It’s been a difficult weekend, the black dog was, and is, looming large for me, and aside from a little crochet, most of which I unravelled last night because it wasn’t perfect, I completely failed to do anything, the house needs cleaning, the garden as always needs my attention, but I was fit for nothing this weekend. I did manage to cook a couple of nice suppers for me and my husband, but even that was a huge effort – I suppose I should celebrate that at least, but that was more in the service of keeping up a show of being OK for him. I feel like I’ve wasted the time. Sleep as ever is elusive and I feel drained and tired, unable to concentrate and not motivated to do anything. Am I at that point, the one where you apparently ‘feel worse before you feel better’, if I am, I honestly I can’t see any chance of feeling better.
I wonder if this feeling of not particularly caring is preferable to the endless anxiety I have felt for the last few years?
My head is filled with endless thoughts that bring with them a deep sadness and realisation that there is so much bad in me, and maybe my therapist is right, it’s not mine it’s her’s but still it’s in me now and the only way I can live with that is to keep it inside and hidden, he talked a lot last week about feeling free, I wonder if he knows that that freedom is so very frightening to me, I have to stay in control, so that bad stuff doesn’t come out, both the stuff that is her’s and the other crazy stuff that sits in the parts of me inside my head.
Loosing control, ‘being free’, whatever, would be the worst thing, because, as much as this stuff leaks out at times, I pretty much manage to keep it inside where it can’t hurt anyone else and surely that is the right thing to do, isn’t it?