one seemingly out of place Australian yobbo.
Seeing them carrying their plastic Jack-o-lantern pails full of their winnings reminded me of how my brother and I spent Halloween when we were young. We were the only children in our street so in the early years we took our neighbours by surprise. Not having chocolate or lollies in their pantries, they instead gave us gold coins to spent on ourselves at the corner store.
Most years that followed however, they planned our Halloween ritual into their grocery shop. The 90 year old lady across the street once told my mother to be sure we kids stopped by her house so she could give us each a block of chocolate she had waiting by the door.
We were never without a costume either. One year my brother wanted to go as a ghost, and the only sheet we could find not made into a bed was brown. Mum wouldn't let us cut eye holes in it so we stuck some on with sticky tape and I had to lead M by the arm as he couldn't see where he was going. When our cattle dog wanted to come along, I renamed him 'Sirius Black' from Harry Potter in an attempt to win him some candy.
So this evening as I was arriving home from my walk, I found a gaggle of dressed up children in my street. Knowing that my roommate The Bear had bought mini chocolate bars in case, I invited them up the path to our house. They chorused 'Trick-or-Treat' as we came though the gate and the door was opened by a glowing smile and a bowl full of chocolate. LV, the cat, attempted a prison break before I caught him and added another element of excitement to the four kids standing on my door mat. At that moment I realised the picture I had laughed at this morning was in fact, a reality:

Breakdown

Yesterday feeling stressed, Mrs Boss exasperated how she wanted "to go and have a nervous breakdown". I told her that I didn't recommend it, and was reminded of a Postsecret I saw a few years ago. I think it sums up most people's perception of a mental health crisis, as if indulging in this act is like going on a holiday. The only way to truly cure this idea is something I wouldn't wish on anyone.

A Bug in my Dinner.

Tonight over dinner V. made a shock reference to my holiday at Hotel Northside.
"At least when you went funny last year you did something about it."
I couldn't bring myself to tell her I had no choice. That as I stared down the barrel of the gun depression was holding to my head, it was not me who intercepted the blow, but the law; and in this there was not so much as a smirk, let alone anything funny about it.
She then adopted a technique that my mother tries on me; in telling me what she wants to hear in the hopes that my subconscious will replace my previous views with the one that she is presenting.
"Your life is going well at the moment."
It was a statement, and not a question; making it harder and more dramatic to correct her.
Instead of answering, I finished my drink.

I have so much noise in my head, churning away trying to break out, yet I have no idea what or how to say it. One would think that as time goes by, practice would have made prefect in 'acknowledging these thoughts and feelings, labelling them and pushing them aside' and getting on with whatever it is that I am supposed to be doing. Today proved that is not the case.
I knew that I was off my game. I knew that everyone else had noticed. I knew that my mood was corrosive to those surrounding me but I felt that I was no longer in control of my state of mind. When asked at morning tea how my morning was going, I replied honestly "I will implode by the end of the day."
Silence followed. Maybe it's because people aren't used to my honesty. Maybe they weren't really listening, or worse still; maybe they didn't care.
I struggled on. There was one point where I buried my head on the front desk and used all of my will power to not crawl beneath it and cower like my spirit was doing on the inside. People gave me a wide berth and I eventually gave up trying to tie the loose ends I had left for the next shift and just walked out.
I made it to the car before I started to cry. Apart from being so confused as to why I felt like I did; what had caused it, what it meant and what it could eventually contribute to, but I also had a feeling of overwhelming isolation. I felt at that moment that I had travelled down a long, windy, treacherous road and had finally made it to the end only to read 'No Through Road'. It was dark, I had run out of petrol and had no mobile coverage.
No one could possibly understand the feeling, nor could they change it even if they did. No amount of listening or hand holding or kind words could evaporate the helplessness or pull me back from the brink of suicide, but at least with the warmth of another's shadow the chilling isolation is lessened.
I don't expect anyone else to fix me. I don't expect anyone else to even get me. All I ask, is that someone acknowledge me.

Final Hurrah

Perhaps I have finally lost the plot completely? All of my power is being diffused to the law and my head hurts from too many thoughts flying around at once and obviously colliding with each other. The silence surrounding me which should instead be filled with friends and chatter is as loud as ever; I can hear by heart pounding in my chest and my pulse krumping in my throat.
After several unsuccessful attempts at napping away the afternoon I lay in front of the television, unaware of what was on. I could feel my thoughts racing and was happy to be unaware of what they were. I believed that if I were to tune in they would only compound my unhappiness and challenge me to break a promise I had made earlier in the day.
At 7pm I trekked downstairs for dinner. Sitting at the table I felt like such a fraud as Gma checked my roster and rhetorically asked if I started night duty tomorrow. I couldn't lie - it was right there in black and white. I grunted something and went back to my dinner. It was at that point that the magnitude of the bomb I was going to have to drop on them hit me. Perhaps not the initial shock, but the aftermath is not something that I want to know about.
I potentially have one night left to be in control, yet I am seemingly unphased by the enormity that I know tomorrow will bring. Instead of clawing my face off or planning my runaway, I have been bizarrely methodical and organised. I wrapped baby presents for my boss, sewed a button onto my pants purely for fashion purposes, made lists of things as if I am going on school camp and spent God knows how long in front of the mirror examining my hair - the colour, style, brushing it obsessively and snipping away individual stands that have now split.
Now, as my exhaustion catches up with me I am considering going to bed. It is this proposition that reminds me of being a little girl on Christmas Eve and trying desperately to go to sleep so the darkened hours would fly by allowing Christmas morning to come faster. Tomorrow is far from Christmas, it's not something that I want but deep down know that I need, but I don't want to allow it to come before I'm ready. That is, if I ever will be?

Le sigh...

I have known in my own mind for months that things were bad, but it's only now when my exterior is failing that others are starting to believe it too. It is frightening when you have no control over your own being; the things that you think, say and do, the way you react to others and how much your eyes can give away during periods of particular vulnerability.
I don't believe I am losing hope, rather that I have already lost it. I am coming to terms with the idea that I will be young forever in the eyes of all who know me and am almost relieved that by letting myself lose I really will win in the end.
I technically haven't given up. I have kept my appointments, taken my meds despite my dissatisfaction and have asked for help when the only way out I could see was black.
I went to see A. as soon as she returned from overseas. Having been so ill while she was away and not feeling completely confident about my state of affairs, I thought perhaps the visit would ease my anxiety as she has an uncanny ability to make light of flaws within myself without making me feel dismissed.
Perhaps it only reiterated my worst fears. She noticed the things that no-one else had; the weight loss, my tired eyes and now noticeable hand tremor. I admitted my hatred for my medication and its menagerie of uncontrollable side-effects, my inability to focus and struggle to maintain a minimum standard at work and my almost overwhelming desire to give up completely. If I had been able I would have cried, but my tears have been stolen by my heart which is turning itself a more melancholy shade of blue with every howl of sorrow that only I can hear. She placed a call to Dr Slime who was unsurprisingly unavailable so promised to call before I started work at 1pm.
I received a call from Dr S's secretary asking me if I could come at 3pm.
"No, sorry I have to work."
"Ok, we'll see you at the end of the week then as planned."
Confused, I called A. She was furious. I let her rant for a minute before she relayed the initial conversation she had with Dr S. She was reluctant to mention the possibility of hospital as I demonstrated the exact reaction she had expected. Promising to get him to call me, the conversation ended. I was stunned, before feeling worried, and anxious and ultimately terrified. I was just about to lose my last ounce of control.
I went to work. I can't say that I actually did any work, but I was physically there. My tea break was greeted with a voicemail from Dr S. Amongst a whole message of superficial concern and generalised assumptions he suggested to reduce my medication if I "feel safe". I almost laughed. I found it amusing that someone with an occupation requiring such a high level of knowledge and responsibility could still come across like the next dumb ass. By reducing the dose it left me susceptible to not having a drug concentration in my blood to stop me (fingers crossed!) from dying, but on the other hand, the current therapeutic levels weren't stopping me from wanting to anyway - go work that one out wise guy.
So I thought, whatever? That morning I had run out of capsules and in my haze had forgotten to stop for more. After getting that voicemail I decided I didn't need to worry. I was sick of spending time and money and hope and belief in everything that had previously let me down.
I pushed everything from that day out of my head and focused on being the presentable and hospitable host at my birthday cocktail party. The benefit of hosting such an event is that you are excused from conforming to acceptable party behaviour with the excuse of preparing food and drinks, welcoming guests and controlling the sound and aesthetic environment. The added benefit of a birthday is that there is no such thing as too much to drink.
Knowing full well that my imminent hangover would not appreciate the continuous mixed drinks, I keep drinking anyway. Even when the party moved from venue to venue and my standards slipped enough for me for be unfazed by the cranberry juice streaked down my white skirt, I disregarded the proposition that anything was a bad idea. The possibility of taking risks was almost thrilling, because I had convinced myself that I had nothing left within me to lose. At 3am I decided the idea of walking home from the city was much more appealing than the convenience of a cab and would have done so despite my heels if it hadn't been for a friend pulling me into a taxi and letting it speed off before letting me go.
This morning I woke up still drunk and spent the day ignoring my hangover. It wasn't until dinnertime that I wondered how much of my current state was alcohol induced or withdrawl? Not that I cared really, because when you've got nothing, you've got nothing to lose.

ill.

Sometimes, no matter how much we will things to happen (or not happen), fate takes over and steers us towards wherever it is that we're going. After being the socially unacceptable form of ill for over 6 months now, I believed that perhaps I couldn't dive any deeper. Oddly enough, my immune system followed suit and recruited every system in my body to go down with it.
While sitting in the Emergency Department in dire need of some attention - from anyone really - the bright eyed intern taking my now extensive history in the too-public-for-my-liking area of the department was surprised when I kept remembering new things to add. A previously fit and well (physically) 22 year old had somehow managed to combine every kind of illness (minus Goat Flu) in the past 2 weeks and create a network of symptoms so diverse that there is no clue as to why and where each one is occurring from.
After some IV Holy Water, a series of tests and hiding from work colleagues I was released into the care of an angel in the form of Mrs Boss, results pending. Straight to bed in 2 day old clothes, followed by a night of well overdue but broken sleep, stomach cramps and crazy dreams.
Today was spent quietly. Feeling much better after being able to pee for the first time in 3 days, I sat around agonising on what to do next should my results come back how the young intern had predicted. At 1600 I called work and asked the In-Charge to check my pathology, to which she said she would when she had time and call me back. Over 6 hours later I'm still agonising and waiting for a phone call.
I have spent so much of my life as an independent. Perhaps even a loner in my thoughts and opinions and view of the world through my sensitive eyes. I have refused help when theoretically I needed it and done things I wouldn't ever have to just to prove to myself that I could. I have refused to open myself up to people in fear of alienation or rejection, and for these same reasons, prevented myself from getting too close even when deep down I wanted, or needed to. It is these choices that only give me myself to blame for stumbling through my life with closed doors and missing out on hugs and inside jokes and wanting to feel like I belong to someone; wanting to feel loved.
I can now safely say that tonight's not my night for my results; she must have forgotten. In my head, I can't understand how that happened because clearly it's something that I can't get off my mind. The reality is that it's not important to anyone else but me. I'm the only one who has to deal with the outcome - good or bad - so I'm essentially the only one affected. I can't shrug it off and say that I don't care, because if I don't care, there's no-one else who will.

IPS

For some completely unknown reason my boss decided today that I was just the right person to special a scheduled patient after an attempted suicide who remains in an almost catatonic form of depression. Seriously?
When she started to cry I asked the stupidest question, and as soon as I said it I wished I hadn't.
"What's wrong?"
What's wrong? What the fuck? What do you think is wrong? She is so unhappy that there's no way out? She's fought for too long and finally wanted to be beaten? We're preventing her from finding peace. And I asked what was wrong? Anyone would think I was too naive to understand. Oh I understand, I just want to pretend that I don't because maybe if I tell myself that for long enough I might start believing it.
She broke my heart. She asked me, rather, pleaded, for me to help her. She wanted me to end it. "Give me a big needle that will make it all go away."
I told her I couldn't. That I wouldn't.
"I want to die, and I even failed at that."

That is my fear.
After all the hell you go through, in your head, your heart and your soul, when you finally pluck the courage from a place inside you that you never thought you'd find, and you do the thing that is to be your final action... and fail.
It's not something you can practice. It's not even something that you can study up on or gather others opinions over a mid-week lunch. It's something you work through in the silent darkened hours of the morning when you're trying to fall asleep as bakers and garbage trucks begin their day. You grind over each possibility until it's smooth and flawless and almost praise yourself for being so ingenious. There is just one thing missing. The courage to jump.

And so she tells me again, with tears in her eyes and quivers in her voice, that she just wants to go. I couldn't say what I was thinking. What else was I to do? Under the eyes of a student nurse, a physio and an unknown doctor, I lied through my teeth and told her that it could only get better. She called me wise for someone so young. I called myself a liar because I didn't believe it and don't feel that I ever could. When people say that to me I get angry. Fury bubbles up inside me because how can anyone know? I have heard it too many times only to prove them wrong. Now I've become one of them.
Deep down I know the system will heal her; heal her to a satisfactory level to get the stamp on that bit of paper. I can almost see her future though. She will slip through the cracks in that same system by setting herself free and becoming just another medical record to file under 'deceased'. I know she won't be at peace with herself until she finally wins.

Elevator Conversations

Me:
That is so gay.

Mum:
Don't use that word.

Me:
I've been using that word since before any closets were opened.

Brother:
It's derogatory against my people.

Me:
Well what about my people?

Brother:
Evidently Mum and I are still trying to work out who your people are.

Good Friday

After today's Stations of the Cross, I went to confession.

Forgive me Father, for I have sinned. It has been 2 years since my last confession.

He welcomed me back and listened to my sins, then told me to talk to my mum about my problems. It would have been cute if it weren't such an unrealisitic suggestion?
The only pennace he gave me was one Hail Mary. One? I got ten of them when I was mean to my brother when I was 7. Perhaps I'm not as bad a person as I used to be.

Today

I have run out of distractions. I forced myself out of bed at lunchtime, after watching the boats on the harbour for an hour and a half. I took my time showering, painting, moisturising, brushing and straightening and told myself that I could not put off tidying the apartment anymore. I did the washing, put away everything that was out of place and cleaned the already clean kitchen despite it not being used since Tuesday when the last meal was prepared, and the fact that the cleaner comes tomorrow at 9am to re-clean it anyway. I tidied my room, removed all hazards from the floor, folded my clean washing and took extra care to pack my Chanel 2.55 Chain Bag away as recommended by the company.
Now that everything is just as it should be, I don't know what to do next. I keep moving from room to room hoping to find a purpose. I sat in the Living Room analysing the weather, partly angry that Sydney is mocking me with what may be the last summer day when I had no energy or purpose to share in it. I sat on the floor of the Library hoping to find sudden inspiration from the spines staring down at me. I took out the rubbish, avoided the reem of photocopied textbook pages the Happy Lady had mailed me, lay on my bedroom floor then wrote a shopping list for when I can force myself to the supermarket (toothpaste, red pen, moisturiser).
What am I waiting for? I have done everything my apartment has expected of me. I am dressed with shoes ready to go out. But I have no appointments in my diary, no phone calls inviting me out, no spontaneous activities that my heart is begging me to do. The clock in the foyer reminds me in 15 minute intervals of the time I am wasting.
I have another 8 days until my family return home. If I wanted I could throw a party carrying on for days and nights to come. I could invite the middle-aged Porsche driving creeps from the elevator to dinner and drink too much and do Karaoke. I could lie dead for days with no-one noticing.
But none of these are things that I want to do. I still want my cup of tea. If I were on the Gold Coast I would arrive uninvited and drink tea and talk with M. for hours and distract her from her dying mother and let her distract me from myself. I would feel partly human again. Instead I have my clean apartment to keep me company.

Out

I forced myself out of the apartment all weekend to break the cycle of monotony and frustration. I walked the city streets at midnight in the rain. I sat alone in a restaurant in the small hours of the morning hoping the NYC image would make me feel closer to the world. I stood in the rain on purpose. I got stuck in mud and didn't take my shoes off at the door. I showered with my shoes on. I ignored phone calls, didn't reply to messages and asked for apologies.
Does this sound like me? Not to anyone who really knows me, but I tried it on for size. I tried it on hoping, praying that I had discovered the answer to breaking free. Did it work? I didn't find an answer. If anything I discovered death within my shadow; creeping up on me as I run out of places to hide.

Today, I danced in the rain. Just that phrase sounds like freedom. Before today I would have said so. But having done just this, I don't feel any more liberated, or refreshed, or happy. The sadness imprinted within me can't be washed away. I can't dance the feeling out of me or scream it from my lungs. It sits in the bottom of my heart, poisoning my blood. To extinguish it would mean bleeding myself dry.

A Change in the Weather

If I asked myself a week ago, I never would have believed I would, but today I visited the Happy Lady. And I surprised myself. Nothing like others of her breed, I appreciated the overall visit. The antique plum walls, the suede couch, the tissue box on the coffee table as an unavoidable centrepiece, and of course the expected conversation. But for once nothing I said made me feel absurd. She understood my justification of living within society's conforms, she challenged me giving up what I believe in, and accepted my inability to explain what I felt because everything inside is a swirl.

Imagine torrents of thoughts confined in the tiny mind that you contain. Each one is presented through a sentence, some long and descriptive, others brief and pointless. Each sentence spirals, following the one before it, until they spin so fast it’s all a blur; but in an attempt of desperation you reach out, trying to grasp a hold of something with an answer, even if it’s simply a clue. But what is it that you receive? A word, and then another; random words from random thoughts, and in a frantic attempt for clarity you put them together - simply to get nothing more than what you started with, except now, you truly are mystified.

By the end, I felt an honesty within me that I had forgotten I had. I had pushed it away for so long and created a mask dictated my social acceptance and the parameters set by society. I had denied myself any opportunity to survive, because I'm not sure I could go on living without finding my truth within. I'm not saying I've found it, I'm not even saying I'm close. But I know it is there, somewhere beneath the layers of cover-ups and floods of un-shead tears. I will get to it. I just need to do some spring-cleaning first.

Dreams

I have complained of being tired for weeks now. So many nights I lay watching the clock, counting down the hours until daybreak, until eventually I dropped off only to wake to a screaming alarm a few short hours later. Recently, with thanks to a pharmaceutical company I can now get to sleep without a second thought. Waking up is harder though, as my body struggles to function and my eyes rebel against the daylight.
It has to be a positive that I can sleep a full night away though? Then why can't I operate as efficiently as I did when I lay awake throughout the night? It is as if my increasing hours of sleep are directly proportional to my escalating exhaustion.
I go to bed tired, wake up tired, and am living every breath of my life tired. Last night I excitedly went to bed early, eagerly awaiting the Saturday morning sleep-in. Well, that I got. I slept for over 13 hours but couldn't bring myself to get up. Perhaps just one more hour?
So as I lay contemplating my options, I had a sudden flashback of my mid-sleep thoughts. The more I think about it now, the more I can remember from the nights over the past week and the dreams that have possessed me.
They are so vivid and intense that I think maybe they are the excuse for my weariness. Last night I was chased by friends possessed by the enemy. I have dreamt of the people around me turning into witches and deceiving me in the depths of the night. I have been held hostage in a haunted house despite my tearful pleads to be set free. I have re-lived events from the past with others filling in for the missing characters. I have run, flown, screamed and cried my way through the darkened hours and it makes me wonder if perhaps that is why I feel so haggard?
Perhaps things weren't as bad as I had thought they were? It is the nights that are worse.

A Step Away from the Wrong Direction

What do we do? What do we do in this life to make it worthwhile? Or to even just pass the time?
For the first time in weeks my head finally feels screwed on, perhaps not correctly adjusted, but it's on. I can manage a smile, the thought of potential curry puffs for dinner excites me, and I don't feel like I want to die. Not that I think I ever really wanted to die in the conventional sense, but perhaps more literally as death suggests a termination of ones thoughts and processes.
It made me wonder how one seemingly regular Friday could bring about such a change? I woke beyond exhausted, snoozed a few too many times and prevented being late for work by about 3 seconds. I felt sick to my core for the better part of the morning, became frustrated when my colleagues made pointless comments about my mood as if they really gave a shit anyway, and sat through morning tea listening to some random carry on about how she thought psych patients were worse than them all put together and that you can still be crazy beneath a seemingly 'normal' exterior. Seriously, shut the fuck up. So at lunchtime, which I was actually ready for today, I dragged my feet and my massive water bottle outside to avoid the mind-numbing superficial chatter of the tea room.
Mrs Boss said she thought I seemed better. I wasn't sure how she could tell. Could she see inside my head? I wasn't sure if she was right or if I'm just getting better at living it. Perhaps sometimes I am better? When Mr T called last night I felt my heart lift, and it remained suspended for a full half hour. That's got to count for something, right?
But lunchtime today, it made me feel a little lighter. Confessing my love for Chanel and all things classic made me smile inside and thoughts of tomorrow's potential sleep-in reminded me what I have to look forward to. How is it that I suddenly became aware of myself, and not this pseudo-me that I have become?
I have always thought of myself as an introvert, because I could pass the time with the words of Plath or my blog, but lunchtime suggested otherwise. I don't think I am extroverted as people have come to know the term, but I think I rely on the thoughts and opinions of others to confirm what I see in myself. I think the social exchanges of day-to-day life keep me grounded and make me forget about the universe of insanity swimming around in my head. Even if it is only for an afternoon.
I left work feeling closer to normal than previous days, and keep telling myself that I will have curry puffs for dinner and everything will be okay. So in the time between then and now I have paced. I don't feel the need to lie with my hands turned up and be utterly empty, I don't have to shut my door to avoid the lives of others or make up events to be excused to the local park in an attempt to avoid eating dinner. I can just be. But what is it that we do in those hours of just existing? I can't remember. So I'm back to being bored.

Appointment Number [insert number]

Despite the events of today being pre-booked, conversations mentally prepared the night before and sufficient time between each event, it did not go the way I had expected it to.
I rose this morning feeling surprisingly serene (perhaps that extra hour of sleep was required), I showered and dressed in a pre-chosen outfit, complete with Chanel accessories. Upon leaving the threshold of the apartment I entered the churn of anxiety and dread. The day had begun.
Appointment Number One was the most pressing matter on my mind, so I was both nervous and pleased it would be over and done with quickly. Quickly, is not a word I can now use to describe it. My bottled nerves multiplied in the waiting room, and filled my arms and legs with a hot needley sensation, so much so that I feared weight bearing at the risk of my legs forgetting how to walk. My heart pounded in my chest and my respirations struggled to keep up the pace.
Kick-off. Small talk firstly. Not a fan really considering my undelightful personality and anxiety to get some fresh air. Floor opened for my awkward and disjointed chatter, thankfully rescued by some intelligence on her behalf. Hot potato successfully thrown back.
Questions. Many I had expected, but the requirement of numerical answers made them sit like peas in my mashed potato brain. Vague and sometimes guessed answers given and typing occurred.
History. Subtle at first and then more aggressive as the questions fed off my admissions. Perhaps some omissions, but I'm living for today. I'm not sure I could endure the recollection of past experiences as well.
Solution. Well, we'll soon see.
Appointment Number Two. Thankfully early, even with time to browse at the sale in Oroton along the way. No waiting this time. Straight in and success achieved with no questions asked (A nice contrast to Appointment Number One). No payment required for services rendered. I'm a regular. Thankful, as I will be recovering until next pay day for my former engagement.
Some aimless wandering and procrastination, then impulse driving to insignificant destinations, just to satisfy my restlessness.
A phone call and some further indecisiveness, a pit stop all-day-dreaded, then home again. Brush through my hair, re-spritz of fragrance and back in the car. Driving the longer way to allow my brain a few extra minutes of mental preparation before arrival at Appointment Number Three.
Inability to comprehend street numbers made a retarded start. Further small talk and Poppy-therapy. Chilled water and LED technology. More small talk. I didn't have the courage to divulge the events of the day.
Coffee with foam. A tasting plate provided. My stomach churned.
More questions. Thankful really. My mind could find the answers, but was unable to establish any form of directive, adult human chatter. Ice broken, guard slipped and my ears had filled with the sound of my honest, unbroken voice, apparently saying more than I realised at the time. Smiles exchanged, analysis of mutual colleagues, circle completed and back to the start, this time with a male perspective.
Wine time. Avoidance activated.
A glance at the clock and it was dinner time. Time to bail.
Home again. Safely in my room with the doors closed, dividing me from the outside world. I think it's been enough for one day.

Oh Come All Ye Faithful

So I am continuing to plod along with my not so spectacular life, thus no exciting tales of adventures and discoveries. I have however, made a new friend.
Arriving at work early the other morning I found myself in a deep and meaningful conversation with my manager, to whom I revealed a whole lot more of myself than I think I normally would - oops - but in concluding the conversation we came to an unspoken agreement of friendship.
It was actually timed quite well as it restricted her from giving me a big kick up the bum at the end of the day, which is exactly what I deserved for taking so long to do everything and doing it with an I-don't-give-a-shit attitude.
So I went to church with my tail between my legs and admittedly felt a sense of detoxification from the stresses of the day. The sermon was in relation to the Gospel reading of John the Baptist and was unbelievably thought-provoking, as was the article in the newsletter. The extract that really made me think was:

The Church invites us to be like the people who flocked to John in the desert to hear the word of God. We are invited to go into the desert of our hearts in order to hear God's message. The desert of our hearts may be an uncomfortable place to be, but it is the place where we will hear the love, voice and call of God.

So yesterday after work I joined my 2nd family for dinner. After the meal I remained at the table and watched as E. jumped on the trampoline just through the window. After a few minutes she stopped and lay just as Snow White did after she had eaten the poisoned apple and awaited the prince's kiss. There was a look of intense concentration on her face and I asked her sister A. what she was doing.
"Praying."
Well, it was the most beautiful thing I have ever seen. She's only 10 years old and she knows how to talk to God, and has no shame in doing so as her family watched from the dinner table.
I suppose I was jealous. I may appear to be a good Catholic - I go to church, I try to follow the Catholic laws and I pray for others - but in all honestly, I don't feel close to God. I don't know how to talk to Him, and when I do I don't feel as though He is listening. I have not got the ability to empty my mind of the literal and open my heart enough to feel God's presence.
And in church when they talk about Hell and an eternity without God I fear that I will be there. I thought Hell was now, but there is much worse to come I believe.
Pray for me - because I can't.