Today I’m not OK.
I didn’t realise how not OK I am until I massively and completely overreacted to realising I’d messed up the diary, and an event I had in mind as next week turned out to have been and gone this Wednesday.
I dissolved, comprehensively and messily, and even now, some several hours later, I’m fighting back tears sitting in a noisy swim club cafe, as I try to put my feelings into words.
Blogging is how I work things out. It’s how I worked through my self diagnosis and then actual autism diagnosis. Recently I’ve been finding more community of the type I used to have here over on Instagram, and my posts there are often mini sagas. Little stories of my life, to borrow a hashtag.
So I’ve been neglecting the blog even though I’ve a stack of nearly finished posts in draft and more owed.
I’m sorry.
Feels like I’m always sorry. Never quite enough. (And this isn’t the time to tell me I don’t have the right perspective on myself, or that of course I’m enough. Sometimes, with the best will in the world, we’re not.)
And this might be the bit of the post you expect I’m going to get all inspirational, and tell you that being not OK is OK, but actually, it isn’t. It’s no fun at all. It’s boring, and dreary and depression is actually depressing, and grey skies drag you down and so do endless baskets of washing that have to dry on radiators, and too much stuff all round the house, and planning meals that never satisfy everyone and and and.
Yeah.
That’s how it is.
And in my experience it *will* get better, but I don’t know when, and I don’t know how, and until then, I’m just going through the motions.
(Points to the person at the back who gets that reference.)
Hohum.
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