Daily Archives: August 11, 2012

The I-just-want-to-sleep depression

Going on two weeks now, I have been in a “I just want to sleep” depression. Which is stupid, since the doctor increased my Effexor, so I should actually be feeling less depressed. Oh, well, it is what it is.

I just live for the portion of the day when I get my kid today and I am free to retire to my bedroom, pop in a movie, and just drift off for however long she will allow me. Which lately has not been much, since she wakes every hour on the hour wanting me to restart her Blue’s Clue’s dvd.

She’s been sick and I haven’t had a sitter, so I have missed two days at the shop, which irks me. Not her being sick, I mean, a cold is hardly fatal. I just feel so much better when I can be useful out there, as opposed to sitting at home vegetating.

We went to my dad’s corner of podunk this morning per his request. Parades bore me. Like, a LOT. Spook got lots of candy, though I don’t think she really understood what was going on.

We went to a couple of yard sales, dad and his gf bought her some winter clothes, which she needs desperately.

Then we ate fried fish at the legion on dad’s dime. That was nice of him.

She’s spending the night with them.

I am forcing myself to go to a cookout R and his wife are having (Jello shots are supposedly on the menu) but I don’t want to. I’m not feeling motIVATED OR social.

I just know I have to MAKE myself fake being a normal person.

And trust me, I am faking it. I had planned on cleaning house and just sleeping a lot while dad has the Spookster.

But an invite is an invite so I will put on my mask and go pretend to be one of the human race.

One of the boys in the trailer park killed one of my outdoor kittens, Lola. Snapped her neck. I can’t prove anything, though. She was buried yesterday. I was soooo sad , she was so sweet and friendly.

Then one of my asshole neighbors told the landlord I let those dog people from next door move in with me.

I don’t know what kind of crack they are smoking, but it’s some heavy shit.

I wouldn’t let that bunch and their dog within a hundred feet of my child.

Suiting because the guy who lived there was in the paper last week,on charges, for fathering a child with a 14 year old girl.


Sick fuck.


I must face the daunting task of bathing and choosing clean clothes to wear to the shindig.

It really is exhausting, why can’t I just live in pajamas?>

Why did I say I would even go?

Oh, right, to force myself to be normal.


Maybe I don’t want to be normal.

I will go fake it.

I’m pretty good at putting on my mask by now.

It just leaves me feeling so…hollow…and pissed off…and depressed.

Like no one will ever accept me for who I am if I don’t wear the mask and pretend there isn’t an elephant sitting in the room called depression.

People suck.

But at least Halloween is coming up. That makes me smile.

Ghouls just wanna have fun, ya know?


Just Give Me A Sign

It always feels a bit strange on this journey coming back into urban areas after having been walking around in the mountains for a couple of days.

Going from this…

…to this…

…sometimes in the space of half a day, certainly comes as a bit of a culture shock, although it’s also becoming increasingly clear that such stark contrasts are a part and parcel of El Camino del Norte.

But there are also some more subtle indications that you are moving between different territories.

Take today’s header photo.

Trying to find my way out of Gijon this morning I became increasingly frustrated because although I was very sure of the way out of the city, I could find no sign whatsoever of those little yellow arrows daubed on every surface imaginable that I’ve have come to rely on as the pretty much the sole means of guiding me across Northern Spain.

When I finally asked a local for directions, he had a little laugh to himself and told me to look down at my feet, which is when I finally noticed the new signage on the pavement – a rather more polished version of the Santiago Way scallop shells I’ve become familiar with in the countryside.

As I think I’ve mentioned before, these shell symbols hark back to distant days when, as a matter of course, peregrinos would carry on walking past Santiagio to Cape Finisterre, a peninsula on the coast of Galicia, to collect a scallop shell as a memento and proof of the extent of their journey. You’ll often see people today walking The Way with shells strapped to their rucksacks.

And today’s brass shells on the pavement guided me very efficiently for a couple of kilometres out of town, until what seemed like the very moment I hit the city outskirts, when I was returned to familiar directional territory.

Almost immediately afterwards, this one appeared at the side of a disused railway track.

I still find it hilarious that these signs to Santiago crop up utterly randomly (remember the spray-painted one in the cornfield at Guemes?), bearing no relevance to the distance yet to travel (I’m still the best part of 200 miles away from Santiago), and pointing you in a completely arbitrary direction. Minutes after following this sign I found myself looking at this:

Thankfully, the urban stretch gave way quite quickly to prettier Asturian landscape, and with a gentle breeze to accompany today’s 22.km walk across almost completely flat terrain to Aviles, I had every reason to believe that I was in for a bit of light relief from the exertions of the past couple of days.

Which was largely true, although it has to be said that The Santiago Way does like to throw you a bit of a directional curveball now and again.

I’ll buy anyone a drink when I get back who can spot the right way to go within 30 seconds of looking at this:

And I know I’m never to win any prizes for navigator of the year, but please, what on earth are you supposed to make of this little beauty?

I suppose other walkers must rely on their finely honed sense of directional intuition.

But as this completely un-staged photograph below might suggest (good old time-delay), I’m much happier devolving responsibility to a third party.

And believe it or not, I ended up going the right way.

But sometimes, as the last stretch of today’s walk proved, poor signage can be misleading in an altogether more satisfactory way.

You’ve got to admit that the frontage of this bar that I found on the roadside with another 8km to walk into Aviles through some serious industrial surroundings doesn’t look too promising:

But as soon as I walked in and ordered a pint of beer, which was served in a proper pint jug – something I’ve rarely seen round here and which was iced to boot – I was almost force fed plate after plate of tapas: tuna with diced potatoes tossed in mayonnaise, slithers of chorizo and ham on slices of fresh baguette, mussels garnished with diced onion and peppers, melon wrapped in wafer thin Iberian jamon…

…All completely free (well, apart from the beer).

I know free bar snacks aren’t unheard of in the UK, but you’ve got to admit that a few roast taters chopped into bite-sized chunks in your local on a Sunday afternoon don’t quite cut the mustard by comparison.

And that’s the spirit in which I’ve decided to make penance for my extravagant ways and get back to the good old Albergues:

It might not look like much, but it does start to make a lot more sense if I tell you that my bed for tonight, access to a washing machine (and the sun to properly dry my clothes in), and a four course meal off the pelegrino’s menu in a local restaurant, only cost me marginally more than the tip I paid to get stitched up by a waiter in a posh hotel.

I’ll tell you tomorrow whether I have decided to change my feckless ways for good.

Earplugs at the ready.

Filed under: On The Road Tagged: Aviles, Charity, Gijon, Rethink Mental Illness, Walking

Nothing Much Today

Which is for the best really, as motivation is fairly non-existent. I managed to cajole myself into bathing (which, as many of you know, IS a big achievement during periods of depression). I also managed to bake some cookies, but I can probably blame that on wanting to do something nice for my husband (who deserves all the nice things for having to put up with me on the daily). So methinks I will return to Simming my heart out, and call that a decent day.


The Irony is Gonna Kill Me

When I got divorced and was given the title of primary custodial parent to my children, I was also given  a court order that specified that the noncustodual parent was to pay me a certain amount a month for the care and support of the children and should I not be paid the specified amount … Continue reading