Blogging has taken a back seat this week, and in many ways, so have I. What I am trying to do is relentlessly carve out a pathway forward and stride on with purpose and conviction. I imagine myself as a sassy volunteer princess beating my way though the thickets desperate to catch a glimpse of the fairytale castle (a paid career) that I’m sure is there just though the other side of the overgrowth. But you know what? Tonight, in truth, I am BLOODY KNACKERED by doing all this relentless thicket destruction.
If I was writing this post by hand I very much doubt I’d have the ability to grip a pencil, and the pencil would probs also be blunt, because I definitely don’t possess any capacity for sharpening any mental instrument (aka my brain). My style of blogging, as you know is always quite blunt.
“Tell me what you really think summer” shouts the imaginary crowd.
I am KNACKERED and SHATTERED and feeling fairly universally useless and a bit flat tonight because I’m overly tired, and when I get overly tired I can become like a toddler screaming for my milk and biscuits.
“Is a post about how you’re feeling a bit tired really worthy of publishing summerSHINES?”
“YES, it totally is,” would be my answer. Because I am not just a tiny bit tired. I am monumentally tired.
I want badly to write about my Westminster trip, I want to write a post about a UK mental health charity “Young Minds” which support parents to deal with the mental health of their youngsters. I want to write about disability and loneliness and the speeches I heard at parliament. I want to write about how I’ve been asked to do a little talk myself at a charity event next week and how I want to both cheer and be sick with nerves. I want to write about my daughter’s prom (which is tonight) and how my other daughter won the year 3 girl’s race at her sports day yesterday, and the psychologically interesting stuff about kid’s sports days and the observations I made of other kids and other parents and competitiveness and how school isn’t what it used to be etc. I want to write my thoughts on London and the loveliness of the city, juxtaposed with the sheer ridiculousness of thinking if you decant (probable) tap water into a wine bottle you can therefore charge actual money for it :P Also how the actual fuck can they get away with serving Latte in a GLASS?
But I can’t be arsed to, because I am actually literally yawning as I type, so don’t think any of these ideas would be well executed if I attempted tonight. I have also had an iced margarita and am in my PJs feeling ready for bed.
As well as being tired though I get annoyed for being tired, and wish I were wonder woman (or some equivalent person to be admired for her badassery).
I get annoyed at how easily fatigued and overstimulated I become. I get annoyed at how I get nervous about things and am prone to fearing the worst. I get annoyed that a maroon red Vauxhall Cavalier continues to be a regular PTSD trigger that seems hell bent on ruining my country walks by reminding me of horrible things that happened long ago. I get annoyed that I’m too tired to write, and that I gave my mum friends the wrong time for the trampolining party because my trauma brain has been dissociating so badly lately. I get annoyed at all of this, but it doesn’t change the reality.
The reality is I do my absolute best, in spite of being limited, pressured and overloaded daily by the shit storm that is PTSD and BPD. I am ambitious, and I work bloody hard, for NO MONEY, because I care about what I do and want to make a positive difference and a valuable contribution to my community. But I need to always remember to respect my illness, respect my limitations, and act with self-compassion when the thoughts start rolling in that I wish I was better and could do better and was better capable of sustaining my drive to yield my survivor sword and cut though the thicket to reach that elusive fairytale castle.
Tonight I am drained. I am knackered. I am emotional. I am spent, and I am damn sleepy on margarita.
I can doodle though, badly-that is something I can do very well.
I can also drink another margarita and do what any sensible, tired, drained, overly mentally taxed, overstimulated, overwhelmed, shattered and slightly tipsy volunteer princess should do.
Go to BED.