Aquatic Absurdity

It seems I’m getting more insane as I get older, which is awesome because it means I’m probably going to be one of those old ladies who just don’t give a fuck. You know the ones, they’re eccentric, flamboyant, opinionated, unapologetic, and dress like they’re heading to the Rio Carnival. I’m picturing a cross between Granny Clampett and Dennis Rodman. Obviously, there are downsides too, but one day I’ll be too bat-shit crazy to notice. So there’s something to look forward to.

One of my new neuroses is in regards to swimming pools. I love swimming laps by myself with lots of space; I can zone out and focus entirely on the movements (and keeping my tits contained within my swimsuit). So I didn’t think there would be any issue with signing up my Aspie Girl-Child to swimming lessons, and following them up with a play in the pools. Except, I soon found that I quickly become overwhelmed and have panic attacks that leave me on edge for the rest of the day. After much analysing, I think I’ve worked out what it is that bothers me.

It’s every-fucking-thing.

The pools are indoors (it’s still too cold for outdoor swimming), and the building is loud with air-conditioning, pumps and echos. I find that I can’t hear well and this makes me on edge when people are speaking to me. Even though the space is enormous, the sound makes me feel like it’s closing in on me. When people get too close to me, or block me, it compounds the claustrophobia. Also, I have to wear my glasses to keep an eye on my kidlet because I can’t wear contacts. This makes me feel self-conscious because swimming in glasses is fucking weird. If I want to swim properly, I have to take my glasses off, but then I can’t see jack-shit. This means I can’t watch the Girl-Child and because I can’t see her face, I can’t tell if her squeals are happy squeals or ‘I’m about to lose my shit’ squeals. So much of working with her is recognising the subtle changes in her expression. I worry about her panicking or lashing out at someone while she’s out of my reach.

 

All of this sounds justifiable to me, but I know that it is irrational for several reasons:

• Mr. Flatmate comes with us, stays by her and is a strong swimmer;
• about 6 months ago, we all went swimming together at a different indoor pools before and I was confident enough in Girl-Child’s abilities that I was able to leave her swimming alone while I went on the hydro-slide;
• and what the shit is with this sound overload? I don’t think I had that before. It’s like my brain short-circuits and I lose the ability to think coherently. It’s new, it’s scary, and it’s stupid.

It’s the school holidays at the moment, so much to my relief, swimming lessons are on two-week break. Mr. Flatmate has suggested taking the kids to the pool several times, but every time he mentions it, I can feel the anxiety rising. I feel terrible, because I know how much they love going, but it fills me with so much dread. We’ll go back when lessons start again and I will make a conscious effort to have more faith in Girl-Child’s swimming abilities, and in Mr. Flatmate’s ability to keep her safe. My goal is to enjoy the Summertime at the pool and the beach with my babies, instead of being a shrieking Helicopter-mum putting the kibosh on their fun.

Making Fruit Less Healthy And The Benefits Of Sleeping With Socrates

This morning I struggled to get out of bed. It was so tempting to just sink into feeling sorry for myself and just shouting out to the kids whenever I heard them fighting. But eventually I hauled my arse off to the shower.

This morning I struggled to get out of the shower. It was so tempting to lock the door and stay under the nice warm water forever. But I forced my way out into the chilly morning air and made myself a cup of tea, sat on the couch and cuddled up under a blanket with my son.

This morning I struggled to get off the couch. My baby boy gives the best cuddles and I could have easily drifted off to sleep again. But instead I wrote myself a list of things I wanted to get done.

And I kicked its butt. I didn’t even cry once.

I worked my way through a good chunk of laundry. I sorted out my daughters toy box so that it would fit back under the bed. I cleaned an alarming amount of mold off my bedroom walls and on the bottom of my blanket chest. I rearranged the bedroom furniture so that I could fit a computer desk in there in order to get Mr. Flatmate’s computer off my dining table. I made 5 jars of delicious kiwifruit jam, 1 big jar of lemon curd and a heavenly apple and kiwifruit crumble. Then I cooked a tasty chicken curry for dinner.

It’s called KiwiFRUIT. A kiwi is a bird and you shouldn’t make jam with them.

It’s such a relief to have a motivated day, even if it did have a slow start. I feel tired, but also accomplished. It’s going to be an early night for me tonight, so I can kick tomorrow’s arse as well.

I’ve been trying hard to pull myself out of my slump without success. However, last weekend, I spent an enlightening night with a modern-day Socrates, who is as sexy in mind as he is in body. He helped me to see things from a different perspective. I don’t have his magical way with words, so I won’t try to explain, but his outlook on life has helped and that is what matters. I’m not trying to say that I’ve had a massive breakthrough and will never be depressed again, but I’ve got somewhere practical to begin moving forward.

Crazy And Not Hot Enough To Be A Vampire

After my surgery I started getting super crazy. Crazier than normal. Depressed, grumpy, tempted to throw myself under a bus and so so tired. At first I thought it was just an anaesthetic side-effect, but it’s still going on and I just realised yesterday that it’s because I’m no longer taking the contraceptive pill so my hormones have gone up the fuck. Fun times.

So basically I’ve been a miserable cunt to everyone and to myself. Mr. Flatmate has been pretty understanding, but he’s famously tactless* and I’m over sensitive. Although he hasn’t said so, I’m pretty sure he’s just about had enough. I’ve been trying to stay out of his way and keep my problems to myself. Having my meltdowns in the shower instead of on the kitchen floor makes things slightly less awkward.

Unfortunately, the thing about living with depressed people is that you’re constantly aware of their moods no matter what part of the house you’re in. We radiate that shit from every pore. It slips through the cracks under the doors and permeates the carpets, infiltrating everything and everyone. Which of course makes me feel horribly guilty and so the cycle starts again.

He’s gone out tonight to escape me and have some sexy fun with someone else. That’s a good thing because I’m not really feeling up to sexy fun tonight (which is in itself a bit baffling) and because now I’m not stressing over how much I’m probably irritating him. Tonight I’m looking forward to an early night and a long sleep. And tomorrow I’m going to overload on nutrients.

*Kinda hilarious, kind of devastating tactless-ness from Mr. Flatmate while watching American Horror Story:

F: “I’d let someone turn me into a vampire, no question. Vampires are awesome. Wouldn’t you?”

Me: “Mm-hmm, yep.”

F looks at me and ponders for a bit: “There’s never any big vampires. You only ever see hot vampires. Why is that?”

Me: *dies a little inside my big, not-hot body*

F: “What?”