It’s getting bad again. I know why, I think – it’s the frequent trips to Brighton, especially at a time of day when I should be lying down. Why do I always think I can get away with things? I had a reasonably good spell over the Christmas hols, but driving distances on a regular basis is not good. I have asked Shrink to give me an earlier time to see if this makes a difference. If not, I may have to stop going altogether, and how will he afford his citybreak holidays then? And damn his eyes anyway for still speaking about this as metaphor.
So what I am doing about all this is:
a) taking drugs (Co-prox never lets me down)
e) eating mince pies (found some leftover spelt pastry in the fridge).
In other words I’m being positive. But The Writing suffers and therefore so do I. Shrink is very sanguine about this because I have been writing down dreams and reading them out to him, and the last one had us both in bed together watching a performance involving a group of people doing strange things in a gymnasium, it was a bit avant garde for me but he seemed to enjoy it, both in the dream and in the consulting room.
I know I have had this thing for twenty two odd years, and I know that I am actually one of the luckier ones (for which believe me I am every day grateful). But there is this creature who every day wakes up with me and says that today is the first day of the rest of your life and everything might suddenly, inexplicably, be fine.
I am making ridiculous plans for things that I know I am unlikely to do. But I make them anyway, and perhaps some of them will bear fruit.