On being an alcoholic ostrich

Despite being the author of a blog about kindness, creativity and beauty I have to admit that in recent times, I have been not very good at any of those things.  I was going to say atrocious, but then that was a continuation of my undoubted ability at catastrophising.  A friend put a little cartoon on her social media page which says “Anxiety girl – Able to leap from here to a catastrophic conclusion in a single bound’.  Ahh….the recognition.

I have two good reasons for defaulting to catastrophic terror right now.  The first was the five figure bill from our good friends at the tax office, and the second was my ongoing unemployment.  In addition to general cost of life, which is increasingly hard to meet, I now owe the equivalent of a small new car, and I have no idea of how this can have occurred.  I believe panic stations are in order.  In response, last night I became an alcoholic ostrich and watched old Dr Who episodes.  I hoped the Tardis would arrive in the backyard this morning and I could climb in and run away, but there was just the neighbour’s cat and the usual magpies ganging up on the Iron Paw.

This was the next to final straw to a week marked by almost constant crying.  I put the crying down to the reactivation of nasty adoption baggage, which clearly has something to do with it.  However, the extra frisson was provided by hormones.  Bring on menopause I say.  Hot flushes cant possibly be worse than feeling suicidal just because you’re fertile.

So, what am I going to do?

The practical option would be just to continue job hunting.  Yes, it has to be done but its also contributing to the despair.

Secondly, how about the business you keep talking about?  Yes, but not likely to provide a short term answer.  Also, contributing to despair as I have to face just how technically and economically useless I am.

Thirdly, rail loudly and vociferously and the government and all the people who elected them for their assumption that just because I live in Canberra I don’t have the same feelings about being ‘structurally readjusted’ as for example, people in Geelong.

Fourthly, cry again.

Fifthly, go home and snog the Iron Paw.

I was reading Gordon Livingstone the other day.  He said something along the lines of this.  Sometimes the most courageous thing you can do is to keep plodding in the face of everything, like jobs that don’t come or are completely or partially soul destroying, like cooling relationships, unreliable friends and irritating utility companies.  The list goes on.

The kindest thing I could manage for myself this week was to sit in the rose garden.  Under an old tree whose boughs drooped groundwards, casting shade and making me feel just a little bit calmer.  The restorative power of nature.  I think I’m off there right now.

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