This week has been weirdly disjointed and ill-omened.
In the middle of the week I slashed two of my fingers open with a bread knife. Not deliberately or anything, just the cost of buying unsliced bread when you’re a Spoonie. My hands shake and spasm without warning, sometimes I’m not fully aware of what I’m doing and I’m often horribly distracted. Trying to get stuff done with two fingers strapped up is a reminder of all the ways in which I am dependant on my hands even though they’re not very reliable. It set the tone for the week.
I’ve written a lot but I feel like somehow none of it counts. I’ve signed an actual contract to do actual paid writing but I’m still half expecting that i’ll fuck it up somehow. There’s no reason why I should mess it up. I’ve got months to finish, I’ve already done more than half the research and it’s related to subjects that I’ve previously written about. I should be able to do it in my sleep. It just that I’m used to things never working out the way that they should.
Slashing my fingers meant that I’ve had to change up the ways that I’ve spent my time this week. I couldn’t play computer games and typing was difficult. I ended up spending time looking for new things to watch on Amazon Prime while crocheting very slowly. I discovered a thing that I’ve already blogged about.
I’ve also spent the week wrestling with the realisation that my Executive Dysfunction isn’t as bad as i think it is and that half of the problem is me not acknowledging the things that I do manage to get done even when I’m constantly fighting the desire to just stay in bed for ever. I’ve written a blog about that too and I’ll probably go up next week.
And then there was the Scapegoat blog. It’s been one of those weird things where I wrote something that seemed grimly entertaining to me but clearly seems horribly traumatic to everyone who’s spoken to me about it. I want to say, “Hey lighten up. It wasn’t serious. Nobody died, nobody got injured, it’s not like it was child abuse or anything.” but I’m worried that if I say that out loud someone will tell me that it actually was and that’s going to make talking to my mother really awkward.
If you want to donate so I can buy better plasters, or just pay for the coffee that keeps me awake and watching Boris Karloff, you can do it via my Kofi link.