It’s been said to me a lot this last few fays that I’m too hard on myself – Therapist, my GP, my Dad, Hubby…….all people who should know. But I don’t believe them. The way I operate, the way I get myself to do anything, is negative motivation, because it’s pretty much the only way I know how to get myself going. Should. I don’t (try to) run because it will make me feel better, I (try to) run because I might lose some weight and I hate having weight on, it disgusts me. I didn’t stop sugar (which has sadly crept back in) so that I’d feel better, but because it pretty much guaranteed losing weight. Did I mention I hate having weight on? I can’t go back to bed even though I’m shattered because I’m probably just being lazy. I have four whole hours before I’ve to go back to being mammy, how dare I waste it by sleeping?

On top there’s the guilt factor, and this is where ‘should’ comes into play in a big way. I just know that when the kids are back, I’ll desperately want to get out on my own, but not be able to, so there’s another stick – I should have gone out when I had the chance. But once they’re back I can’t. Afternoon rolls into evening, dinner time, bedtime, before I know it it’s 9 o’clock and when I once again have time to myself, I don’t want to do anything with it other than sit and read/faff about on the internet/netflix.

I think what it’s really boiling down to is that I desperately want some time where I’m completely alone and not constrained by responsibility or what everyone else needs. Where I’d have the time to go back to bed, get up, do my writing, go for my walk/run, give the house a bit of a tidy, sit down with a book and generally just do what I want. But that’s not realistic, and it’s probably more than a little selfish. Who wouldn’t want that? What makes me so deserving?

Depression, borderline, chronic pms – whatever is the root cause of this particular episode is giving me notions. What right have I to all this time? Why do I think I deserve it? Everyone has demands made of them, lots of, every single day. Apparently I’ve decided I can’t cope with those demands, that I deserve a little holiday from responsibility. But that can’t happen, not really.

I think I’ve figured out why I’m so rooted in indecision. I don’t actually want to do anything, but life is happening regardless. So when there’s no one here, I want to give in to the urge to do nothing, escape from it for a bit. But once the kids and Hubby are back, I’m desperate to get out, because it’s presents the only opportunity to be alone. I’m shattered today, because yesterday was the first day in a week I’ve had to do more or less normal living. The morning was quiet, but from 12.30 on, once I’d left to pick up the kids, there was no stopping, no sitting, no switching off.

So today? Fuck it. I’ve been up two hours. My eyes are still burning in my head. I’m going to try and sleep. And then I’m going to try not to berate myself for it.

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