The 10th day has dawned. The limit set, for going back to work regardless of Covid status. As I type this I’m still testing positive, it’s very faint. Almost invisible. It doesn’t matter though, I’ve got to go back to work. I wrote a few days ago about anxiety rearing its head because I’ve spent so much time indoors. Well, since then It’s got worse.
Last time the simple task of going to Tesco, turned into world war three in my head. I managed to get outside, I managed to get to the local shop. I even went inside. I knew what I wanted, I had my heart set on a particular pizza deal. Well, they didn’t have it. Red flag number one for a meltdown. If you know me, on the outside I’m fairly confident, if something goes wrong… I deal with it. Normally. But if you check my phone and check my flat… I have post-it notes, notepads, and lists. Behind closed doors, I’m structured. I need it to focus my mind. So, I’m now standing in Tesco, no idea what I’m going to do because they didn’t have what I wanted. But it’s fine this express stocks Finest meal deals. For £10 I’m gonna get a main, side, dessert and a bottle of wine. Selected and paid for. Seemed like a lot of money for what it was but I did buy an e-liquid too. Left the shop, this is ok. I’m feeling a bit of breath but I’m not sure if that’s anxiety or the effects of Covid. Back home (Matthew’s) without incident. Unpack the shopping, and put the oven on. I picked a gammon with pineapple sauce and potato dauphinoise. Wait, the gammon needs foil? Do I have fucking foil? Of course, I fucking don’t. So, like I’m on speed I go through the cupboards, the drawers. No foil. What do I do now? Do you know what, fuck it? I’ll just put it in the oven, and periodically baste it with its own juices. Crisis averted? No. Still perplexed by the fact it cost so much I checked the receipt. Gammon, potatoes, wine, e-liquid. So why did it cost £20? I’ll go back tomorrow and sort it. Wait, no fucking dessert? Cue, actual meltdown. Why am I so fucking stupid? The tears start, and I feel my heart start beating rapidly. I’m thirty fucking two. And I’m crying over not picking up a dessert? I’m crying because I don’t want to go home, I don’t want to start going back to bed by myself again. I don’t want to come home in the morning to an empty flat. I don’t want to eat microwave meals because, well there’s no point in cooking a meal for one is there? I don’t want to work five nights a week, surrounded by people. I don’t want to go back to work and pretend I’m alright about being back. Because I’m not. I don’t want to leave work and come home to an empty flat. I don’t want to sleep all day, shower, and go straight out the door again. I don’t want to lie on my back wondering how I ended up like this. In short, I’m a drama queen who thinks negatively constantly.
Perfect, beautiful Matthew of course witnesses this huge mess that’s me and hugs me until my heart stops beating so fast and I chill out, kind of. Time to baste the gammon. I take it out of the oven, grab a spoon and turn it over in its own juices. Boom, it couldn’t have been fucking simple could it? It’s splashed everywhere. I’m sure a piece of the meat jumped out and landed somewhere to. I put it back in the oven, throw my hands in there and walk off exclaiming “I can’t do this”. After a short trip to the bathroom, to breathe. Count to ten and relax. I come back downstairs and put the potatoes in the oven. Put a youtube video on. Johnny Depp and Amber Heard news, in case you were wondering. Elbows on the worktop I watch it intently with tears streaming down my face. I’m an actual idiot. Now, he’s seen me crying and now I’m crying again. Give it ten minutes, I’m back to being ok. I’m inside, I’m safe. This is my last night here, I need to enjoy it.
Dinner was amazing by the way, I highly rate most of Tesco Finest meal deals. Good food and wine wasn’t too bad either. Nor were the two bottles of ice-cold beer I had. I also managed to convince Matthew to watch Pretty Woman. Only took a year. Easter egg consumption and off to bed.
Now it’s Monday and I don’t want to go… Bags packed, I’m dressed and my teeth are brushed. I’ve text my manager to confirm I’m back tonight. I don’t want to go. I really don’t want to go. I’m back on Wednesday, so why am I being such a drama queen? Anxiety, changes to the routine that has been the last ten days. And people. I don’t want to be around people.
Oh and I’ve been banned from Facebook again for 30 days. Yay.