Oh yes, the electricity is now working. Washing machine is doing its thing, chicken soup bubbling away, should be ready for lunch, coffee pot percolating away and I should be writing my book proposal for all those publishers queueing up for first look at the manuscript.
However, I am not doing that, I am doing anything other than that...that'll be Isabelle Procrastination Nutts sat on the sofa looking at Facebook, checking her email account, reading the news on the Independent on line then? Yup... all great intentions float out of the window.
I have got to a really tricky part of the proposal, the marketing of my book... who will buy it... how to market it, what makes it different from all other similar books, who is the competition etc etc... Oh I don't know, and I really don't care.
Everyone will buy the book because it is brilliant.
Everyone who reads my blog will buy it, everyone who reads my blog will buy one for their best friend for Christmas.
What makes it different from all other books? It is a work of genius, I wrote it.
Competition? I don't know...show me where they are, I will kill them, and burn their books.
And, that is the problem.... for every one step forward, I seem to take twenty six back... the 'I can't be arsed' of depression, the 'I'm going to die' of anxiety, the 'oh my god, there are maggots climbing the walls' of psychosis, the gut wrenching grief of not knowing my children.... it is exhausting, I am exhausted of all of it. The 'severe and enduring mental illness', it has the better of me today. It crept up behind me and grabbed me at lunchtime. I want to crawl away, somewhere dark, and just not be anymore, just to stop all of this, and not be, just not be please.
The magnitude of what is wrong, is greater than the hope I have, that it will ever be better. Not just that I will be better, but that EVERYTHNG will be better... and I am exhausted by the lack of hope, the inability to differ between real mice which inhabit my flat and the ones which in their multitudes climb my bookshelves, crawl across the floor in groups, climb over and through the traps I put to catch them, the psychotic mice. Being in a state where I can no longer differentiate between reality and psychosis is very frightening.
About ten years ago, my psychiatrist has admitted, I would have been admitted into psychiatric hospital, and I would probably still be there now.... on days like today I think it would have been a better idea than this.