The one where I make time for what I love

 It has, for me, been a gloomy start to 2022. I grew cocky with my management of the usual SAD dramas.  I had no symptoms in October and November, a sprinkling in December which were managed by festive feasting and indulgence and then BAM! The full throttle of every symptom known to us elite group of winter sufferers descended upon me, in January. After dispatching with an especially aggressive New Year’s Eve hangover, I was left feeling that it did not matter how much sleep I could muster, I would never wake up feeling refreshed. Never again.

The thing about feeling under parr is that everything begins to pile up on over your head and the jobs that you used to complete in a minute, when you were feeling energetic, become difficult and time-consuming tasks.  It doesn’t help that there has been a distinct lack of winter sun, and that the skies have been low and grey, as if doing their best to mirror my mood. It hasn’t helped that I am low in haemoglobin and iron. Only slightly anaemic, but that coupled with a Vit D deficiency, a stressful job and a chronic loathing of winter, my usual get up and go, has quite literally, got up and left. The things that I love are shoved to one side as I try to find energy for the things I have to do, like feed my children and turn up to work. And that is where the resentment begins, especially when we are ruled by a class of people who don’t seem to understand that personal pleasures sometimes, must take a back seat.

I am one of those modern types who can see their doctor’s notes and it didn’t help that every time the doctor phoned me to discuss my blood test results I was busy doing the thing that I am paid for, and it really didn’t help that the doctor’s receptionist felt that I should have a full run down of how terrible their lot has been over the pandemic, and how I should be at my phone’s immediate beck and call. She also elaborated on how the doctor couldn’t possibly speak to me now, as she had completed her list. I inwardly growl and wish my public service job was just a case of going through ‘the list’. I am sorry such and such, (insert needy 7-year-olds name here) I have been through that list, you missed it and now I must move on…. Teaching would be so much simpler that way, if only children’s psyches were a series of tick lists.

I am renta-rant at the present. Anything can twist me into colourful diatribes of expletives and a semi amusing expounding of everything that is wrong under our present social and political climate. Of course, rantings eat into the tiny amount of energy I have left to see me through to spring; so, I am either barking manically, or in an exhaustion induced coma. Sadly, my life has become to resemble that of a retired guard dog, but without the petting from a loyal owner.  I am always reminded when I find myself in moods such as these, that women are not meant to be angrily articulate when annoyed, and I ponder on how I missed the crying memo. Perhaps if I was a bit more vulnerable when upset, I might get the odd pat and pet, because let’s be honest who doesn’t want a scratch behind the ears now and again. But who am I trying to kid? Anyone trying to pet me right now may feel more than a growl and truth be known - I am best left alone until spring. 

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