I’ve lost my mojo a bit this week.
I’m not sure why, or how for that matter, but there’s a definite flatness to my being at the moment. So much so that Carole rings me at lunch time to check I’m ok.
I’m putting it down to a combination of things, and explaining it away that way. That seems to be the most sensible approach – take some things that are happening / have happened and blame them fully for my current funk.
The biggest, I think, is that this week is a break from my mum. She’s returned to the scene of her stroke for a couple of days with my aunt and the rest of the Whitby witches, so I don’t have to take any responsibility for anything. And that’s been a long time coming, especially with her release from hospital and all the kerfuffle with her tablets not arriving, then being the wrong dose. Throw into that a variety of tantrums about not being able to do things and it’s been nearly two months of absolutely knackering stress. Culminating in my uncle phoning my mum to see how she was and then dismissing the fact that she had two strokes because all her limbs work.
Then there’s the fact that I think I’m still trying to make up for Saturday night’s lack of sleep.
I think that, combined with the general exhaustion of the mum thing, has just destroyed me. It’s left me, at the moment, where my default state is one that cannot be arsed. Where I go to bed early because I’m tired, sleep until 5ish when I am then wide awake and fall back to sleep just after Carole leaves for work, waking again after 10.
I know I’ll snap out of it. I will, I’m just convinced I need a bloody good rest. Mentally more than physically, maybe.
I’ll be fine, though. Just give me five more minutes…