I received an email this morning which read "The Mount Desert Island Marathon is 95 days away."
Okay, let's have a look at this:
I'm nearly over a rather nasty injury.
I've had six weeks on the bench doing nothing more strenuous than swimming anda light jog.
As a grizzly bear by nature, getting up in the morning to run is as foreign to me as wearing pink and calling myself Talullah.
This means in ninety days I will be taking off for the chilly climate of the North Eastern USA - for a start.
Calm down, Pandora.
After last night's missal I've made a few decisions.
I'm going to be nice to myself. No more beating myself up, what will be, will be.
Exercise safely and daily.
Drink nothing stronger than coffee.
I can run walk the 42.2 kilometres. I'm going to contact the organisers and shift to the walk. Reindert can start with the runners and catch me up. It will be okay. I'm a warrior woman.
Spend twenty minutes a day meditating.
With these decisions the sore throat began to abate.
Next fix, work.
This is a transient period. Keep busy. Don't stress. What ever happens, I'm employable, and I've only ever been unemployed for six weeks of my life. There's a few tarot and writing jobs coming up to keep myself occupied. I'm safe, even if not fully engaged.
There, that feels better. See, the throat is nearly mended. Just the last bit to go.
What does one say to somebody who appears to take great delight in messing the other person around?
Something like this:
We've been tippytoeing around eachother for the last fifteen years. For the last ten of those years you've been keeping me on a long leash, coming and going as you please, making empty promises for visits, forever asking when I will be coming over, never actually keeping your word, but also never actually letting me go.
Well, stop it - I'm over it. You know where I live. You want to see me? Come find me - I'm sick of being at your beck and call.
I deserve better. People who don't like me treat me with more respect. I'm not a toy which you can pick up and put down as you please.
Sort yourself out, decide what you want, but don't drag me into your despair any more - I don't want it and I certainly don't need you if you're going to persist in treating me like a whipping post or unwanted Christmas puppy.
I've plenty of other people to spend time with in England when I get there.
And I swallow, the sore throat has gone away. I can breathe calmly and deeply.
Existential crisis over.