\o/

They've gone, the builders have gone! After destroying our walls, our carpets, our ceilings, our sanities, a laundry basket, a packet of breakfast cereal, my bookcase, a bar of Lush Rockstar soap (you'd've thought such conspicuously manly blokes would have avoided the pink, sweet smelling soap in favour of the inoffensive bar of imperial leather Dad favours, but no, we found it lying in the sink, broken in half, diminished in size by two thirds and covered in so much plaster what was left was irretrievable), three coat-hooks, two floorboards, two towels, two lightbulbs, one toothbrush, the entire back yard and a bottle of TCP, they've finally gone.

The work varies in quality from 'surprisingly decent' to 'typical Housing Exec' and has led mum to enquire on a timescale for me getting published so I can actually buy us a house *g*

Anyway, they've gone, and that's all that matters, and I feel like celebrating...

( Celebration under here... )

I am falling a little behind with the wordcount. I am not, however despondent, and am of the mindset that 200 words is better than none. Look, a whole new me!

The reason - my wisdom teeth are pushing again. My goodness, but the pain! It actually hurts to open my mouth!

*curls into a little ball and dreams of James*

I realise this is not really the kind of thing with which I should be clogging up your f-lists, but... I. Am. So. Bloody. Bored!

And what is worse is that my block seems to be back with a vengeance. I don't appear to have ability or inclination to write atm.

Le sigh.

The little chav fuckers in this village started letting off fireworks at regular minute intervals at about noon today. AND HAVEN'T STOPPED SINCE. I have got such a headache.

Still, Captain Jack sexes the entire universe in just over an hour... so that's nice.

The teacher we have at writers' group this term is just... awful. She saps any creativity I had, and I come home every week feeling homicidal. And I had hoped to work on nano after class, having done quite well earlier - 723 - but I just can't concentrate, I STILL feel like injuring someone and my headache is back. Ugh, bloody awful woman!

Cemetery Sunday again. You all know my feelings on the subject.

I had rather hoped I'd be able to sleep through the whole sorry debacle, but the world at large has other ideas, damn it. I think I shall make a swift retreat upstairs when Aunt Mary and Uncle Seamus arrive. The sad part is, mum seems to have finally accepted that they're the only ones who come. There is much less food this year - same amount of cleaning though.

Meh.

I feel a little lost sometimes. It's not a fleeting thing, either. It lasts for days. Right now, all I want to do is sleep, but I've slept so much I'm almost too awake, too lucid. It's too easy to think and thinking undoes me. There's a clamour in my head - one third thought, one third memory, one third fear. I want to write, to escape to that one place where everything falls as I plan but my mind is a grasshopper and won't sit long enough to create anything but frustration.

Kate time tomorrow - Monday morning ritual; out at ten to our favourite cafe, two cups of coffee or chocolate, or whatever, then lunch - a sandwich, a salad, good conversation, then she drops me here and scoots off to her lecture.

Left behind again.

And I'm feeling sorry for myself... drips of hurt and remembered hurt and loneliness. Emails I don't want from someone I need to forget. It's a strain to ignore, but I'm doing it.

And sod it, it's late, and I'm too awake and too sorry for myself, if I carry on like this you can just pin me on the LJ cliché board and be justified in laughing. I'll go read instead.

I. Can't. Fucking. Sleep. Again.

Someone, somewhere, is having a good old laugh right about now.

( Incoherent insomiac-type brain-clearing post )

Melanie the occupational therapist was here today... unscheduled visit, more about that in a mo. We went through some more of her factsheets, and made plans for her to take me into town in a fortnight as a kind of halfway step to going in by myself.

After she went mum cornered me, wanting to know if she'd talked to me about the whole long term 'where is this therapy taking me' thing. No, was the short answer. Boy was mum pissed off... you see Melanie was here early because mum phoned her a couple of days ago to tell her that I was down and depressed about the whole thing, Melanie only arranged the visit yesterday. I'd told mum as much when I got a little down about it a few weeks ago. Before I would have been pissed off about her going behind my back, but I understand that she wants to help, and I appriciate it. I guess what worried me a little is that their whole priority seems to be getting me out and about, and little else. Melanie said to mum, that dealing with that was the final thing, the whole end piece, and she'd have a word with me today about what the whole thing entails.

She didn't. It took mum to tell me why she was even here in the first place.

I'm always left feeling a bit breathless by her visits, if I'm being honest. It's not that they're fast, she's usually here for about an hour... it's just that she sits and tells me all this stuff, and gives me all these handouts... and a lot of it I already know, but I'm damned if I can even get a word in to say as much...

And I'd just like to know what filling in all these worksheets and survey type things is going to do for me. It's not as if she's getting information, it's all 'for your own use, I'll just leave it with you and let you look over it in your own time'.

Mind, if it gets me out and about on my own without having a major panic attack, I'll not mind... it's just that that isn't all that's going on in my life... and I'm not even sure about the rest of it... oh I dunno, maybe I'm expecting too much.

The editor of the writer's group book called today... deadline is Friday and all is going well! I can't believe that I'm going to see myself in print before Christmas!

On the subject of things literary, nano's getting closer - and I'm still dithering about whether I actually want to do the tv show plot, or the fantasy plot. Ah well, it'll all come good.

Melanie was here yesterday, so far so good, getting near the end of the first leg with her... after the next session she's going to concentrate on taking me out... getting me used to getting out and about without dad to lean on. But at least she'll be there.

It's funny the way I get down after she's been sometimes. You'd think I'd be boyed up, feeling I'm doing so well. I guess I just worry and that's not ever going to change, I'll always be a worrier.

I've got a backlog of unanswered email sitting in outlook. Sorry. Most of it's from Lyds.

Ever feel your life's a Salvidor Dali painting?