Great bald patches of space are appearing throughout my home.
"How much stuff?" says Didi.
I dread the unpacking and the groans of despair from the boys at the threat of
there being cerebral matter in their orbits.
Books pose a challenge of self-discipline, of constraint.
Today reduced me to palpitations and tremors- to facing the reality of cancelling
accounts and informing others of my change of address.
I want it all done without my having to do it.
By the time I'd rushed to get ready for work the gibbering was palpable-the
fluttering in the base of the throat, stuttering pulse, sense of losing control,
stupid mistakes, butter fingers, everything ending up on the dog shelf,
(just when bending is excruciating and agonising)
first fear of making mistakes in crucial areas.
This is not the first time I've moved and I've organised them before without
this mess of anxiety and exhaustion.
My underlying fear is that there is a physical cause that I or the doctor are missing.
I don't want to confront that either so I'm doing what I reprove in others-deliberate
ignorance as a safer bet than the truth.
Coward,coward, coward.
Don't try to cover it by saying you want to spare loved ones the anxiety,the heartache, because
they have enough troubles of their own....
Yada,yada,yada..........
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