Do you ever get the feeling that you are being tested? That there's no possible way you could have gone through the hell of the last few years purely 'because'? That there simply must be a purpose to all this?
Just before Christmas, I genuinely believed that I might be having a breakdown. Not one of those dramatic, tragic breakdown's that involve families, interventions and overpaid specialists. Rather a quiet, measured and comfortingly straightforward breakdown. Uncomplicated.
I was tired. I was stressed. I was very very very not happy.
Mostly I think I just needed a break, but being as wrapped up in the day-to-day as I was, this simple solution to my troubles was mighty tough to see. I just had a bit too much on my plate and for some reason, my usual 'work best under pressure' attitude just didn't quite kick in.
So, come January, I had hoped for some respite. I looked forward to living a simple life, filled only with nice things and nice people and easy days reading the paper, drinking gluten-free beer. Wowzers, how naive Annette was. Of course I wouldn't have an easy start to the year. Of course I wouldn't be able to just, y'know, live. No no. Of course, my days would once again be rife with trouble and strife:
I have to move house. Again.
My landlords have decided to sell our beautiful slum, what with these being troublesome financial times n'all and clearly the best time to be hocking such small fry as 4 bedroomed London-based houses. For not one bean less than the asking price. Got the smarts, them. Now, one housemate is sans work and has very sensibly decided to go home and reap the monetary benefits. The other housemate is currently in Peru or similar, and shan't be coming back to the house of much-rent. The temps are off on their own respective jollies and I have decided to move back to North London where I belong. Hoorah! Except, now I have to go through the whole freakin' rigmarole of finding, securing and paying for another pad. Sheesh.
Work is confusing. Again.
I have (finally) been offered the opportunity to apply to do something my heart literally aches to do: write and create for a living. But suddenly I find myself in a position (albeit through my own actions) where I risk jeapordising where I currently stand. Not only that, but I am forced to acknowledge that factors other than my suitability and aptitude for the potential new job may indeed be the driving force behind the decision to hire/fire. Not for a second would I presume that I am just soooo super and talented that the only possible reason for my not getting the job would be because of nonsense politics (lordy no), I just mean that perhaps for the first time in my life I am aware of the ruthless machinations of... well, The Machine.
I am confused. Still.
I started seeing the boy again six months ago. Which made me happy. But confused. But happy. But wary. But happy. But scared. How do you embark on a romance with the person who broke your heart with a clean slate in hand? How do you not carry all that hurt along with you? How long do you stick around for, hoping that things will change when you are pretty sure that they just won't? Don't get me wrong, things are far from terrible. In fact, they're better than they've ever been but.... He broke my heart. I'm not sure it is fixed.
I feel sick.
After many a fat-riddled and pain-addled year, I have made the brave (ahem) choice to start taking medication for PCOS. What with my mother being a bit of a hippy, I have long avoided committing to long-term treatment, choosing instead lovely (gag) holistic therapies and eating sensibly. If 'sensibly' actually means 'whatever the dickens I want, damn the consequences'. Yet, over the past year, my symptoms have worsened an awful lot and I just cannot deal with being broken anymore. But these goshdarnit pills make me want to vomit all the livelong day. Every morsel I put in my mouth wants to make its way swiftly back out again. It hurts my tummy.
I miss steak.
Writing this down makes it sound a tad trivial. Very trivial in fact.
Things are actually ok.
Some perspective Annette....
Oops.
Just before Christmas, I genuinely believed that I might be having a breakdown. Not one of those dramatic, tragic breakdown's that involve families, interventions and overpaid specialists. Rather a quiet, measured and comfortingly straightforward breakdown. Uncomplicated.
I was tired. I was stressed. I was very very very not happy.
Mostly I think I just needed a break, but being as wrapped up in the day-to-day as I was, this simple solution to my troubles was mighty tough to see. I just had a bit too much on my plate and for some reason, my usual 'work best under pressure' attitude just didn't quite kick in.
So, come January, I had hoped for some respite. I looked forward to living a simple life, filled only with nice things and nice people and easy days reading the paper, drinking gluten-free beer. Wowzers, how naive Annette was. Of course I wouldn't have an easy start to the year. Of course I wouldn't be able to just, y'know, live. No no. Of course, my days would once again be rife with trouble and strife:
I have to move house. Again.
My landlords have decided to sell our beautiful slum, what with these being troublesome financial times n'all and clearly the best time to be hocking such small fry as 4 bedroomed London-based houses. For not one bean less than the asking price. Got the smarts, them. Now, one housemate is sans work and has very sensibly decided to go home and reap the monetary benefits. The other housemate is currently in Peru or similar, and shan't be coming back to the house of much-rent. The temps are off on their own respective jollies and I have decided to move back to North London where I belong. Hoorah! Except, now I have to go through the whole freakin' rigmarole of finding, securing and paying for another pad. Sheesh.
Work is confusing. Again.
I have (finally) been offered the opportunity to apply to do something my heart literally aches to do: write and create for a living. But suddenly I find myself in a position (albeit through my own actions) where I risk jeapordising where I currently stand. Not only that, but I am forced to acknowledge that factors other than my suitability and aptitude for the potential new job may indeed be the driving force behind the decision to hire/fire. Not for a second would I presume that I am just soooo super and talented that the only possible reason for my not getting the job would be because of nonsense politics (lordy no), I just mean that perhaps for the first time in my life I am aware of the ruthless machinations of... well, The Machine.
I am confused. Still.
I started seeing the boy again six months ago. Which made me happy. But confused. But happy. But wary. But happy. But scared. How do you embark on a romance with the person who broke your heart with a clean slate in hand? How do you not carry all that hurt along with you? How long do you stick around for, hoping that things will change when you are pretty sure that they just won't? Don't get me wrong, things are far from terrible. In fact, they're better than they've ever been but.... He broke my heart. I'm not sure it is fixed.
I feel sick.
After many a fat-riddled and pain-addled year, I have made the brave (ahem) choice to start taking medication for PCOS. What with my mother being a bit of a hippy, I have long avoided committing to long-term treatment, choosing instead lovely (gag) holistic therapies and eating sensibly. If 'sensibly' actually means 'whatever the dickens I want, damn the consequences'. Yet, over the past year, my symptoms have worsened an awful lot and I just cannot deal with being broken anymore. But these goshdarnit pills make me want to vomit all the livelong day. Every morsel I put in my mouth wants to make its way swiftly back out again. It hurts my tummy.
I miss steak.
Writing this down makes it sound a tad trivial. Very trivial in fact.
Things are actually ok.
Some perspective Annette....
Oops.
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