Today I walked out the back door and all the way to the bottom of the garden. I was tempted to howl at the sky, but instead stuck my fingers in my ears and lay on the lawn, feet to the fence. I could still hear them screaming from the house. I breathed in and out slowly and counted until I felt that I was not going to combust into a thousand shards of frustration. And went back inside.
Things feel harder than they should be. I am frustrated, tired by the latest teething sleep deprivation, guilty about not writing, not swimming, not stretching. I am stifled by all I feel that I cannot say in these pages – and puzzled as to how those bloggers I love to follow, the ones that let it all hang out, don’t have the same issues or self-censorship…
Today was too hard. I got two hours of work done having already invoiced for six. Thus, I will be trying to squash in ten to twelve hours on Saturday when M is on kid-duty. Fatigue is fragmenting my brain and I am almost incapable of concentrating for more than a few minutes at a time. I did not feel that I would emerge from my pity-party tonight, but M came home while the Smalls were still awake. Did the stories, took the other for walks and got it to sleep. And told me that my favourite mid-1990’s band from Leeds – The Wedding Present – were touring here in April for the first time ever. “You have to go,” he said.
I cast the impenetrable logistics from my head and bought a ticket. I will go. I am going. And today is suddenly brilliantly better.