I Know I’m Double-Posting And I Hate Double-Posting Almost As Much As I Hate Double-Denim. But I Am On Hormones So If You Have A Problem With This I Will Personally Come Over And Wee On Your Front Door Mat.

I spent the day meowing showtunes.

It sounds odd but I swear to God, replacing song lyrics with meowing is *the* most therapeutic thing you can ever do. Go on. Try it. My recommendations for beginners are Jolene, bohemian Rhapsody and the theme music to Jaws. The more advanced can try showtunes like Oh What A Beautiful Morning, I Could Have Danced All Night, Phantom Of The Opera, and the Time Warp. The higher pitched, the better.

Strangely the dog totally ignores my supersonic meowing, and the cat looks at me like ‘you just called my mother a whore. I will bite your face off while you sleep.’

So, while jacked up on 450 units of Gonal-F per day, for 14 days, which is approximately enough hormones to kill an average sized elephant, I resorted to the highest of high-pitched meowing. It’s a better option than homicide.

So last night lying in bed with James:

Me: Meow-meow, meow-meow, meow-meow, meow-MEOW-OW-OW…
James: Stop meowing Jolene.
Me: If I meow the high-pitched parts of Bohemian Rhapsody, will you back me up with the low-pitched parts? Like the Galileo Galileo bit?
James: No.
Me: *meows Scaramouche-Scaramouche will you do the Fandango with such gusto that I let out a fart*
James: You are an embarrassment.
Me: If I get out of bed and get you a caramel swirl ice cream, will you meow?
*silence*
Me: A high-pitched meow? Just one?
*silence*
James: How high-pitched?
Me: High as you can go.
*silence*
James: Meow

And so I hauled my arse out of bed when it was so cold that the tears nearly froze on my cheeks, and I had to stop, doubled over, stop laughing long enough to go a few more steps. Worth it. So very, very worth it.

Sometimes, I just Wish I Could See. It’s Not Too Much To Ask.

So James had to fill in the paperwork for my egg retrieval:

James: What is your title?
Me: Timelord.
James: Miss, Mrs, Mz.
Me: Timelord.
James: I’m not putting that.
Me: And leave the name part blank. Obviously. Put that or I’ll dye my hair TARDIS blue. And my eyebrows to match.
James: No.
Me: And I’ll get a TARDIS tattoo on my arse.
James: I put Mrs and now I’ve moved on to your address.
Me: Ruiner.

Hello Darkness My Old Friend

Seriously, Simon and Garfunkel are not quoted nearly enough.

But the Sound of Silence is totally applicable due to my prolonged absence. And words that could have been snatched from my own head. A head which I will now crack open and let spew all over you.

Spew words, not gory grey matter and other gross stuff. Just words. Promise. Okay deep breath here I go.

I have spent a while in bed with my hot water bottle. And not just sleeping time. Working time. And eating time. And socialising time. All the time. What sparked this anxiety episode? The dawn of time, pretty much.

It’s acute anxiety. Not my normal run-of-the-mill anxiety, but one of my turbo-charged, into-the-abyss turns. I just go to bed with my hot water bottle. And Anxiety just lays down beside me. Big black boots on the doona cover and all.

He’s constantly there. He’s usually there anyway, but this time he is more clingy and permicious than ever. I make a cup of tea. He’s there waiting for the kettle to boil. I write an article, he’s sitting on my piano stool telling me to edit, edit, edit, re-edit, re-edit it will never be good enough but keep trying trying trying trying trying. I do 80 burpees every day and even that does not make him leave, he just drops to the floor beside me and churns them out harder faster stronger better smarter. I can’t win.

So instead of fighting the panic attacks, fighting the good fight to stay out of bed, I just let myself be suspended in anxiety for a while until I saved up enough energy and head space to get up again.

So I went out to dinner Friday night and again it all turned to shit. Massive anxiety. Minor panic attack. Too much noise, too busy, too hot all of a sudden, and five minutes spent paralysed, staring down at my food, trying desperately to remember if I eat it with my left or right hand usually. And choking on this critical decision. Dinner wrapped up early. Luckily the two I was with are fine about it. But that doesn’t stop Anxiety calling his best mate Guilt over to gatecrash my pity party.

The thing is, in the middle of acute anxiety the brain stops working properly and I’m left absolutely incapable of rational thought. All the pathways for my neurons to fire in that direction shut down. Anxiety and panic take over. And I don’t remember large chunks of it. It’s like having a massive night out, then the next morning you look at all the stamps on your arms and know you went to all those nightclubs… but don’t remember it. Your mates talk about the night… and you just have vague snatches of memory of conversations. Except this time it’s not funny. This time you feel guilty, because everyone’s gone home early because of you.

And then, while hungover from massive doses of adrenaline thanks to the anxiety and panic, I’m left apologising the next day. Always. Everyone says it’s unnecessary, that they understand. They probably do. But still. The headache, the nausea, the tiredness, the vague feeling that you’ve let everyone down. Again. And the compulsion to make everything right. Again.

It all sounds a tad melodramatic. So I pulled up my big girl socks and braved a shopping trip yesterday with James.

I couldn’t even get out of the car to go into the first shop.

Then we went into Aldi and I don’t remember anything from then on.

So I’ll be at home for the next few weeks. Happily at home. Come and visit me.

**I just read a piece by Stephen Fry on what ails him. Sad and moving. Yup – massively popular comedian who everybody loves, and he’s got a bung head too. He talks about having invites to summer in the south of France with his fellow rich and famous and yet he’s stuck in his room, too. *blowing massive raspberry to the whole world* it’s not just me.