I’m struggling with a feeling of melancholy – I don’t like to use the word depression unless in a medical sense here, which it isn’t – which is nothing to do with the onset of winter, but is caused by a situation I thought I’d dealt with, after much anxiety and cost, but has cropped up again, more worryingly. And I want to shelve it but I mustn’t and I’m close to panic attacks every time I think about it.
What helps, of course, is JFDI and I’ll start with an email tonight and, once I have a reply, I do have a plan – which means bringing in professionals and throwing money at them – but it’s still up to me to implement it.
What keeps me from despair is that no one is ill, no one is dead, it’s just stuff. But, my word, it’s no wonder that I don’t listen to the news any more. I turned on the radio at lunchtime, a couple of weeks ago. I was shouting at it within a minute and had to turn it right off again. I don’t need to add fury to anxiety.
However, it’s been another lovely sunny day. I harvested most of the last of the outdoor tomatoes – there are still some volunteer plants with cherry tomatoes on, but I’m a bit lazy about picking them all – and we had some for lunch in a salad, with some of the last of the basil and various other things. Last night, Tim cooked his Basque Chicken recipe, which is always delicious but actually was exceptionally so; and there’s plenty left over for tonight, so excellence guaranteed and no work. I’m actually, in my own life, deeply content, but that doesn’t stop me feeling almost too stressed to cope.
I don’t appreciate that my affairs are quite complicated until I look at other people’s, and then I realise that even everyday life can quickly become so. I’ve cut down on a huge amount, so it seems straightforward – I remember saying to my solicitor after Russell died that it was all quite straightforward and she said, um, actually no, it really isn’t. And indeed, there’s an awful lot of stuff that still isn’t dealt with and even this house isn’t yet in my name. The paradox is that I have rather a dread of the boring. If I cut it all right down, just lived in a nice little house on a sensible, fixed income, knew what I’d be likely to do day after day: now that would really be depressing. I’d do wild things just to spark an interest and, no doubt, regret them instantly. But the medium that can be called happy? Yes, we can do that, I’m still working on it, and I do have joy in my life, with Lovely Tim, my darling family and my friends.
Darlings, sorry to whinge. I’ve given myself a brief stiffening of backbone, just by complaining. I’ll write that email now, while Tim reheats the rest of last night’s delicious dinner.