I intend to be in bed by ten. I got home, cracked open a beer, took three sips, felt dizzy and put it down. Right there, that’s my liver telling me enough is enough. Plus I’m just exhausted.
I’ve been beating myself up a bit recently. They say astrologically that six months after your birthday is the worst bit of the year. It certainly feels like I can agree with that. I’ve got all the parent death memories indelibly wound into early spring and Easter, so the world is full of triggers. Plus I’m brilliantly horribly annoyingly wonderfully busy doing gainful things that are not acting. I have had to write a plan for the last two days before I go to bed, hour by hour, and then try to stick to it, and today was successful in that all the things on the list got done in order. But I was wobbly when I got home. Wobbly from not stopping. I’m treating myself to an early bed, shitloads of water to drink and a hot water bottle. But despite the fact I’m trying to relax I keep making work for myself. I’ve just gone down to the van in my dressing gown to make sure it’s properly locked because its full of somebody else’s stuff tonight and I got worried. It was locked. I didn’t need to check.
I took the entire contents of the van up the stairs to my flat this morning, box by heavy box before breakfast. I’m very aware that the boxes are where I left them, unsorted as I had to go off and do ten other things instead.
But I did the things. Just as many things to do tomorrow though, plus finishing the doggerell. But I’m on it. It can all work. And to make bloody certain it does, I’m taking an extreme step. I’m taking booze out of the equation. There’s too much to do. I woke up this morning from nothing to full consciousness, almost as if I’d been dead. I didn’t know who I was for a moment, or where. An unknown voice was talking outside my third floor window about how bad the bricks are. What need alarm clocks when you can have builders? Disorienting though. I don’t need to be shocked into wakefulness, I don’t need to stagger swearing into the world, and stink so much after lifting boxes that I have to wash myself and change all my clothes before going out. I’ve got lots of shit to do, and the end goal is clear. Headspace and more money. Cutting away the unhelpful chains of the past.
Brian reminded me of what a stubborn bastard I can be. He gave me some much needed perspective on myself. He lives with me every day, and knows better than anyone how much I can put away when I’m dedicated to it. That’s not a nice glass of wine with lunch quantity. That’s “Who the fuck let that guy in here?” quantity.
There’s a lot to do. Lent is almost over. Perfect time for a contrarian to start a lentish type thing… And desire for a nice glass of wine will likely motivate me to crack on with the sorting. And now I’ve written it here…