Well Wendy and the children are at the pantomime with her mum; their Nana. It is Cinderalla and they were quite excited when I dropped them off in Dumbarton. I like that; that joy.
I woke early as usual, and felt that grab, that sense of unease when I realized that I wouldn’t go back to sleep. My radio was on, so I listened to constant discussion about our politicians and the coming election; hated it though I know who I will vote for and have gone to the trouble of organizing it so that Wendy can cast a proxy vote for me, as I will be away working.
I was just beginning to slumber when Wendy and the children galumphed downstairs to see what the elf on a shelf had been up to. I opened my bleary eyes looked at the clock, thought I had another hour due to me, scowled; tried not to scowl too much when Charlotte sat on my chest and said that the elf on the shelf had made angels wings out of flour and that I had to go to see it.
I held tight to the downie later when Wendy came through to try to pull it off me, but felt quite cared for when after the coffee I had put on began to bubble; she came through poured me a cup and took it through to my bed.
Everyone was in such a good mood, except me, but even I began to cheer up after I made the breakfast and the children and Wendy carried on their banter; their love of life.
We took them swimming. James got frightened and tried to say he was too ill to swim. Wendy laughed and said he was fine half an hour ago and that she was sure that many little boys had been swimming in the past when they had colds.
Off they went. And off I went to the torpedo factory to look at the jewelry, medals, boxes cupboards and so on and think there are so many things here I could buy Wendy and yet she wouldn’t want any of them. Then off to take Dash the dog round Christie park for his wees and his poos; meeting dogs, children and adults, as anxious as me about the behavior of their dogs.
We all ended up back at the antique shop where, as predicted Wendy wanted nothing, and the weird cheap shop, where Charlotte got a Pooh bear and James a pencil sharpner and me writing pads and envelopes.
It was lovely to hear the children chattering in the car. Lovely, earlier on, to see them on the marble staircases looking at the Christmas tree and beside the marble columns with a blow up Santa with ribbons of lights along the ceiling . Even nicer that Tom was free to look after them when James said he wanted to go to his Dads’ and subsequently Charlotte said could she go too.
We built James new wardrobe in the afternoon. Wendy was delighted that her idea of getting the old nails out with a coin was a good one and that her pliers worked better than mine, and so keen to say that all the men she had ever been with always discounted her ideas; assumed she was no good at DIY. At least I had the grace to apologize; to admit that she had a much clearer understanding than me. But I did feel slightly proud that at least I had the strength to do some of the things she couldn’t do and yes I know it is slightly pathetic of me and that if Wendy was less good natured, she could have been angry at my need to prove I knew what I was doing when to be honest I didn’t.
I got the old wardrobe to the tip just in time, and, as I said, took them all to the panto, then went shopping; came home and made a pizza just as I like it and now I am sitting besides the snoring room with the bedlight on, the salt lamp on and candles; listening to 80’s pop music because Alexa thinks that is what I want to listen to.
I have had my wine, my beer, my whisky; feel slightly mellow.
Wendy often says I smell of alcohol in the mornings now. She comes to cuddle me and then turns away because she says the whisky fumes make her want to boke.
I have no idea why I want to drink so much. I get through at least three litres of whisky a week. Somehow I need it now. I dread a night without whisky; know that if I don’t drink much I will sleep badly even though I know the alcohol is bad for sleep. I think I tend to sleep well now because I knock myself out with the quantity I drink. I can talk, speak; do the stuff sort of but increasingly Wendy mentions conversations we had the night before and I have no recollection of them. I know so well I need to do something about this but I want to comfort myself; to just not be here and the whisky does that very well.
Is this my version of grief? I don’t know. Everyone else seems so normal, so well adjusted, just getting on with life. I know grief takes a myriad forms and does not have to be overwhelming but illogically, as I write, I am cross with Dad that I can’t phone him tomorrow and hear his pride that I might be taking a lead role in the mental health act review; just as well because I probably won’t be.
It just seems wrong. I know people die all the time. I know his death was a release but why can’t I speak with him? Get stuck in a phone call? Feel that warmth when we giggle because we are so bad at speaking to each other.
I go down to Mums next weekend and my present is to take her to Jeremy’s where Dad used to take her every birthday. Such a good idea of Mum’s but I am so frightened! How can I make this a day of joy rather than one of memories and sadness. Silly me.
I can hear the rain on the velux windows; Dash is sleeping under the table at my feet.
I had my meeting with my DMP last week. I never knew I was even due to meet her just got passed in to her after my injection. She was lovely; understood me, got me; was someone I could have talked to for ages. She agreed to the T3 which I assume means that the section will carry on next year. I am cross that, looking through my notes, she realized that my psychiatrist is well overdue seeing me about the section; that she told me I needed to let the secretary know they needed to see me. Not her fault at all; but am I really having to organize the staff who organize my own compulsory treatment? I hate that and might not phone them, might just wait and see what happens.
Am I grieving? I have no idea. I would love some cuddles even though I have whisky breath; would love to be at least vaguely alive and connected to my wonderful family. I am sad even though I am sat at our lovely bench; liking the old music, the lamps and candles; even though I have the most amazing people in my life. I would like that spark that convinces me that I am alive rather than some ill-educated robot trying painfully to go through the motions.
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