Butterflies flitting hither and thither...

... I get so wound up and anxious before my specialist appointments.

My brain seems to escape my control at the least provocation.

It's a very important five or ten minutes that are not repeated for three months.  I am so cross with myself cause I nearly always end up crying, which is my number one stress response.

Today I nearly held it together.

The actual specialist came out this time, and checked it was okay she had a student with her.  I am fine with students.  Actually pleased and happy if I can contribute. Which in this instance I think I did.  There was quite a bit of show and tell happening. Which is good because I get told things I probably wouldn't be told under normal circumstances.

The specialist looked at my hands and asked me how I was working.

It wasn't a rhetorical question.
She actually wanted an answer.
She grilled me a bit on what I was actually doing.

She asked me if I was able to dress myself, and bathe, and wipe my bottom.

I nearly broke down then and there.
They were good questions.

I can wipe my own bottom and shower and dress myself, but sometimes it feels like a close thing, and I am overly self conscious about whether I am pulling my weight at work and if people think I am bludging,  cause I don't think I necessarily think I look disabled.

My gulity conscience probably plays its hand here, as since moving is troublesome, my preference to drape myself over something soft and comfortable with a book tends to take dominant position.

Even when moving is not troublesome, my preference is to drape myself over something soft and comfortable and read a book.

Bah!

I have my script for methotrexate and a plan to try it again and if still to unwieldy, a plan for an alternative.

I have the rest of the week off and have dug large holes in the front yard and half refilled the problem areas.

I am starting on the house.

Have stabbed a couple of the problem areas and if I manage to conquer the next two sticking points, I expect the rest to flow like joyful bubbling spring water, washing away the weighty weighing woeful black tide of stultifying emotion that has kept me from basic cleanliness.

I might even get around to washing some of the walls that I've wanted too for a while.

...

Or I may read the third volume of Stephen Frys autobiography which I picked up for five dollars at the opshop, when i popped into the city centre on an errand for my eldest sister yesterday.

It was a bargin.