At 10am my first chore of the day, the construction of the remaining two Hygena kitchen table chairs, was completed earlier than anticipated, affording me extra time for Saturday’s scribble. The other pair assembled during a quieter period a fortnight ago.
It’s fair to say, I’m spinning a few existential plates at the moment. In fact, if yours truly’d the free time, I’d reckon I could pursue a career as a magician. My hectic recent weeks (since my mother suffered a stroke) highlighting to me, when inundated with tasks, I possess the wherewithal to disappear up my own arse.
I hate writing under conditions where I’ve to steal a half hour here and there to unleash the creative want within me. Literature and art both providing me with a positive release from the strains of being a full-time carer. Each pastime providing brief respite from the more unpalatable life elements hanging, millstone-like, around my neck.
However, as it stands, my prevailing days rarely afford suitably long continuous hours in which to pen, or doodle. So it’s either chronicling in segments or not at all. Selecting the latter not an option as it’d increases the jeopardy of my recurring depressive lows.
I feel physically drained today, and I really can’t be bothered to write this, but if I give up it’ll be detrimental to my mental health.
One thing this short time as a carer has taught me is that I hope I ‘go’ before getting too old, or a point were I’m a burden…. There’s no way I want to go through this undignified life event. I’ll be mortified if my kids existences, or indeed anyone’s, were impacted by my plunge into dementia or physical disability.
They’ve their own life to live. Like everyone, their existences will be a brew of good and bad episodes; the latter instilling in them a strength born from that adversity. Regardless of Jonny’s and Rach’s, or my partner’s, juncture on the ageing process, I don’t want looking after me to be one of their more challenging existential episodes.
Without wishing to sound overly melodramatic, I’d rather be ‘written out’ at the end of season four…… After all, regardless how good the first four seasons of any ‘boxset’ play out, season fives are always a massive let down.
I dipped out of this blog prior to penning the previous two paragraphs; returning after a takeout pizza tea, washing up and watching a Leeds Rhinos rugby victory against local rival Wakefield Trinity. The Leeds win raising my spirits temporarily, until they diminished upon realisation my slippers were on the wrong feet….. With hardships like that, is there anyone wonder I get so disenchanted at my lot; not to mention, fall over frequently.
It’s now gone 7pm on Saturday 27th March. I’m sat with a soundscape of classic soul songs which enhance my contentment levels…… Well, apart from the ones which sing of tougher times, such as relationship failures, fungal toenail complaints and waking up to find all your undies are in the wash basket.
Please, though, don’t worry about my state of mind. Honestly, I’m fine; there’s large swaths of fiction included within my more depressive observations above….. Oh, you weren’t worrying! 😉
