Nearly midnight and still in my pyjamas - forced myself to have a "duvet day" - I loathe the term, dunno why, and find it very hard to choose to do nothing. More likely to spend a whole day, or several, telling myself I'll do something in a minute then giving myself a hard time when I don't, then a further hard time when I realise I was knackered and needed a day off. Man, it's complicated, keeping track of all this shite.

So what has brought me to my knees (apart from having the grim reaper standing too close to people I love (yes, plural people, not just one), and fear of moving house from the centre of this lovely city to an ugly right-wing fucking village), is suddenly having too many things to do, all of them meant to be beneficial to my mental health, but too much all at once. I was supposed to choose the ones I liked most, which I think I've done, but fuck me, it's been serious.

This is what I had to choose from, after trying out all the new ones:
At the hospital - art group (Mon); recovery group (Thurs); one-to-one with H (very other Fri)
At the 'Recovery College': scary art (Tues); scary writing (Fri)
At the other recovery place: Singing (weds)
Round the corner: Yoga (weds)
At the Buddhist Centre: Lovely yoga (Mon and Thurs)
At the Natural Health Centre: Recovery yoga (Tues)
Plus acupuncture once a week, R once every week or two when he comes back from Goa (fucking hippy) and maybe more, that I've forgotten - oh yes, walking 6,000 steps a day (about three miles) and writing my blog every day. Plus eating healthy food - that's the other thing - I still don't have an oven, so cooking is much more of a hassle. There's nothing nutritious that's as easy as bunging some veg and maybe a bit of meat in a tray, sloshing some oil and a few herbs about the place and shoving it in the oven for a while. On the hob you have to do stuff and it's been hard. Having said that I realise I did make a nice thing in the slow cooker with some pork, parsnips and cider which lasted two days and was delicious, so I don't really know why I'm moaning about that.

Anyway, I'm not going back to scary art as H says I can keep coming to the one I like at the hospital despite there being a nominal limit of eight sessions, as there're only a few of us going regularly. So that's a relief. Yoga is more complicated because the best classes (Jim-yoga) clash with this art group and the recovery group. What I can't seem to keep in the forefront of my mind is that these two groups are of short duration - the recovery one is ten weeks, of which we've already had three, and the art goes along with it. So for fuck's sake woman, let go of the Jim-yoga - it'll still be there when these groups are finished, and they are about making me well - though I do know that, it's why I choose them, I just can't seem to stop trying to make it work that I can have that Jim-yoga as well.

And as H pointed out, I don't need to do two yoga classes a week. This is a self-imposed demand that can be reviewed in the light of changing circumstances - I will not turn into a gnarled, stiffened old crone if I 'only' do an hour and a half of yoga and walk 21 miles a week. In other words, chill out woman, for fuck's sake.

I wish I'd gone to see ED. That's what I'm most cross about. All this shit is meant to make me better so that I can be a better mother to my poor broken baby, but instead I became overwhelmed to the point of total incapacity and didn't turn up at all. I might go tomorrow though.

I am grateful for: a visit from J the singer, telling mad tales, standing up and doing all the voices and making me laugh; Bloke going down the road and getting me the paper; a day off; still here - made it through another day, thereby maintaining my 100% record for getting through bad days; a letter from America (well a card, but so far there isn't a song called A Card from America)



Laters x