Less peak, more trough: when the black dog comes and bites you on the arse

I wish I could pinpoint when the black dog is coming to sit on my lap. To walk beside me every step of my day. To lie on my bed and infiltrate my dreams.

Has it been the boys’ relentless badgering to get a dog and my equally adamant denial of that request that has made him return?

Or the bizarre three kilo weight loss last week which returned literally overnight?

Or the haemorrhage of money that is start of the school year (even though I have managed it! somehow).

Is it my ongoing nagging worry about Mum and her health (she is back to walking with a stick as now her left knee has totally given way).

Perhaps residual anxiety and grief about the Christmas incident as the new reality that it birthed has to be nursed. By me.

It seems ridiculous but the weather, I am sure, is a part of it. That Sydney in February is relentlessly hot AND humid to a point I feel I cannot breath let alone function must play some part to my mental health.

Am I at a point in my fitness and health regime where the mental ghoules are as scary as the physical ones reflected in my bedroom mirrors?

I will not give up. I will not.


Years ago, in the Glamorouse days (which reminds me, I transferred posts over here and MUST edit them so as not to compromise B), I used to whinge and wail about how I hated the weekends. How long and hard they were as a single parent and I am there again. I view the approach of the weekend like an animal views the approach of a human – with a level of fear, trepidation and a nanosecond to decide whether to fight or flee.

Yesterday I got through the cricket/bowling relay match to get home and be struck down with a migraine. And by struck I mean I went to lie down and hours passed in a haze of children screaming, children at my beside requesting foodstuffs or informing me of some slight committed against them by a sibling or that the internet was down. I could not focus my eyes and weird white lines of moving static strobe across them. A first.

Last night saw me have a fitful sleep of a dream in which I battled to kill the devil at the behest of a couple (played by Hugh Jackman and Winona Ryder) who had just bought this exquisite derelict mansion which was inconveniently haunted/occupied by Satan (who, why, I must ask, is always a dragon come alien come dinosaur looking creature?) and while I winced as each stunning architectural feature was destroyed I was pretty happy to be working alongside Hugh and increasingly cranky at Winona who, just as we slayed the Devil, sucked in its final smoke thereby giving it life once more. What an idiot.

Then followed a cavalcade of stars and whether they had been privy to this heinous plan which, naturally, was linked to their sexual conquests. It turns out John Travolta is incredibly adept at dodging bullets of religion and infidelity, considering there was a whole side-story where Winona and Hugh’s babysitter had confided in me her torrid love affair with John, their neighbour. I told her she had to end it and she looked at me incredulously and then pointed to John  and said, ‘would you end it?’. I let that one go to the keeper seeing as my whole aim had been to woo Hugh with my ability to kill the devil which was now severely in jeopardy as to do so would involve killing his wife. Problematic.

Meanwhile there was some sort of 30Rock substory which stars ranging from Beyonce to Pink through Nicole Kidman and Leonardo Di Caprio confessing their sex sins while dancing to some sort of pole dancing shake-ya-bootie soundtrack.

Needless to say today I am wobbly and exhausted.


But what I did not expect was the underlying sense of panic.

The fear of getting through the day ahead.

The vice like grip around my heart, that it is struggling to keep beating as much as my lungs are struggling to fill with air.

The return of being nervy about current events and them upsetting more than they should.

The intensity of just notwantingtodothisanymore








I have been caught off guard by being totally over the school routine already, even though I have everything in hand and it is all ticking along beautifully.

I have been trying to ignore the welling up of the Groundhog Day feeling.

I am growing increasingly resentful for the way everything is even though there is nothing particularly bad or noxious or untenable with  the way everything is.

But the diarrhoea is back.

As is the poor quality sleep (the first sign and has been that way for more than a month).

And the sense of dread about nothing in particular.

And all of it, quite frankly, scares the crap out of me. (literally as the return of the trots clearly indicate)