The nurse from Home Treatment turned up unannounced, which threw me - they hadn't phoned by 1030 and I was getting steamed up, but then she arrived. She returned the books I had lent the team and I made her a ginger tea. The house was a mess - full ashtrays everywhere and empty mugs lurking on the table. I would have made an effort had I known what time she would get here. At least, I like to think I might have tried.
We discussed coping mechanisms for flashbacks, including putting my face in a bowl of ice or using smelling salts. Can't say I like the ice idea, but I might try the salts, if I can get them. I have some upstairs, the leftovers from my Father's funeral, but that was 19 years ago, so they may have gone off a bit. Or a lot. My Aunt brought them down for the funeral, along with a litre bottle of Harrod's gin - she had her finger on the family weaknesses, alright.
I hate funerals, as I always cry, mostly because the music is so moving. Ironic, then, that I hope people have a good time at mine - I've chosen the music and the hymns, and the readings, and I want it to be joyful rather than sad. I've given all the instructions to my solicitor, so no one need panic about what I might have wanted. Not that I'm planning it yet, but it's always good to be prepared.
Kate has been, had lunch and gone again, which was nice, and Merrick is popping out. I'm hoping to keep the glooms away, but it's an uphill struggle and makes me very tired. Roll on bedtime. I can't face clearing up the lunch things - all I have to do is put the cheese away and move a plate or two, but it will have to wait.
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?