I’ve been having such sleep issues that my therapist asked me to write a sleep diary. I have to already update the first one. I got out of bed at 11:15. Was on the computer for a while and sometime between noon and one, fell asleep until two. That’s why I’m not writing until three. I hate this. If I wanted to, I could fall right back to sleep. I’ll be right back, I’m getting my second cup of coffee so I can write this. I’m back. The fog is still lurking waiting to roll in. I’m tempted to write an entire blog on what this fatigue feels like, it isn’t normal sleepiness and it isn’t the reaction that I had to some previous medications. I find myself stopping in mid action, closing my eyes, and freezing. After a bit I’ll relax whatever part of me is not resting on something. I can be holding something and not drop it. Each step, closing the eyes, freezing, and then relaxing is seductive. It takes an effort of will to fight it off. I’m making that effort now. If I’m typing I’ll awake to pages of whatever letters my fingers were wresting on. It looks like this. Llllllllllllllllssjjssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssskkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkk
That is not exciting reading. The letters changed to frequently there but you get the idea. I’ve had that go on for four pages.
I missed my appointment with my new psychiatrist. I left the house on time and could have just walked to the train station. It’s 1.2 miles. It’s what I usually do but when I get to the bus stop at about the halfway point and the bus is coming I take that. It gives me more time on the other end. I got to the stop. The MTA app said the bus was 4 minutes away. That would mean getting to the station with plenty of time. After four minutes it said the bus was due in two minutes. That still gives me plenty of time. After two or three minutes, it said the bus was arriving. It did. It said, “Not in Service” and drove past. The next bus was in nine minutes. Now I didn’t have time to walk and the bus would come too late. I missed my train thanks to the MTA app. Ugh. New rule. I only take the bus if I see it, otherwise I walk. The app is useless if you can’t rely on it.
I decided to stay in last night. I have a busy schedule. After therapy I went to Aldi. Another bus the app said was coming disappeared. Ugh. My bus frustration gave me leave to indulge myself. I bought something I haven’t bought in years, a steak. As expensive as it is, it’s still cheaper than eating out, it was large enough that I cut it and froze half. I then followed Ethan’s recipe for pan grilled steak, it’s the best. Ethan you posted it on Facebook as a series of pictures. You should post it as a recipe someplace. Perhaps just make it a Facebook note. It’s simple and it make the best steak I’ve made. I really should have made a potato with it but I had leftover gnocchi and had that. A delicious dinner makes up for MTA frustration.
So far I’ve written about eating and sleeping, I don’t think that will sell. Eating might if I write a good blurb.
There are little things that I meant to write about but didn’t. On Thursday I told you that went to visit Jane and found that I had a Festivus present of chocolate delivered there and waiting for me. What I didn’t tell you was my idiot story. Jane and I were about to leave. I did my pat down and discovered that my keys were missing. I hadn’t left them at home. I used them to get into Jane’s building, but not her apartment. I looked all over the apartment and couldn’t find them. I went down to the lobby to see if I left it in the outside door; I hadn’t. I came back up and Jane was holding the keys. Can you figure out what happened? I used them to open the box the chocolate came in and they were under the paper that covered the chocolate. Yes, I’m an idiot but having not just chocolate, but my favorite chocolate, a gift from someone I love, driving the keys out of my head is a not exculpatory but it is mitigating.
Sometimes all you want is for a person to admit that they did something wrong. When they won’t do that it’s makes what they did worse. I took responsibility for being an idiot and losing my keys. That’s all I ask of others. Yesterday I got a phone call. I answered. We had this exchange:
Is this [my name]?
Yes
I’m calling to confirm your appointment with us on Monday at 1 PM
I don’t know if I can you never told me who you were.
Montefiore Hospital Genetics.
She failed kindergarten level phone etiquette, identify who you are at the start. Then when I pointed out she never apologized or acknowledged that she did it. That bothers me. I have two medical appointments next week and suspected that the call was about one of them.
I had an encounter on New Year’s Eve that is also about waiting for a bus. See how things come together? I was waiting for the Q16 bus. The weather was a bit miserable, low 40s and drizzling. I was dressed for it and was under a bus shelter as was a woman. We had a fairly long wait but this time the app was accurate. The bus came when it said it did. As it approached the woman in the stop said, “My father heard me.” I thought she had been talking on her phone with him but she made sure I wouldn’t continue to think that. “My father’s dead and in heaven. He heard me say that I was cold.” I can’t follow her thoughts at all. Does she think that without the help of her dead father the bus would have never come? If her father could help why didn’t he send the bus earlier rather than make us wait so long? I can’t relate to this kind of thinking but I know it’s not uncommon. Some people feel that everything must be attributed to the actions of someone, human or divine. Everything good is because of a benign individual and everything bad from an evil one. This is the thinking behind many conspiracy theories. If something bad happens it had to have been as the conscious actions of someone. That way of thinking leaves me intellectually unsatisfied but it clearly helps some people emotionally.
I wrote over 1100 words on a day I had nothing to write about. The spirit of Samuel Pepys must have inspired your humble diarist. Or maybe it was that woman’s father as a thank you to me for writing about him.
Wise Madness 