Before I start, I just want to say fuck Christmas, fuck Star Wars, fuck PD James and fuck cutesy bloody shite all over the place, fuck that twice.

Also, Adam Lambert with Queen on X Factor - yes. I have a bit of a thing for him, which I'd forgotten till there he was on the telly again, strutting about, giving it all that. He's who they needed, Queen, but bloody hell they're all really old now, of course, don't know why that surprises me.

So there's this thing that's been eating my head (above and beyond all the usual stuff, which continues to rumble along, sometimes in the foreground but other times, like now, receding a bit so other shit can pop up and do my fucking head in). It's made worse by my memory being so vague and impressionistic that I have no proper sense of the rights and wrongs - who behaved badly, who said this or that.

It's my friend SC, the one I share the allotment with, the one I texted a few months ago, on that day when I was on the knife-edge of suicide, pacing mad with it, unable to commit one way or the other, both living and dying being utterly untenable, awful end of the road stuff. A little voice of reason popped up and said, "Ask for help. Phone a friend." So I did, I texted SC, saying "Help" and she came round, and this is where it gets muddy. She said things, but to be honest, I can no longer be sure what she said. I feel as if she said that I didn't deserve a man like Bloke, that she wouldn't blame him for walking away, that I am awful and selfish and that I should shut the fuck up about ED. I'm not sure though. It was along those lines - it pushed all my buttons and I asked her to leave, then went a bit silly trying to make things stop hurting so much - took a load of pills, hacked my hair off, drank some port, scratched the shit off my face and arms, drank some more, the pills kicked in, I panicked and called 999 and it all got sorted out, then ED lost her ability to swallow and I forgot about SC until earlier this week, when her face started to loom in and out of my consciousness, all pinched and pursed, saying, "Well, actually, if I were Bloke I'd leave you, I'd have left you a long time ago..."

She had a mental health crisis of her own that same weekend - she'd been building up to one, as I had, and we both went off simultaneously. But she was mean, really mean, especially about my daughter, she can just fuck off, that's the line for me. I said I didn't want to see her until we'd both calmed down and regained a bit of equilibrium, but I don't think I ever want to see her again. But I am sixty years old, not eight. What the fuck is all this about?

I thought she was my friend. I've talked about it with people this week and they've all said fuck her, Jesus woman, why have you stuck with her for so long? She's always been a toad. Apart from Bloke, who wants us to make it up somehow. SC is gay by the way, she has no designs on Bloke for herself. It's been really hard - I think about it all the time. Why would she say these things? Is it because I am really horrible? Or is she? Or is she OK but she just doesn't like me? I don't know, but I recoil from seeing her name even and I have no interest in or energy for sorting it out. I'm done. I have nothing to say to her and nothing I want to hear.

So I've unfriended her on facebook, and her (always very high-maintenance) wife, and unfollowed them on twitter and I'm going to resign from being a trustee of the allotment committee and send back my key and hope I never see them again and that writing it all out will get it out of my poor malfunctioning head.

When your brain isn't working properly you are truly fucked. What can you rely on? Nothing.

Grateful for: coming to a decision about SC, even if it is odd and does set off all my 'loss' shite; nice weekend with the young 'uns; you guys for sticking around; not feeling as bad as I did on that weekend ever since; got a blog post writ - yay, go me

Laters xxx