I just walked to the end of the street on my own.
It’s not far, but it’s a start. Can you say “heart in mouth”? I’m shaking, but I didn’t panic. I tried to ring Ginger while I was out, but he didn’t answer, so I wrote him a text message instead. I need some praise, dammit!!!
I think texting while walking helped – it took my mind off Being Outside.
Bugger! I feel weird…
Well, that wasn’t so bad.
The thing he pressed on the most, is that avoidance is reinforcing the fear. I have to face my fears for this agoraphobia to go away. So, that means just getting off my arse and going outside. I am going to make a plan. However, for it to work, I have to stress that I thrive on praise and positive reinforcement. Yes, I know I am doing it for me but having been in a place where apathy sets in, I know how much it helps when Ginger says, “you did really well today”
I’ll detail my plan later today on here.
I’m meeting my CPN here at home for the first time this afternoon. He’s due here at two.
I’ve met him once before, at the doctor’s surgery. We had a long chat about my anxiety and panic, and his aim is to get me to face my fears.
Well, him being in my house is facing one fear. By choice, I opted for an appointment with him here, because I need to get used to people being in my house. I need to feel comfortable with that. So, here I am, at one thirty, with chest pains and palps, and I can’t sit still. I think I am going to wear out my hoover. I have cleaned the upstairs and downstairs bathrooms, the kitchen, and the hall. The lounge was okay, but I have hoovered for England.
The fun part is, he doesn’t like cats. I have let the cats upstairs, where they are happily sleeping on my bed (except Minnie is on top of the wardrobe with her feet in the air) They’ll not bother coming downstairs, especially if there’s a stranger. I’m not sure how to take people who don’t like cats. It’s almost like they don’t like something about me – as my cats are such a big part of my life.
I’ll keep you posted…
When you’re dealing with my local council, that’s when.
The old bed from our spare room has been gathering dust in the garage until I could be bothered to call the council and ask them to take it away.
I made that call this morning. The woman on the phone explained about how they can only dispose of “three large items, or six small items, or a combination of both” in any three month period. This sounded okay, then she said,
“The base of the bed counts as one large item, and the mattress counts as one large item.”
So, my bed has become officially two large items. She asked if it was a double bed, and I replied, “Yes”. It is in fact a king size, so I hope I don’t use up any of my quota. While I think about it, I took the drawers from the divan out to make it easier to haul downstairs. I wonder if they’ll count them separately? I could put them back in, but the council people will just have to take them out again to take it away, otherwise they’ll roll out.
The woman asked me where I’d leave it. I told her on the driveway. I have visions of my anicent bed being on display, complete with its historical muck. I mean, I never peed the bed or anything, but it’s still quite a feeling of exposure.
* * * * *
You may recall I had put the old mattress on our new bed base. Well, it’s worse. So bad, in fact, that Ginger has let me buy a completely new mattress without so much as a blink. I took him to the bed superstore on the pretence of ‘looking at prices, you know, just to see‘ and we ended up buying a new mattress completely. It’s a good one, thick and luxurious, with a pocket sprung interior. And it was half price *beams* We like ‘half price.’
The new mattress will take two weeks to order. I wonder if it’s a good time to test out the sofa-bed?
It’s early Friday morning, and I am sitting here patiently (read: anxiously) waiting for my new sofa-bed. I am happy with the state of the spare room, even though there is still some stuff around. The big bed is now in the garage, which is the main thing.
By Wednesday evening, I had put a load of stuff in the loft, and I’d moved the mattress off our bed into the garage, and the mattress off the bed in the spare room onto our bed again.
The mattress that was on our bed is five feet wide, and six feet six inches long. It must weigh at least a ton, and has the awkwardness and cumbersome-ness of a corpse (not that I’d know, just watch a lot of “Forensic Detectives” on Discovery) I maneuvered this thing over a bed frame, out onto a tiny landing, down the stairs, out of the front door, along the path and into the garage.
The people that make mattresses put helpful ‘handles’ on the long sides of the mattress, to aid moving. How helpful. Not. If they’d had the presence of mind to put them on the short sides, that would have helped. Instead, I had to grip the edges and pray.
I have decided that talking to mattresses does not help. Neither does cursing, in hindsight, although it felt good at the time. I ended up hating the people that built my house, for putting a ledge on the threshold of my front door, and hating my nice neighbour for not being out and about to help me.
However, all that being said, the mattress is now in the garage, drunkenly snoozing against the wall, and I am happy. I achieved that. I did it. No-one else; and it feels good.
After that, the base of the bed was easy. It was made in two halves, and is a simple pine frame covered in springs and fabric. The fabric is a kind of sateen, and glided down the stairs like Michelle Kwan.
The room looks strange without much in it. I’m left with a sense of abandonment – of being lost, somehow.
Maybe it’s how all the stuff feels. I’ll never find any of it again…
it was a bad idea to use having a sofabed delivered as a reason to make me clean out the spare bedroom.
As I look at the mountain of crap that we have just “shoved in the back bedroom” over the last couple of years, I could cry. I have to clean it out. My Aunt is coming to visit in a couple of weeks, (not sure when) and she needs a place to sleep. I don’t want her to have to sleep on the sofas downstairs, covered in cats. (Although in hindsight, she might like that)
The spare bedroom has slowly morphed into a storage room. Somewhere underneath it all there is a bed, which is a 5′ divan. I suppose if I take that out of the equation, it’s not so bad. However, there is a lot of stuff that I just don’t know what to do with. The obvious answer is shove it in the loft until I can decide.
Yesterday, I spent a couple of hours in the loft, putting new floorboards down, and moving stuff. Yesterday, it was 90° and beautifully sunny, so our loft space was like a sauna. Literally, what with the smell of new chipboard flooring panels. I almost looked for a ladle to sprinkle water over some hot coals…
So, with plenty of breaks in between to check on the state of the housemates in Big Brother, and to whinge to my friends on our private online forum, I managed to move a substantial amount of stuff up there. Given that I only have a basic ladder to get up there, and it’s quite awkward, thankyou, I think I did pretty well. As I decided to stop for the evening, I surveyed the room.
It is still covered in STUFF. Okay, I can see the carpet now, and I know where that quilt cover went, but that’s not the point. I want to see results, dammit!
The sofabed is being delivered on Friday.
I need more guarana. And ginseng. And coffee.
I can’t believe how fast my underarm hair grows. I was blessed with fairly sparse hair in “those areas” and I can let my leg hair grow for weeks and it doesn’t show. However, my underarms are driving me nuts primarily because I either wax or epilate the hairs there.
/pauses for shrieks to die down.
Yes, epilate. I know you’re not supposed to, but if you do it right, and are careful, it really works. I have been doing this for a few years now, and I really don’t think it hurts any more than waxing. Mind it really fucking hurt this morning, simply because of the freaky shoulder spasm thing. My painkillers have helped a hell of a lot, but are making me feel a bit er, reckless.
So, as I reached for the deoderant this morning, I thought, “hmm, de-fuzz required”. The painkillers and muscle relaxants had kicked in, and I felt quite mellow, in an “I can do anything” kind of way. It seemed to go okay – I did my left underarm first, then moved over to the right one. Not too bad – having my arm hoisted high in the air, concentrating on the plucking. The pain started when I tried to move my arm back down to its normal position. Oh. My. God!!!! OWWWWWW!!!! I now feel like I’ve been stabbed in the armpit. Bugger, that hurts.
At least I am hair free for another couple of weeks…
So, week three of “Ginger-Absence” begins.
This whole situation is really getting us both down. Ginger hates the job, and I of course, am feeling lonely and bored.
At the end of the day, it is work, and we are grinning and bearing it while he looks for something better.
In other news, my right shoulder has gone into spasm, and I am in absolute and total agony. I am, however, stoned on painkillers and do not give a shit. I also have these groovy muscle relaxant tablets, which help. It does this every now and again. It’s either my right shoulder, my neck, or both. Imagine getting a charley horse that lasts for several days. Well, that’s what this feels like.
The meds make me feel all druggy and wired, and the pain on it’s own is horrible. The most annoying thing is that I can hardly move, so all the things I’d planned to do to keep myself occupied while Ginger was away have been put on one side in favour of watching Biography Channel and Big Brother’s interactive feed.
Oh, and who made my head weigh forty six tonnes in the night???