Life is currently uncomfortable. It always is, to some degree, at least some of the time. Sometimes it is really uncomfortable all of the time, and other times it is mildly uncomfortable, bits of the time.

Happiness is nothing else but a temporary escape from the discomfort of life and living. Suicide is something contemplated by people when life is too hard for too long.

I am someone who experiences a wide range of moods and emotions in their rawest acutest purest undiluted and strongest form, and they change almost all the time, or sometimes they resistantly stay in a particular groove, not of my choosing. That isn’t just a blogger’s claim. It is true. Hence my official psychiatric diagnosis of ’emotionally unstable PD’.

I am a human spirit in it’s purest form.

There is no tonic to water down my personality. I am just gin.

There is no coke; I am just neat vodka amidst a national shortage of ice cubes.


There is no watering down. No mixers. No ice. But life sure gives lots of lemons.

I am citrus splashes. I am eye wateringly fruit-infused and carry an acidic punch.


I am as sour as I am sweet.

I am bitter, yep. But not in a cloudy bitter lemon, lemonade mixer way, but in an angry way. There is no disguising my true feelings on metaphors.

I am crystal clear and say what I feel and voice my thoughts.

My thoughts right now are that life is horrible. Life is hard. Life really HURTS….a lot. I am weary of this thing called life, that I am ‘supposed’ to be grateful for.

I was not caught up in the Manchester terror attacks. That meant I felt grateful initially. But a few days on, I feel trapped by life yet again. I feel clamped into an uncomfortable position. Life is so bloody difficult. Yet I’m aware I am supposedly lucky to be alive.

I am lucky I am here to raise my children. They need me and I need them. I am lucky to share my life with my soulmate, confidante and best friend, my husband.

The challenges don’t let up though. My pain does NOT lessen. It just fades a little, sometimes, usually when I am immersed in something with my whole mind, body, and soul.

Lately I have escaped from the difficult thoughts I want to escape from via excessive busy-ness. I have made sure I have been incredibly productive and incredibly caught up in focussed tasks that require  lot of physical effort and mental concentration, also creativity and problem solving. I have basically spent THREE whole days dismantling everything in the house in terms of possessions, and decluttering and reorganising and shifting and blitzing and cleaning. This is what I tend to do when I have troublesome thoughts that just sit there and refuse to budge. I still haven’t finished these tasks where my ultimate aim is perfection and nothing less, but I am taking a mini break today, as my exhaustion has be listened to, I guess.

The depression sets in as soon as my activity stops though.

I am trying to push bad feelings away. I know what they are, but I am not especially keen on acknowledging them or writing about them or talking about them, because they are feelings I am not happy to admit to. I know that’s ‘wrong’ and it is out of character for me, but sometimes (especially when the kids are off on half-term holidays from school), I HAVE to put my difficult feelings on a mental shelf to be dealt with. that shelf is labelled “some other time”.

These feeling are for the “some other time” shelf.

The “some other time” is going to arrive tomorrow and the day after.

Tomorrow is therapy, and the day after that is the last time probably ever that I’ll see my psychiatrist. Two emotionally intense experiences coming up that are going to be testing emotionally, given how I’m feeling. I want to cry at the mere thought of them to be honest. But I will attend and I will cry, and maybe/hopefully talk a bit of sense inbetween the tears.

I’m just not in a good place. But I say that so often, that I wonder whether the good place I’m searching for exists? I know I have two main modes in life, “in a good place”, and “not in a good place” because I have described myself at being ‘at them’ at various points throughout my life.

Maybe the good place is to do with the relative ratio of lemons to my human spirit. My human spirit is contaminated by too many biting lemons inviting my attention all at once, at times when I’m not in a good place, and the ‘in a good place’ ratio is minimal lemons, and the only ones being present, being the old mellow ones, not new fresh life lemons of acute sourness.

Right now, there are lots of lemons, and my lemonade production line is functioning a bit awry.

Hopefully the therapy and psychiatrist double bill will help fix the current malfunctioning on the factory floor of my lemonade-producing production line and I’ll soon be making lemonade to rival Britvik’s finest. But tonight, I have a notable excess of lemons.