Fake It Till You Make It

I had a meltdown last night. My husband doesn't understand me. Well, why would he? I barely understand myself. He said I don't try. That I love having something to moan about, like the new wooden worktops which are always covered in water or milk or something every time Bert has been near them.

I'm always trying. Trying to beat low mood (moderate depression). Today, after waking up and not wanting to get up I decided I'd fake it till I made it. Covers off, feet on floor.

Yay! You got up! Even though you didn't want to. You're amazing!

Into the bathroom. Someone has left parcels on the floor. Say what you like about our dogs. They use the bathroom. Even though it's our bathroom and theirs is supposed to be the very far corner of the front garden (meadow). I picked it up (using toilet paper), flushed it, washed my hands (thoroughly).

Wow! You picked up the dog shit, flushed it, washed your hands after. You're wonderful!

I made coffee, went back to bed. Read my books.

Look at you! You're awake, reading your books! Enjoying them! 

Then. Shower. Just in case I get myself together to go get my Worzel Gummidge hair sorted, soaping away.

Get you! Showering! What you like? Awesome!

And so on and so on.

At some time in the late afternoon as I trotted briskly towards the bus station, I said to myself,

There you go! Picking up the grandchildren, just like any regular granny. 

And here I am. Blogging. Faking it till I make it. Beating low mood and moderate depression into a corner. Fucking it up. Saying, what do we say to fucking low mood and depression?

NOT TODAY!

Regular Granny and number 2 grandchild