Regular readers will no doubt have realised by now that I never really feel comfortable in my own skin, like I stick out and don’t belong…that I am an outlier. It should therefore come as no shock that, at odds with most of the population, I hate weekends. A Friday is most probably the worst, because we all know that thinking about something is very often worse than what that something may be.
If you read the previous post, When The Tears Came… , you will know that I had a bit of a rough time yesterday. In fact this week in general has been rather difficult. After a couple of weeks in which I enjoyed feeling positive, and that things were heading in the right direction, I took a pretty spectacular fall and landed back at the bottom of the proverbial hole with no ladder. Such is the way with Mental Illness, so I’m used to it. Anyway, after the emotional roller coaster that was yesterday, today I feel low, tired, like the energy has been sucked from me, as a vampire might greedily draw the lifeblood from it’s victim.
The thing about the weekend is that people make plans. People go out, unwind after the working week, enjoy themselves. But my GAD, and my APD dictate that I stay home alone, feeling sorry for myself as my Mum and Sister go shopping for the day, or out to lunch. Through the week, and despite not being able to work, I can just about maintain a routine of my own. I have my Art Group, I write both on here and for Anxiety United. I walk, I maintain a Facebook page, where I share my art. I usually have several appointments to attend. If my concentration allows, I read or watch something on Netflix.
But at the weekend, my ‘routine’ is shot to pieces. Even now, as I write this post, I sit feeling alone, desperate for someone to come home. I feel ashamed to admit that I am envious of my Sister, because she has had my Mum’s undivided attention since 9:30 this morning. I dread tomorrow, because there is more of the same in store. My thinking is frantic and muddled. I want it to be bed time, but I don’t want tomorrow to come. I’m 31 years old, and I want my Mum.