Losing My Mind?

6.30 am: Have been rudely awoken by a mysterious, repetitive beeping sound. Actually, it’s been going on and off since at least 4am. I put my earphones in and had patchy sleep, but it seemed to reach fever pitch so I got up to look for it, making sure it’s not somebody’s medi-alert. Turns out it belongs to the people who live behind me. I don’t know them, but I have seen them around. They are very old, and have the sort of garden that I shall have when I am that age and can’t be bothered to deal with it. (So rather similar to the garden I have now…) Their garage has broken panes of glass where the windows should be, jagged like rotten teeth. And the beeping was coming from their car, parked cosily inside. I tried half-heartedly knocking on the back door, and once at the front, but really, what’s the point now? It’s pretty much Getting Up Time anyway, and I didn’t want to disturb them. I shall call round later to introduce myself, and then say a gentle word about how crucial it is that I get all the decent sleep I can at the moment.

For, with just nineteen days to go, I am finding breathing increasingly difficult. The stress is manifesting itself in odd ways – affecting my eyesight and my memory. Did I mention it’s affecting my memory? And I’m also finding it hard to remember stuff. I actually get lost mid-sentence, forgetting what it was I’d started out saying. I know that happens to all of us at a certain age – I’m now boasting an extra year on my clock thanks to a birthday last week - but it’s happening a great deal. Odd words disappear from my vocabulary leaving black voids, destined not to be filled. I’ve twice woken up in my own bed unsure of where I am, and the sensation has taken longer than it should have done to clear.

I know that I’m rather an eleventh hour person - I didn’t earn the soubriquet “Last-minute Lizzie” for nothing. Being painfully aware of this, I was trying my best not to make it so for what will be the most important day of my life. However, events have conspired against me: One or two conspiracies I could handle, but there seems to have been a deluge. The venue change (as mentioned in the previous entry) was certainly a curveball, and each declined invitation is stinging a little less now. (Though I wish people had been polite enough to bother RSVP-ing before the July deadline. I know it has been unavoidable for some, but the majority have no excuse. If you take away anything from this blog, always give a prompt (and preferably kind) reply to an invitation for something big, even if you are not able to go!!)

No, what has really skewed me is my parents being unwell. I did mention the “seriously ill” relative before, but was not at liberty to go into detail. I’m not going to go into much now. Dad was diagnosed with bowel cancer on Saturday 2nd July, following an MRI scan to find out why he had the symptoms he had. He’d had them for a while actually, but being who he is, didn’t flag it up. (Take-Home Message No 2 (appropriately): Anything suspicious in the bathroom department, don’t ignore it!!) It was decided to remove the rather large tumour on 2^nd August. The operation was successfully executed, and thus, my father was not. All the cancer is gone – no further treatment is needed. However, he now has a stoma, and the resulting bags have been causing him distress. This is exacerbated by the mild to middling Alzheimer’s that he’s had for a few years. During his seven-day hospital stay, he was so agitated that it was decided not to leave him alone for a minute. My amazing sisters and mum took it in turns to sit with him 24 hours a day. My aunties and brother also stepped in. We arrived on the last night, and managed to avoid the duty. 

If I am honest, I have not had the greatest relationship with my dad throughout my life, and though I have been worried about him, I’ve been much more concerned about my sisters’ health, and that of my mother. Along with other ailments, she has disc degeneration in her back, that causes excruciating pain. The NHS allow two steroid injections (one per year) to deal with this. Mamma had her second in June, and it wore off during dad’s hospital stay, leaving her balled up in anger and agony. She’s always been a very active person, always doing something and enjoying the freedom of mobility. Suddenly, she’s trapped, and my sisters have to spread themselves even more thinly, caring for both parents individually. All live in the same house in Kent, about 200 miles from here. We were over for a week recently – something that we do anyway every year, rebooking a favourite Air Bnb, and having a small summer break by the seaside while seeing faaaamily. This time, it was half holiday, half being there for whichever members needed it. The full horror of everyone’s predicament was revealed one evening, where neither parent could be left unattended for any amount of time. I sat with Mamma, rubbing her back and trying to cheer her up. I want to help more, but I can’t do much until after the wedding and honeymoon.

As if I needed further mental derailment, the poor things each have to have operations within the next nineteen days: Mamma is having that pesky pain-causing nerve removed; Dad is having his ureter stents whipped out. Her op is this week; his is bloody two days before the wedding.

I must make it clear that Dad wasn’t coming to our ceremony anyway. He’d always said that, should any of his daughters get married, he would not want to do all the traditional father-of-the-bride stuff, especially not making a speech. Now, his deteriorating brain is bringing out the traits in his behaviour that originally led me to flee to the West of England, some thirty years ago. When informed of our impending nuptials, he made the unsupportive comment that I would have expected of the Dad of my teenage self, and said similar each time he was reminded. On Christmas Day last year, we were standing alone in his front room and I was talking passionately to him about Jonny. That conversation is still fresh in my mind:    

“He's a good bloke,” said dad.

“That’s why I’m marrying him,” I replied. His face fell.

“Oh you’re not, are you?”  

I nodded and watched the look of fear creep over him. With tear-filled eyes he asked:

“You don’t expect me to…”

“No dad, it’s OK. You don’t have to be there.”

A big, emotional hug ensued. His relief was palpable.

So we already knew that five out of the six members of my nuclear family would be in attendance on the day. But given the current situation, it may be reduced to at least four as post-operative father cannot be left. It’s not just that the care offered in Thanet is not quite the care he needs, but also that his character, magnified by the Alzheimer’s, makes it unfeasible for any strangers to enter His House, nor for him to stay anywhere else. Along with caring for both parents while trying to rebuild career/keep career going, now my sisters are saddled with trying to sort this out. The timing couldn’t be rottener. The younger twin, S, is going to be my bridesmaid, though she prefers the term “Bride’s Mate”! Last week she tearfully told me of the surprises that she had been trying to arrange for our day that are now impossible to complete, due to work stress and all the above. It was sweet that she was even going to try. Mamma is similarly frustrated re the dress. Having made wedding dresses for several clients over the years (and having been bloody amazing at it), it had been her wish to make those of her daughters. I’m the first of us to need her services… only it looks like the shop is closed.

That’s not to say she isn’t still part of the whole dress situation. We sat together in her room and went through the few patterns I have, to come up with a simple design that I should be able to stitch myself. To spend that time with my mum on something so important in my life was lovely, and I too am devastated that this isn’t the way we wanted it to be. Last week, I journeyed to a fab fabric shop in Cheltenham, and face-timed her once more, not caring that we were broadcasting our deliberations to all the other customers. I now have what I need to knock up a simple frock, and it’s one of my three Big Jobs to complete this week. The other two being the first tier of the cake, and the first draft of the script. It’s stuff I do for a profession, and I wanted to do it for myself.

UPDATE at 8.30am: Beeping still going. Beep beep beep beep beep beep like needles burrowing into my head. I noticed signs of life at the house so I went over to them with my cards. The door was eventually answered by an elderly lady with cereal around her chops, bless her. I felt very mean for disturbing them, and worse when she didn’t appear to understand me when I told her of the problem. I expect they no longer use their car. I wonder if it’s something to do with the car battery flattening? It turns out that she is 91, her hubby 94, and they both have Covid at the moment. Luckily, I didn’t approach with aggression, though I am ready to break in to the garage and stop the alarm myself with some sort of heavy implement... Her face softened when I explained I was her neighbour and showed sympathy, patting her on the hand and giving her my contact details. So I expect I’m going to have to put up with the beeping for a bit longer, maybe another night of it. I can’t keep going over there and harassing them, though I might be able to pop round once more with a bunch of flowers and a second calm request. ARGH

I went to a party on Saturday, to help two of my gorgeous friends celebrate both their 70^th birthdays and their 50^th wedding anniversary. I knew beforehand how all conversations would begin, and sure enough “So, how’s the wedding planning going then? Not long now!” nearly had me screaming AAAARGH directly into the kind enquirer’s eyeballs. In a rare moment of lucidity, I enlisted the organisational skills of a close pal, who came round yesterday to pick up my pieces. Three hours and half a box of birthday chocolate later and she succeeded where I have repeatedly failed over the months, producing a spreadsheet with actions rather than vague ideas. I feel like a fool. Why I have I not managed to do this? It’s like I’ve been trying to plan a stage show all by myself, directing it, producing it, performing it, without enlisting help or delegating jobs. Now the time has come to do all that and more, and the clock isn’t half ticking.

A complete fool, in fact. There are 160 guests, most of whom are unaware of the venue change! I have to sort that out. For so many attendees, “bring a plate of food to share” doesn’t cut it. I’m going to have to be more prescriptive, and maybe enlist a Buffet Co-ordinator to deal with it. Somewhere along the line, I seem to have forgotten that this was all supposed to be a DIY wedding, and that yes, we MUST rely on people’s kindness. Suddenly, I feel bad and guilty about asking for help, which is why I haven’t, and we are speeding towards Day Zero with little of the planning in place.

I also find myself realising there are people I wish I had invited. We know so many folk, we’d have invited all of them if we could have! But I think I have missed some obvious ones. There’s always a hierarchy to invitations, and I went with Family First. Until they responded, I couldn’t ask anyone else, and they had to be prodded before I found out that I had wasted my time. I have had a little negativity from other quarters too, so I have been countering it: those people who show enthusiasm about our marriage, they are who we invite. We want people around us who want to celebrate. Hence a couple of last-minute guests. Note to self: Stop asking! We are almost at capacity…

If you followed my previous blog, Lizzie Rebooted, you will know that I take the antidepressant sertraline to keep my serotonin levels in check. I started in 2015, following cancer survival, splitting with my partner and a house move. It works very efficiently to keep me going, muffling my brain when things are bad. Unfortunately, that isn’t just for the lows. I wander through life as if my head were wrapped in a duvet, often unable to feel or express emotion, even when I want to. If you see me sad crying, it must be something pretty nasty to have got past the sertraline bouncers. In June 2018, I decided that I was fed up with this, and successfully weaned myself down to no tablets. It’s better to do it gradually - you shouldn’t suddenly start or stop taking them. The side effects are nasty either way. Even going gently, coming down means night sweats, dizziness and a feeling that your brain is moving more slowly than your eyeballs. I was back on them the following winter, as early life with Jonny proved too much! And as soon as I heard of the first Covid lockdown, I was on the phone to the doc, getting him to double my dose in anticipation. That’s what I’ve taken since then – 100mg every day. But I when I marry Jonny, I WANT to feel. So as of three days ago, I started taking half a tablet. I have no idea how advisable this is. All I know is that I don’t want to experience the joy of my wedding day with more than just a veil over my head.

The most recent arrival. I love them all. 

Two unique centrepieces

Left over from Brighten Up Dursley, 

will be returned after the wedding

The beginnings of a bridal bouquet? 

What we've been sent, plus what I have made

Finally, I have been really touched by the response to our handmade flower appeal. One lady even returned with two centrepieces she made for us. “I can’t crochet or knit,” she said, but she can still work with wool, and was so excited to reveal her creations. I was delighted, and I blubbed. What a wonderful thing to do, for a total stranger! I expect everyone thought we’d be inundated as we don’t have anywhere near enough yet. We’ve certainly had some very lovely offerings, but we need more. They don’t have to be crocheted, or knitted, or even sewn. Just brightly-coloured handmade flowers. Also touching has been my friend’s offer to host a hen party for me. I hadn’t planned to have one – I don’t really drink, I cringe at anything involving strippers, and the wearing L-plates and mucking about with phalluses ship has long sailed. But the mere fact that she would do that, just for me, is overwhelming.

ADDENDUM: Beeping stopped in the region of 11am. Thank goodness. Thank goodness. Anything I still can’t cope with is therefore my own problem.

Field of Dreams?

 Pardon the delay. You might understand why when you read the following:

Just before I posted the previous entry, I had had a wizard wheeze of the floral variety. I had been interviewing a wedding couple in Dursley town centre at the weekend. Having polished off a breakfast in Bank Café, we sat outside in the sunshine to continue chatting. The bride-to-be was talking about her beautiful idea for her bouquet – she’s asking her guests to bring one flower each that they feel best represents them, and she will put them all together just before her ceremony begins. As she told me of this, I noticed the crocheted flowers that decorate my little town, fixed to trees; adorning noticeboards; hanging from branches. I put two and tulip together, and the next day, posted the following request to mine and other FB pages:

 

Do you crochet? Can you do flowers? J and I are getting married in two months' time, and we cannot afford flowers. Inspired by the beautiful decorations in Dursley Town Centre, I thought I might make a few, but I'm not going to have time to do many. So I am enlisting help: If you can manage a couple of flowers - nice bright colours, maybe with added sparkle - and can pop them through my or Jonny's letterbox we would be so grateful, and maybe I'll have enough to assemble something pretty to decorate our wedding site. This would actually be more beautiful to us than real flowers, as it would symbolise teamwork and kindness, and we'd know that good things were thought as the flowers were created.

(Addresses) Feel free to share this post.

Thanking you in advance, L and J xxx

The response was sweet and incredibly touching. Lots of shares and likes, and many offers to stitch us some blooms. I was directed to Brighten Up Dursley – the volunteer organisation that provides the decorations. One of my relatives even signed up for a crochet class so she could help! The day after the post, a package was left on my doorstep containing the first batch, from a complete stranger. A second brought hers over a week later. But most incredibly, a journalist from the Gloucestershire Gazette got in touch, minutes after I had written of my “sense of dread” on these very pages. She had seen my post in a local group and wanted to expand it into an article. I duly wrote a couple of paragraphs and sent them.

Two days later, still struggling with the drowning sensation which makes it near impossible to do anything, (the achievement of which might relieve the sensation a little, but I just can’t etc round and round and round…) I was staggering through some compiling work when I received an odd phone call…

As mentioned, our ceremony was to occur in a field. One which has a regular boot fair on a Saturday, so my first move last year was to find the bloke who is in charge of this and ask permission. Let’s call him Boot Fair Bloke. He said it wasn’t down to him, but that the field was owned by the nearby school, and I should get in touch with the chap who sorts that sort of thing. Let’s call him School Field Chap. SFC eventually got back to me, and it was agreed in a phone call around mid-November 2021 that we could use the field, as long as BFB was OK with it. I didn’t have to do anything else. I didn’t even have to pay. The only thing he asked was that we didn’t use confetti, which was fine.

We rejoiced! As soon as we had decided to marry, we knew we wanted it to be outdoors. I am not religious, J is. To be more specific, I am a humanist; J is Christian. A church wedding was out of the question for me, but J was happy to have a humanist ceremony. Saying our vows to each other in the thick of nature ticks both boxes. It connects us to our relative beliefs, and is thus incredibly important. Said field boasts stunning views of Cam Peak and the edge of the Cotswolds, with further woods and forests on the hill behind. It is unfailingly gorgeous from all sides, with the bonus that it is accessible. We did consider the woods, even the Peak itself, but we have several important guests that may not be up to a walk, let alone one with a steep incline! Here, everyone would be able to park directly on the site and not have far to travel to be in the thick of the action. All our plans now centred on this venue. Every time we drove past it, we would look at each other with excitement. “We’re getting married in a field in Dursley,” we’d proudly boast to anyone who asked.

When the boot fairs began again in April, I went straight over to check with BFB that all was still fine, and to remind him it was happening. At the end of the next month, we finally got our backsides into gear and sent invitations, all detailing the location of the field. I spent the best part of a day putting together maps and explanations. We were asking people to dress their cars with ribbon as they would be visible throughout the ceremony. I had a fantastic idea of how I was to arrive. Mind you, I had not gone far beyond this in terms of planning, and concern about how we would set up, sound systems, musicians etc were certainly part of that pressure that I was feeling.

And then came That Call, on a Friday afternoon while I was dozing off in my work, from BFB. I had been half asleep, now I woke up sharply as I tried to interpret his garbling. One sentence was crystal clear: you can’t use the field, sorry.

In desperation, I went over what he’d said with him. It turned out that a well-meaning friend and wedding guest had decided that he would arrange toilet facilities as a gift to us. (Not wrapped, obvs) He had tried to contact BFB and ended up speaking to the boot fair’s burger van guy instead, who passed the convo on. My mate must have sounded rather official, and maybe misled the burger guy to thinking he was investigating a lack of facilities! BFB freaked out and called the school, to be told that his boot fair was safe. And the wedding, he’d said? What wedding, they replied? They didn’t know anything about one.

With trembling everything, I got BFB off the phone and called them instantly. I spoke to a PA who couldn’t put me through to SFC as he didn’t work Fridays. It didn’t matter, she said, as he’s not been in charge of bookings since January. January! She seemed to know more though, and was emphatic – they don’t let plebs like us use the field. As the information hit, and after the week I’d had, I crumpled and began to cry. The 100mg of sertraline I take every day does a lot to get in the way of tears, but sometimes it’s as efficient as a little old lady trying to stop a ten-tonne truck. It wasn’t just crying, it was M&S crying. The PA softened slightly, took my name and number, and said she would get him to call me on Monday morning. The subject of Public Liability Insurance had come up in both calls. Maybe it was just a case of putting that in place? Maybe we could still use it? I hung up and it took me over an hour to pull myself together. This was insane. Nobody’s died. Why has planning a wedding made me lose perspective?

After an uncertain weekend, Monday arrived, and I recalled that the journalist had requested a photograph of us with the town flowers. It was beautifully sunny, so I yanked J away from his brekky and we walked down to get some shots. My phone rang just as we were perfecting our poses. It was SFC, not even slightly apologetic, saying no field for us. I felt numb, but tried to unravel what had happened. I got the feeling that he’d given us permission when it hadn’t been his place to do so, though he’d meant it as a kindness, but had subsequently been rumbled, possibly after BFB’s call. He may even have got into trouble over this. “I had heard nothing from you,” he said defensively. It hadn’t occurred to me to re-confirm with him as well before the invitations. “Maybe I’ve been naïve about all this?” I mumbled. I could have got angry, but what was the point? He’d have got angrier, I’d have come away thinking it was all my fault, and it would have changed nothing. I hung up, dejected, and had to put on a smile I didn’t feel to get the photograph that eventually ended up being used for the article.

Then, just as we got back to my home, I had a message from a dear relative, stating that she was very sorry but the family weren’t going to come over from Italy for the wedding as they are worried about Covid. Of course I understood, but it was just one thing too many and the M&S sobs returned. Covid may definitely put a crimp on our wedding day. How had I forgotten about it?

As if in reminder, I spent the next few days in bed, trying to overcome a very strange bout of lurgy. It began with a sore throat, and there was a headache or too, but mostly it was utter weakness, and muscle aches which were quelled by paracetamol. I did three negative tests, but still had to cancel/postpone work and singing appointments that I’d had lined up. My head was a bigger mass of scrambulation than usual. I could barely think. No further action was taken.

As this is the darkest part of this entry, I will mention that days before all the above had occurred, I was reeling from some very bad news about the health of another family member. Oddly, I felt little emotion when I was told, yet to my shame the tears only arrived after learning of the field debacle later that same week. I tell myself that it was the second piece of news that twanged me over the Sertraline barrier, and not that I am a heartless b. I really hope it’s that. It has of course already affected the preparation. My mum was supposed to visit and we were going to make my dress together. That has not happened. At the end of my week of lurgy, I managed to haul myself out to a fabric shop in Bristol. I video-called Mamma, and draped a few materials in front of the camera, noting that I hated how bright the white one looked. I freaked out. “I can’t do this without you here,” I wailed. “I know, darly”, she replied sadly. Nobody in the shop who heard our loud conversation said anything. At that moment, with everything that had happened, I felt like the saddest bride ever.

But there’s always a way forward. The next day, J and I popped over to our party venue, looking at it now with ceremony eyes. There’s a beautiful garden, cultivated by volunteers and another shining example of the community at work. It will do very well indeed. It’s right next to the hall, so there are toilets, a bar, electricity and best of all, a roof, should the weather be against us. True, it doesn’t have the convenient parking, but that’s outweighed by everything that it does have. We may even be able to live stream the ceremony for those who cannot make it on the day. Instead of a dramatic arrival on a vehicle (that I will still not mention, in case plans change again), I will be able to walk from my home with my little bridal party, down the hill and through the town, past the church tower where we met one Thursday evening in September 2017, at a bell ringing practice. We may even be able to get the bells to ring!

I took control dress-wise. I can still knock something up. It would be nice to go into a bridal shop and do the dress-trying-on thing, but knowing I have no intention of making a purchase is too deceitful. (“Other people do it,” says Mamma, for whom the film Muriel’s Wedding is a favourite. “That doesn’t mean I’m going to,” I reply.) Instead, I went through my existing wardrobe, picking out stuff that I like and noting what I like about it. I have a plan, but now only seven weeks remains, and there’s quite a lot of other things to do in that time. I’m going to have a handmade bouquet too, using some of the flowers I’m being given, plus some I will make. The beauty of this is that I will be able to keep it long after the ceremony, and that it can contain blooms that are significant to me, regardless of whether or not they are in season.

The article was published in the Gloucestershire Gazette, and we even made it to the front page. I’ve been on the front page of a local paper at least twice before (oo-hee-hoo), but I was still ridiculously excited, and bought multiple copies to send to parents.

The seriously-ill relative though is still seriously ill, and facing a very rough time in the weeks to come, including a major operation on 2nd August. If they need further treatment, it may affect who can be there on the wedding day itself. All this, plus the stress of having to get things sorted etc, are casting shadows on what is supposed to be a very happy time. It’s also muted my celebratory voice somewhat. It seems wrong to be excited about getting married, and worrying about flora and fabric, when this person and my family have such a challenge in front of them. 

All that matters - and really, it is all that has ever mattered - is that J and I make our promises to each other on September 10th, wherever, with whoever present. That is the most for which I can hope. 

 

Limping Up That Hill

Every morning I wake up with a sense of dread, knowing all the things that are piling up, that I still haven’t done. I am riddled with worry, about every possible aspect of my life, and that includes our wedding ceremony, now barely two months away.

The deadline for the RSVPs is Monday, and about half the people have not yet replied. Some of whom are family members, whose presence would mean a great deal. I’m trying to keep records of who’s said they’d come along, but it’s not easy. Not everyone fills in an RSVP. Jonny says that if we haven’t heard from someone by the deadline, we can assume it’s a “no”. Some of the negative responses we have had so far have made me ridiculously sad. One or two people that I’m really close to, who have expressed their great regret, but they’ve already had a holiday booked for that weekend for some time. Apparently, early September is prime retired couple holiday season – when the kids are back at school, but the weather is still good. Kids being back at school, or starting a new school, is another reason stated for not coming. I really thought we’d picked an accessible date! The range of responses is interesting. Some are utterly thrilled to have been invited, so when they can’t come, they are genuinely disappointed. That’s quite touching. Some just tick the “no” box and post the card.

We know a lot of people! We’ve lived for nearly half a century, and a lot of the things we do involve crowds: theatre, performing, music, bell ringing. It has been very difficult to sift through and decide who we’d like to be there. We’ve invited about 50% more people than the capacity of the party venue, though it’s not a case of not being able to fit people in, but how the bar staff can cope with serving! So children, I expect, don’t count in that number. I have included them in my totals as halves. In my experience, one usually invites many more than one expects, so you get a decent gathering.

I suppose, come next week, I will have to begin chasing responses. Emailing people directly, checking they received the invitation, and asking what they plan to do. Some may be waiting to see how things are nearer the time. I see that Covid is rearing its ugly heads again, and that just adds to my worry list.

I never realised what having a wedding would entail. I always thought that it didn’t matter who was there, it was just about me and Jonny. It turns out that while that is true, this is an opportunity for families to meet. An opportunity to gather together our closest friends; our long-unseen relatives, an to celebrate with them before it’s too late. People won’t haul themselves half way across the world for a generic party, but a wedding… So I see only too plainly what a unique chance this is, and I want to make the absolute most of it. Is it really going to be the case that the only time we see each other now is at funerals? Since we compiled our original guest list back in August last year (and why, oh why, didn’t we send the invitations out THEN, before everyone started booking things???), three of those invited have sadly died. And that’s to date. There’s still time. Being ripely-aged for a bride and groom ourselves, we aren’t unaware that it might be an issue. 

In terms of other practicalities, we know what we want to do. We know about the shape of the ceremony and party, and what we would like to happen. Due to an over-abundance of ideas and a lack of money, it's not so simple. I'm doing most of the co-ordinating and creating; Jonny is working his hardest to keep us both afloat. Teamwork, makes that dream work.  

Rebooting Lizzie Rebooted? 

I’ve decided to blog once more, as it’s been so helpful in the past. I have knots in my stomach, flashing lights before my eyes, and a constant pain in my chest. How can this be? It’s supposed to be a happy time! I certainly can’t wait to marry Jonathan, but I’m also looking forward to a big celebration, especially given the last few horrible years. But doing weddings and funerals, and delving into humanism makes me even more aware what a singular chance this is to come together and celebrate, and that thought is like a hand squeezing my body until my eyeballs pop. I’m blogging so my eyeballs stay whole.

Entries will be me whinging away about a range of things, from the serious to the stupid, that I have variable control over. Writing it down will make me see that worry continues to be a futile activity, wasteful of energy and brain space. As well as wedding stuff, and along with most people in the country, I’m struggling with money. So alongside planning comes trying to find and execute work, peppered with the voluntary bits that I do that give my life meaning. The whole thing is a casserole, that bubbles over regularly.

Something else troubling me is the Black Cloud of depression. Have you seen Stranger Things? That depiction of the “mind flayer” – a huge spider of darkness, towering over its victims – that’s how it feels. Anti-depressants are like Eleven, protecting me from that gloom. But they do it by numbing my senses, and that means everything. So I can’t feel the happy stuff as much as I would like to. I had wanted to wean myself off them for the ceremony itself, and surrounding days. Given the last couple of weeks, it’s crystal clear that I should do no such thing. In fact, I might even benefit from going up to the next dose. Even with all the lovely cards and gifts and sentiment flying around, I have moments where I feel as if I am being sucked under water, and need to go and hide in my bed, not sleeping, though I could do that forever. Grim, huh? It makes no sense to me.

Here are my blog goals then:

1) To help me reduce worry and calm the eff down!

2) To organise my thoughts and identify what I can and can't control. 

3) To plan the ceremony, party, honeymoon and days around. 

4) To reach out for practical and other assistance. 

5) To inform readers, and to record what is going to be a unique experience. 

…and not to offend or libel anyone in the process.

 

I feel sick.