This morning I woke early again..by again, I mean the third morning in a row. Maybe second. Ha. As I stayed snuggled in bed with a particularly warm, snuggly Eddy, I allowed my brain to sift and process Things. My dreams primed me for some productive thinking - full of thought provoking encounters with Ghosts of Therapists Past. I have an interesting collection, and they do not usually appear in  same dream together, so assumed they were trying to tell me something. (something less boring than the instructions from current therapist people along lines of Rest and Nap and Don't Drink) I had a think about why I am well, depressed at the moment. Obviously I'm not a stranger to various degrees of nutbaggery, but they have usually been more of the ansty jittery anxiety type. I think that any bouts of the doldrums have usually been accompanied by erm, energetic weight loss attempts which really do require a certain amount of effort and in some strange way, enthusiasm.

I think I know why. I finally grew up and took responsibility for myself, which is wayyyyyyyyy less exciting than expecting someone to step in and take over and fix things. I gave up the childish kernal of hope that the mother I appear to think that I missed out on would appear and make everything that has ever happened mean something different. I realised that no matter how much I try to understand things and piece things together and make peace with things, every aspect of my past will still be the same, and there are certainly parts of me shaped by that past that are just ME. Understanding more about edoesn't make it different.

I don't need to get over anything, I need to get ON with everything. Work with what I have. Which, looking in the mirror, is frankly disappointing. With the abandonment of hope comes the grainy realisation that I really am not that much. I would much prefer to return to my previous Illusions of Grandeuer. (where hasthe spellcheck button gone? Can no longer spell)

It is probably assumed that when most people blog, they aren't drunk, so it seems to be a bit idiotic that I feel the need to point out that I am not drinking! And didn't last night. I'm quite chuffed with self when I don't- I really try to NOT every day lately, due t the fact that I became fat. It is conceivable that this weight gain could have contributed tothis dpression, now that I don't have the seduction of ed stuff luring me with any conviction. The voice of reason is too clear,now. Meh.

It is 8pm and I am in bed. Obviously not sleeping, but if I wasn't feeling an internal tug I would at least have the lamp off and be moping myself to sleep. Today has been long and busy and full of things I didn't particularly like. People at work were shitheads. I had a meeting with my OT where I got to be reminded that although I am improving, I am head injured and not my old self. The meetings always make me want to cry. I kept going out to my car in the afternoon for a swig of wine, which seemed totally normal when I did it, but appears entirely fucked up as I type it now! Then, this evening, I had to bury one of the sweet, sweet stable cats who had an accident recently. She let me nurse her for a week, but then disappeared mid last week. Her body was found today. I have been sad about her anyway, so finding her wasn't worse. I was glad to bury her. I made her a little cross.

I used to find it way to easy to write endlessly about my moods and emotions. The more gritty and cathartic the better- one could use more adjectives and one likes adjectives. Now, really, I am just embarrassed. I feel way more inclined to keep things a secret now. Partly I do think that I am always scared that if someone realises that I am not perfect, then they will think that I am not a good mother - although really, I don't care what 'people' think... so perhaps I am worried to think to myself that I am not a good mother. I am always so very mindful of my memories of my mothers moods as a child - her sadness seems to pervade so many of my memories and seems to sit right there beside my anxiety. I'm quite fanatical about ensuring that Tom does not have a childhood like that! I want to teach him how to experience negative emotions and thoughts too of course - but at the moment, it seems way more appropriate to sing and pull funny faces to make him laugh - his laughter is good for both of us. Plus, who knows, my awesome songs about big yellow diggers and chainsaws and train tunnels may make us our fortune if a talent scout hears them! Despite that, though, 'this' takes me inside myself and away from really connecting with him. I sit too often with a sense that when he grows up and gets to know me, he may not love me the way that biology has ensured he does now. He really is so, so cute and precious. I am smiling just thinking of him. Two years old now!! Two! How does that happen, seriously.

I think, really, that lying to everyone about how much I drink is what has hidden me away in my head.

Memory is something that you take for granted until you don't have it. Like most things you take for granted, I suppose. What  dumb thing to say. I mean, my life and its details have always been available for my recall in vivid colour until very recently. Pregnancy and childbirth gave all my cognitive abilities a whack... I guess advancing age is a factor... the hammer blow, almost literally, was my head injury. So much of my life doesn't seem to exist anymore, my identity feels very uncertain.

Writing this past paragraph has been depressing. I keep deleting, rewriting, pausing. Writing to me has always been like breathing...although perhaps I could write, perhaps I am censoring things far more than I used to, because a sense of "SO WHAT" hangs over most of my thoughts about myself, my experience of things. I don't really know when this happened - I know that when I went to see Amanda6 months ago I honestly spoke about my mindfulness, my fullness of life. It felt honest, anyway. Since I whacked my head I can se in hindsight that I have been slowly going downhill - but then the SO WHAT kicks in. I don't seem to embrace mindfulness when it comes to less than positive things. The more I realise that it is just ME here in my headspace (that doesn't make sense???!) the less tolerant I am of the flaws/dysfuctions and warts that once interested me. I am embarrassed by them. I can't rebutt the negative cloud that seems to be growing with positivity because it seems ridiculous - it feels like maybe I used to get th energy from what I thought other people were giving me, but I have realised it was just me all along. ACKKKKKKKKKKK I am making no sense I know. I have no idea if it will even make sense to me should I come back and read this later. I make no sense.

I feel very empty. All my energy goes into making sure I keep experiencing and exploring around me like I never have. Being a mum and justbreathing the adorationfor my little boy...this doesn't sound empty I know... I'm a riddle to myself.

This has taken so long to write. I am broken.

Today I saw my therapist, it has been 4 or 5 months. I saw her a few times last year. It is nice to have so may constant, concrete things. ( I can't believe YOU are still here.) I went to see her because she had said to me, and to my occupational therapist, that she would like to see me at least twice before she goes away on maternity leave at the end of May. Off I trotted.

Yes, my occupational therapist. A rather nice, softly spoken, gentle person who encourages me to take naps and not push myself. 6 months after the worlds stupidest head injury, I float between doing as she suggests, and getting entirely bored of being unwell, and doing the opposite. I have an arsenal of people on my case - from my case manager, my neurologist, my neuropsychologist... aughhh the effing neuropsychologist what a bloody maggot she was. I had to go for this assessment for memory, attention, blah blah, and it kicked off with a clinical interview. Being a naive idiot, I answered her questions relatively honestly. I hadn't really counted on her writing a goddamn fucking report on me detailing said interview! Needless to say, it was not the most attractive portraitthat I have had painted. My history of 'numerous psychological issues including anorexia and an anxiety disorder, my use of recreational drugs made me appear like a junkie, and thank the lord I lied about how much alcohol I drink, because as it was, she suggested that a referral to CADS may be appropriate! (Community alcohol and drug services). Sigh. Fucking woman. That bloody American, she has been named in this portion of my life!!!

Amanda asked me if I was writing. I explained that the pen is dry of ink. She found this concerning, which I found interesting and thought provoking; she said that writing to express and analyse and explore has always been something that she associates with who I am. She asked me to try to write - to find where my blocks are and get my brain into gear. she has a good point, it feels painfully slow to get this out, a far cry from my keyboard being a piano and my fingers whirring out a symphony of wordie words.

I liked h's new project of writing with a purpose. I need a purpose. I have been waiting for the thoughts to come out into the words but perhaps, working the other way will be the answer.

Ideas of purpose????

xxxx