Oct 5

 Improved mentals today, albeit sketchy and jumpy. One should be happy about small mercies I suppose.

Today I have pathetically engaged in a few small tasks. Made some mash potatoes. Cleaned a few things. Tidied up a few things. A quick blast with the hoover. It is. Without doubt. Absolutely pathetic. On the one hand I tell myself that today is a better day than I've managed to do in months. And for that. I should look on the bright side. On the other hand. I am low key horrified at how little I can do. I am becoming trapped in the amber of where I am, if that makes any sense. Normal is not being able to do shit. Anxiety. Living a very small life. And it is becoming that normal. It's no longer a state I am enduring waiting to return to a more capable me. It's now the other way around. I find it hard to deal with mentally. It's like I have become 80 years old in the space of a few years.

Part of me just wants to sink into the earth. Just. Stop. Let it wash over me. It is again that low key suicide. The undramatic fading away. So part of me is ok with it all. If anything. Just wants it all to speed up. Finish me off in some overnight period. Sleep. Don't wake up. Ideal.

Another part of me is horrified at my descent. And how on earth I can ever hope to fix it. I know that I can't really. It is what it is.

Ho hum.

In any case.

I enjoyed my mashed potato today.

I ate it with a ready meal chicken casserole. Which if you had asked me like 18 months ago, I would have been making from scratch.

But it was nice.

I do love a bit of mash. But. Whilst I'll eat just about any mash. It has to be good mash for me to properly bliss out with it. And oddly enough, that means not restaurant grade mash. I can't be doing with the ricers they all use to make ultra fine and sloppy mash that seems to be the "perfect standard". To me. It's slop. I prefer my mash lumpy with bits of potato still in it. Mashed. But not over mashed. My perfect mash is some form of whole cooked skin on baby potatoes. A bit of salt. A bit of fat of some kind - my preference is usually a split between some kind of butter and mayo - and depending how dry the potatoes have turned out, a splash of milk. No cream. Perfect.

My brother has confirmed he's gonna turn up at around 11am tomorrow. Before my therapy session. It means it's going to be a long day for me tomorrow. But I will stick my face on. Turn up the energy burn to 11. Fake out an alert state for a number of hours. And then almost certainly crash out after where no one can see me, and no one knows. And drift into blessed oblivion. 

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