tuesdays with sorry

I keep having very basic and blatant anxiety dreams at the moment. I believe that dreams are simply mental detritus – and it doesn’t take a genius to understand why anxiety is invading right now. I think phenergan is giving me truly evil headaches; I reckon I’ve now tested that enough to stop and try something else for sleep. As well as the headaches, it leaves me groggy. I woke this morning, took a paracetamol, stood under a hot shower for ages to relieve neck muscles etc a bit and then stayed awake long enough to eat, before I fell asleep again. Now I’m a bit less groggy and headachy.

Some high(low)lights of my current emotional landscape are misery and bad temper. I blame the temper on the headache, my last dream and the nasty wind howling outside right now. Wtf has it got to howl about anyway? The misery is partly situational and partly neurological.

Last year, nextofkin worked out that within seven years, all of the maternal side of our family were dead. Obviously that excludes the two of us; it also includes one really, really, really strangely useless uncle. He’s kind of like trying to relate to a porcupine, but without the snuggle factor. Anyway.

We both grow terse and taciturn when we are very unhappy, so our conversations go something like this:
You ok?
Shit, you?
And then silence is resumed for a little while. Fortunately we are similar enough to read each other’s silences, even though we are on different continents. It’s a quietly companionable misery and it stems from the fact that nextofkin and I (besides being close) both nursed my mother through her (shockingly fast) dying and death.

Memories of the cousin who died the month before my mother did, have begun to emerge more strongly. There wasn’t time to grieve her two years ago. I haven’t grieved my godmother either. I think those are the only two out of too many where there just wasn’t enough time. I miss the dog that died a few months after my mother and the one that died the other day. Those facts, plus some additional trauma, are the reason for a lot of my current sadness and the changes in my entire approach to life.

Sometimes writing it down teaches me stuff and opens my mind a bit, sometimes writing is an effective distraction. As long as I’m writing, I’m not always feeling. In fact, I am usually (but not always) emotionless while I write. My mind can get very chilly and precise at times.


It’s boring listening to other people’s dreams, but my last one was such an obvious psychological workout session, that I’m going to outline it here, in case I need it.

I was supposed to visit my psychiatrist one evening; I drove till I didn’t recognise anything and it got dark. At some stage I was running through a train, begging people for directions. I finally turned back and went to the psychiatrist’s rooms and in the process, morning had broken. She was immensely helpful and caring and I felt better. Then I realised I had lost my car keys and also forgotten where I lived. I said, “it’s near Vredehoek, I think it starts with an E”. In the meantime, renovations on the consulting rooms had begun and they were off limits, but after some pleading, my psychiatrist and one of the receptionists went to look. They returned white faced, the psychiatrist’s bleeding hand in a bandage. They said they it was too dangerous to look any further. I searched all over some odd rooms with no luck and tried to think of who I could ask to hot wire the car. Someone must have done so – I drove home minus the keys. And then all sorts of frustrations and complications dogged me, plus some horrible misunderstandings between my mother and I. I was still freaked about the missing keys.

And then I woke and informed myself repeatedly that it was only a dream.

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