I’m sitting on my sofa, laptop on my knee, “new post” page open, just…staring at the blank screen.
I don’t know what to write. It’s like the pathway between my brain and my fingers is in a state of gridlock.
My house is cold and I can’t afford to put the heating on, because it’s only September. The back-end of a hurricane is whipping the north of Britain and the winds kept me awake last night. My house has the worst case of damp I’ve ever seen in my life (and I’ve seen some shit holes) and it’s reaching intolerable levels. I can’t afford to live by myself any more but I don’t have anyone to move in with, and I am paralysed by indecision over whether to write to my landlord this week or next month about terminating my contract. I have to single-handedly organise Christmas for 40 residents with an average age of about 88 and I have no idea where to start – or rather, I have some idea, and it involves using the phone a lot, and I’m scared of using the phone. I seem to have very few relationships or friendships which don’t hurt me in some way, sometimes far beyond the point at which I should draw the line. I am 400 miles from my elderly grandmother, and it’s only now that I realise she could die at any time and I might never see her again, and I can’t make up for that by being extra nice to my old people at work, and I was her favourite grandchild and I miss being four and watching her burn sausages for my dinner. I am 400 miles from my dalmatians. My workplace doesn’t grant leave at Christmas, so I’ll be away from my family for the first time ever and I just can’t conceive of that. I am terrified of flying and am quite convinced that either my blood pressure or terrorists will stop me from making it to Washington in December. I have epic PMS. It’s coming up to that time of year again with the flashbacks and the nightmares and the paranoia. I fucking hate the current UK government. I hate the lies the tabloids spin. I hate that so many of my friends are suffering. I’m burnt out on giving advice and support and just want someone to hug me. I’m frustrated that I can barely save myself, let alone the rest of the world. I am frustrated that I spend most of my spare time online because it’s the least self destructive method I know of stopping myself from thinking or feeling too much. I hate that I’ve put SO much fucking work into sorting my mental health out and I still feel like I’m going to break at the next harsh word.
I don’t know what I’m doing here, so far away from everything I ever found comfortable or comforting or safe. Geographically, physically, mentally and behaviourally. I am 27 next week and I feel like I’m about 12, and I’ve been playing house and it was all a great novelty, but now I want to go home and cuddle my dogs. I don’t know if I can do this being a grown up thing. It’s scary and overwhelming and just about the only thing in my life that I’m happy about is my counselling degree. I’m terrified I’m going to fuck that up too, since that’s what I do best. I feel tiny and impotent and lost.
And I’m fucking crying. I didn’t even notice until I stopped typing. Stupid PMS. At least when my hormones aren’t adding to my problems I can just about hang on in regards to coping with the rest of that pile of shit.