Even if being brave, for an OCD, stressed and tired person, is to try something new.
I feel I could quite easily turn into the most boring woman in Canberra or a reasonable facsimile of the same if I do not force myself to somehow try different things or to shake myself out of my fears a little.
Dealing with DH’s death was one of the most stressful things I have ever done in my life. It ranks with my father’s painful death.
I ran on adrenalin for maybe 3 weeks or so after DH died. Amazing how much I did, how much I organised, and yes, I did grieve as well. Equally amazing that people kept on commenting how I did things, and I was criticised and praised in nearly equal measure.
Now that six months have passed, I’m better in some ways, such as organising DD and myself, keeping track of finances, keeping a normal life going for us, trying to plan for the future, well, a little, and so on. Other things, like trying to be an adult with her own life, seem stymied at nearly every turn. I am contacting the people who promised and promised that they would help with the occasional babysitting or sorting out … and discovering who meant what they said.
In some ways, it’s no big surprise. A few close friends have become closer, I’ve been dumped by several people and probably won’t hear from them again, and, what is most bloody annoying, I’ve come across people I thought were friends who have made promises to come here or to go somewhere with me, and who have consistently broken those promises. These are the same people who promised “Anything you want, any time that I can help or my family can offer help, and I really mean that you should phone me.” Yeah, I really mean that you are mean and don’t keep your word.
So, a little sadder and wiser, and sick of being smacked in the head by life.
With this crap, I have to wonder why I bother to try. Even getting to the hairdresser involves me taking time off work (unpaid) because DD will not sit still at the salon on a Sat. morning while I get my grey hairs covered and my dignity recaptured. An evening out to see a long-awaited play or musical involves a minimum of 4 hours of babysitting at $15 an hour – commercial babysitters are the only ones who actually turn up when they say they will.
I’m not asking for pity. I’ve worked out what’s wrong and I’m dealing with it. I have the promise from my mum of several evenings out when she comes to visit, and a promise from a true friend to help the following weekend, so I dare (maybe) to hope.