(no subject)
On Sunday I went to Mildreds, a vegetarian restaurant, with Linds. After spending maybe half of the meal picking up things for the very small child at the next table, to his amusement, we agreed that it was easily one of the best meals we'd had in ages, and waxed lyrical about the depth and complexity of the flavours. Linds may just have been grateful that it wasn't East Asian food for once.
Monday, as predicted, descended into hell.
+ Therapy session almost exclusively dedicated to how I felt about the damn party. I eventually snapped and said this was precisely what I'd been dreading the stupid thing being about and how I felt like I was always being pushed into having the Right Feeling about something and how no matter how close we were to the end of my time in therapy he couldn't keep expecting me to have a Sudden Breakthrough or whatever it is that he wants. There was a lot of silence after that which I was too fucking tired to feel uncomfortable about.
+ Journey to Harley Street with an intensely limited timeframe was the stuff that nightmares are made of. Nearly murdered several people.
+ Actual appointment itself was a festival of disappointments (the major compromise I have to look at is between sensation and psychological comfort, and the next is between function and sensation, and I am not allowed to tick a wavier saying "I do not give a living fuck if I get cancer" even though people are allowed to smoke. Legally. And that has a far, far, far higher risk index for cancer than an untampered-with cervix); with a patronising surgeon (I am so glad to be writing about an unfeeling sadistic dickshaft surgeon character at the moment because clearly being touchy and full of your own magnificence is a defining fucking character trait in a lot of people in that field, and apparently in a lot of gender doctors).
+ In an attempt to mitigate my foul mood I bought:
- New pillowcases, which are made of jersey
- Multiple idiotic bath bombs
- A pointless foofy coffee drink, which I regretted because the cream content made me feel ill
- Chirashi, pumpkin croquettes, and whitefish tempura; matcha mochi, matcha dorayaki, and matcha trifle.
As a consequence of a) eating and b) angry retail therapy (which was limited because I knew damn well I'd regret that, too, if I didn't limit it) I came home in a slightly less rancid mood than I'd left the surgery in, but I was still slightly less pleasant than a dog with a stomach upset.
Proceeded to have an ANGRY BATH with every bit of glitter in the world and some sake. Was further riled by lack of expected Hannibal episodes on the Cloud. Mutinously arsed about with home server; still no ability to back up TV. Watched first episode on laptop in state of pure rage.
Today I am less antagonised by everything and have hit saturation point with worry/self-recrimination over progress in any area; I am cruising in the cold, clear waters of No Fucks Given, where nothing has any consequences and I can do whatever I want. A dangerous time.
Monday, as predicted, descended into hell.
+ Therapy session almost exclusively dedicated to how I felt about the damn party. I eventually snapped and said this was precisely what I'd been dreading the stupid thing being about and how I felt like I was always being pushed into having the Right Feeling about something and how no matter how close we were to the end of my time in therapy he couldn't keep expecting me to have a Sudden Breakthrough or whatever it is that he wants. There was a lot of silence after that which I was too fucking tired to feel uncomfortable about.
+ Journey to Harley Street with an intensely limited timeframe was the stuff that nightmares are made of. Nearly murdered several people.
+ Actual appointment itself was a festival of disappointments (the major compromise I have to look at is between sensation and psychological comfort, and the next is between function and sensation, and I am not allowed to tick a wavier saying "I do not give a living fuck if I get cancer" even though people are allowed to smoke. Legally. And that has a far, far, far higher risk index for cancer than an untampered-with cervix); with a patronising surgeon (I am so glad to be writing about an unfeeling sadistic dickshaft surgeon character at the moment because clearly being touchy and full of your own magnificence is a defining fucking character trait in a lot of people in that field, and apparently in a lot of gender doctors).
+ In an attempt to mitigate my foul mood I bought:
- New pillowcases, which are made of jersey
- Multiple idiotic bath bombs
- A pointless foofy coffee drink, which I regretted because the cream content made me feel ill
- Chirashi, pumpkin croquettes, and whitefish tempura; matcha mochi, matcha dorayaki, and matcha trifle.
As a consequence of a) eating and b) angry retail therapy (which was limited because I knew damn well I'd regret that, too, if I didn't limit it) I came home in a slightly less rancid mood than I'd left the surgery in, but I was still slightly less pleasant than a dog with a stomach upset.
Proceeded to have an ANGRY BATH with every bit of glitter in the world and some sake. Was further riled by lack of expected Hannibal episodes on the Cloud. Mutinously arsed about with home server; still no ability to back up TV. Watched first episode on laptop in state of pure rage.
Today I am less antagonised by everything and have hit saturation point with worry/self-recrimination over progress in any area; I am cruising in the cold, clear waters of No Fucks Given, where nothing has any consequences and I can do whatever I want. A dangerous time.