I haven’t posted in this slot at all this year. There has been nothing to post about. This series is supposed to be about recovery from a long period of subclinical depression, together with tackling the physical issues that developed over that time. The last three or so months were as if everything in my life has been conspiring to set me back, in every possible way. It largely succeeded. The effort to reverse the trend right now feels like having to dig myself out of my own grave.
Things had been going downhill for a while. The mister’s four-and-a-half years of temp work came to an end in the summer, when he was offered a permanent position he was very happy to accept. Immediately, everything about the place seemed to start going wrong. First our car died, then things started breaking down about the house at an alarming rate. We have a leaking overflow, another leak from the bathroom that could potentially need the entire suite replaced (we shower standing in a washtub and tip the water down the toilet once done), the boiler is playing up and it’s anyone’s guess if we will have heating on any given day. Our plumber never returned my calls, and getting hold of another was an almost desperate venture. We have had to replace the tumble dryer, then the microwave. Every load of laundry I put in could be the washing machine’s last. Just the other day the bank informed us that, since our finances had stabilised, they would begin getting back the two mortgage payments we are in arrears for… by charging us an extra £300 a month. We had just managed to secure a new car (new, in this context, meaning ancient but road-worthy) and were beginning to budget for a trip to Athens, which will have to be put off yet again, till goodness knows when. I haven’t seen my mother, or any of my family and friends back home, since New Year’s 2011, and I won’t be seeing them until we stop bleeding money for emergencies with lousy timing. I miss the place and the people so badly I can almost taste it.
Naturally, I haven’t been in a good place at all over those months, even before the physical issues started. I’ve been convinced, for a long time now, that my lot in life will always involve suffering disproportionate amounts of physical pain for trivial reasons. The first month of 2015 served me three rounds of tummy bugs (in as many weeks) and a cold. The second month saw a resurgence of the cold, with a tickly cough that wouldn’t quit tacked on, a dodgy knee (the beginnings of osteoarthritis; don’t congratulate me on being officially middle-aged) and shin splints on the other leg, which took exception to having to compensate for the bad one. All in all, a combination that made my daily 4-mile school run a matter of torture, and shot any chances I had to return to a regular yoga practice.
It hasn’t been all bad – after all, we do have wheels, so I don’t have to do all the grocery runs on foot (even though I did have to do them when it was still bitterly cold), and the mister and I decided, at the beginning of February, to go on the 5-2 diet, which seems to be suiting us both; I have lost 3 kilos in 4 weeks, even with my limited mobility, and I can look forward to a few more months of good progress, at the very least.
I don’t know if my spirits will lift any with spring creeping closer; I’m a cold weather person by nature, and I’m not looking forward to a spate of allergies to add to the rest of the objective physical issues I’ve been having. But all I can do is look forward and try my best, because it beats the alternative.