A Day On My Own

Today, for the first time in over seven weeks, I had the house to myself.

Unlike some, I actually like being on my own.  I like my own company.  I am accomodating and appreciative of my plentiful personality quirks.  I don't mind that I enjoy doing things others think are odd.  I quite like me, on the sly, I genuinely do think I'm a decent person (though I often forget).  I don't like to sit about and do nothing as that gives my mind too much scope to think, but I am as happy being alone as I am when I am with others, sometimes more so.

It seems as if there has been someone off through illness, snow or holiday since November (whether it be a child, The Mammy or Himself).  It's nice to have people about, but it also impedes my mentalism.  When that happens, I can't get my full on crazy hat on, which means that I can't use my odd coping mechanisms to deal with things (see obsessive cleaning, for example).  That in turn means that I get grumpy a lot.

I end up shouting at the Midgets and being horrible to them in a way that seems inexcusable to me (last week, I crossed the line, screaming at Lid "Because I am the grown up and I say no." Cringe). 

I start to worry with too much intensity.  I forget to take my mad tablets.  I navel gaze.  I want to binge and vomit more.  My memory starts to fail me.  I forget words, actions, deeds.  I start to randomly snack on foods that destroy me, then the ME starts to take hold and I become less able to do anything as my mind becomes more cloudes.  Confidence plummets.  Ability to do things, anything, takes a tumble. 

I get to the point where, even when I have the opportunity to leave the house, I find an excuse not to do so.

Which of course, leads to my being unable to use coping mechanisms to rid myself of the crazy, or at least keep it under control.

Today, The Mammy (finally) returned to work.  Both Midgets went to school. Himself merrily took himself to work with the fractured elbow.  The house was mine.  So.

I had a walk around the charity shops. I rearranged the books so the ones I like best were at the front.  Bought a top (that co incidentally I will never wear again, as a guest asked me earlier if I was pregnant, to which I replied "No, I'm just fat").

I trotted back home.  I should have cleaned the house, but fuck it.

I had a big cup of coffee.  A huge bowl of salad, liberally sprinkled with nuts and olives and seeds.  I watched an episode of "ER" (though I had no idea what was going on as I've missed 15 or so series of the damn thing) and read a bit of a book I've been meaning to start.  And then - I went to bed. And I slept, for four hours straight, which is the most I have slept in a very long time. 

It was glorious. I recommend it.  Both the sleep and indulging in what I like to do.  Give it a try.