Well that sure worked - a measly hour and a half. My nose is blocked (quetiapine side effect) and I've got an itchy inner ear - maybe that means I'll hear about money. At the risk of giving you too much information, I shall have to get out the cotton buds and excavate my right ear. When I woke up, I was driven to get up - no lying dozing for me. This drive is what I have when I'm manic - and depressed - a complete inability to stay put. I HAVE to rise from my pit and do something, or I shall explode. It's so frustrating not to be able to turn over and drop off again, but I just can't do that. My Aunt, who's really a cousin of my Mother's, is 92 and she doesn't sleep well, but she's able to lie there and think nice thoughts all night. I haven't a nice thought in my head.
Now I'm up, I suppose I could tidy the sink/work surfaces - full of dirty stuff. But that means I'll have to empty the dishwasher and I can't be arsed. I could do some washing, but that means sorting it out into colours, and that's difficult to do in my frame of mind. I could unpack the shopping from Tesco's, but that's just too difficult as I'll have to rearrange the fridge's contents. So I'll write instead, with a coffee and a fag by my side.
I had antipasti for supper - good salami, parma ham and artichoke hearts in brine, with sourdough bread. Better than an egg banjo, HT. That's the kind of meal I really like, rather than a formal sit down affair. When my ex husband was at the Royal College of Defence Studies in London, as Commandant, we had to give two black tie dinner parties a week for two years. We had staff to cook and serve, so I didn't end up sweatily serving 12 people, but the stress involved was immense when I was depressed. Bear in mind that that was about the time I was being chucked out of the RAF, so I wasn't at all well. However, I managed to do it and enjoyed it - but it put the nail in the coffin of me giving nice middle class supper parties. I don't do "At Home' either, and I used to dread the stiff invitations that came through the letter box - "Mrs Anthony Fussbucket is At Home - 6pm to 8pm - drinks to celebrate Binky's new job". Luckily, I don't get them anymore, which is either a sign of the times, or I've been cast into darkness as far as the whole of the middle class is concerned.
I'm using middle class as a derogatory thing, and I shouldn't as I suppose I'm middle class. What I really mean is narrow minded and parochial, only interested in themselves and how they look in their own community. Some of them come to my annual birthday parties in the pub, but they never ask me back. I'm very picky when it comes to going out to events - I have a system nowadays whereby I pause before answering an invitation - do I really want to go, or will I be bored out of my mind? At the same time, people have asked me to supper and I've genuinely not been able to go for one reason or another. Either way, I can always plead insanity. One couple always repay my hospitality -- he used to be a "lock 'em up" man when it came to mental illness, but since knowing me, he's changed his mind. One small success.
I'll post this and do one task - surely I can manage
I spent 16 years in the RAF defending the Free World , then got bunged out unceremoniously for being bipolar. I and was subsequently diagnosed with PTSD. Funny old world, isn't it?