one of those days, days, days.

'Poetry is no place for a heart that's a whore
And I'm young & I'm strong
But I feel old & tired
Overfired'
- Martha Wainwright, BMFA

Forgive me, there are things that need saying, but I'm not saying them. Not today, anyway. Maybe later.

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I've been running but I have shin splints, so I'm back in the horrible bloody mother fucking support socks 24/7 'til Friday and I can't run 'til at least Saturday and I need it, I need it, I need it soooo bad.

The DTs are setting in, I'm starting to shake and are those spiders I see coming out of the walls?

I won't get on the bike because I've been there done that and it just isn't the same. I need to feel my knees jar to get the endorphins rushing.

So the mother of gloom is standing over my bed with her hands in my head (listen to the song above). Playing with my hair, whispering in my ear, softly at first, then shrieking. I want to calm the roar but my antidepressants are not available. I'm all alone with this one, 'til Saturday. Unless I find some other way to work it out, work it out, work out, work out. (even my writing takes on a subliminal mind of its own)

Work through it dammit.

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Completely unrelated, well maybe not. My youngest son was back at swimming lessons today after a 4 month break. He forget which door to go through to get back to me after his lesson and when I found him he was chlorine soaked, red-eyed and inconsolable.

Anyone remember that feeling when you've lost your mom and you have no idea where she is? My mom was late a few times to fetch me from school when I was in kindergarten and I can remember sitting in a dejected heap on my brown school suitcase, under the big jacaranda tree at the entrance to the school. And feeling absolutely abandoned. 

Today with my son, while I towelled him off, gave him kisses and hugs and patted his head until he finally stopped crying, I thought about how much nicer it would have been if I could have delayed this moment for him.

The moment being that big moment.

The one where you realise that you are completely alone in the world, and that sometimes there is no-one on the other side of the door, and sometimes you have no idea where the freaking door even is. 

Couldn't he have been a little older? Couldn't I have been a little older?

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Finished the book. Read the last bit in the swimming pool cafe. Laughed hysterically and out loud at the bits about how one's clitoris apparently disappears once you enter your sixties? How disappointing! Some of us are less emancipated than others and may have only just discovered ours, and then to get told it disappears as you get older? Dire. Absolutely dire.

26 years left ...

My next book is Over by Margaret Forster. No laughing here I'm afraid, no disappearing clitorises either. In fact, let me rethink that and choose another book for the next couple of days. I've been reading this one for a while and I keep putting it down because even though her writing is beautifully spare, the subject matter, a death in the family and the subsequent dissolution of the family, cuts a bit too keenly to be read with comfort.

Maybe I'll be spending some time with Charlaine Harris instead. Screw modern literature this week, give me vampire chick lit romance and loooooove (with fangs).

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And that, she said, was that.