I found myself wondering the other day, how many times I can keep describing myself as feeling discombobulated. I mean, while it’s not my permanent state of existence, it does seem to be a rather familiar place. I return here on a pretty frequent basis.

I have the luxury of being well stabilised with medication in terms of my mental health. And I’m not disregarding the tens, probably hundreds of hours spent in therapy. That has definitely helped too. But I still seem to experience weeks or months of each year merely surviving. Is that normal? What is normal?

I recently received my annual notification that I’m still on the waiting list for an autism assessment. And though I totally understand I will probably be on the list for years more, I do feel that as time goes on, my symptoms are increasing/worsening. I feel like I don’t have the energy to cope with social situations, I don’t have the strength to mask, and scarily, sometimes I feel like I don’t really care. I rely on my earplugs more. I struggle with dealing with tradespeople in the flat. Making phone calls reduces me to tears. Things I’ve done for years have become nightmarish.

I don’t think menopause has helped. I’m constantly weary. I still feel like I’m wading through treacle.

At the weekend we shifted a lot of stuff around, broke up our old sofa, dragged the bits out to our cars and took it to the tip. Physically it was hard work. It took its toll on our not-so-young-as-we-once-were bodies. I find taking things to the tip really stressful anyway. I think once one of the personnel was rude to me when I asked for help, and now lodged in my subconscious is a fear I can’t quite logic away.

In the lounge reshuffle, I came across a box file I’d forgotten about. It’s crammed with all the paperwork pertaining to my Dad’s death. I could immediately see why I’d shoved it down the end of the sofa. I had a strange compulsion to start looking through it and got as far as the post mortem report. Martin said to me later, “You didn’t do yourself any favours reading that”. Which was true. However I really didn’t expect to read content I’d never previously been aware of; whether that was due to me not actually having read/heard that information (ie. I filed it for a day I felt stronger – then forgot) or I’d known it and my brain blocked it out, and wrapped itself in figurative cotton wool, and then forgot.

The pain was devastating. It’s been hard enough knowing for the last nearly 7 years that my Dad fell down the concrete steps at the back of the bungalow and hit his head on the wall, fracturing his skull and causing massive brain bleeds. But then there was this. Facial fractures. Broken collarbone. Six broken ribs. Oh and make that two separate skull fractures. I am overwrought considering it.

And this comes off the back of Mark’s death. Martin’s closest friend. My friend by default for nearly five years. I often sent him home after a visit with portions of bolognaise or curry, so I knew he’d at least have a couple more nutritious meals. Although he was older than me, I cared about him almost in a motherly way. I will miss him.

As much as anything though I was worried about Martin. I was scared how his grief would affect him. The circumstances of Mark’s death were distressing to say the least. His only close family was a cousin, and piecing together Mark’s last days, and demise was shared with Martin as he had access to Mark’s phone records. We both felt traumatised. We await a funeral date.

It all just feels a lot (as young people say). Usually I would throw myself into making a wreath for distraction, but the baubling station is currently out of service with the lounge being upside down. Still it has given me an afternoon to write, and that’s rarely a bad thing.