It was too much. Too much at once. He didn’t understand and still doesn’t. My fault. My fault for not being able to articulate it. He meant to be kind, and I appeared ungrateful, but it was just too much. And now they are all going back.
I don’t normally wear them. Nor do I buy them. This purchase and indeed style was an aberration. But I am glad that I did and wore it. It made me feel….different.
There have been too many days of scratchy moods and hysterics. I want it to stop. I want to learn to accept the rough and tumble of what life brings. For the disruptions are nothing, nothing in comparisons to wars, pestilence and famine. Nothing. So just stop the habit of throwing tantrums. After all, this is the life you have chosen, so live it, as it is.
She told them that they would have to do the caring. I understand her. I do. But I feel for the one who will need caring for so much. But I also feel for her, her hurt at not being able to offer this hangs there. It has happened before. When I interviewed him he said that he wanted to be put in a home when the time came, that he wanted to be responsible only for himself. I understand that too, though my own fear of having that happen to me is immense. So much loss awaits us all. Can we care?
I don’t know where it came from. I’d been outside, reading, ten minutes before and I’d been fine, calm even, tranquil. And then the raging came. It is fear mostly, fear of breaking down in front of them again. And not wanting that judgement. It’s all irrational, I know. He got cross with me, seeing it as indulgence (especially my bashing of the ironing board). Then I feel ashamed. It’s lifted. For now.
I kept waking last night and when I did I thought and worried about drawing. I’ve never felt good enough. There is no recognisable, always there talent, I muddle my way along with it. That’s all. And that is all. Is that enough?
The drawings I made first thing this morning were lack lustre. They didn’t cut it. So I won’t use them. Sometimes there is no heart in the act of drawing. I am doing it because I tell myself I must not because there is something that needs drawing. I have to just let that be and begin again tomorrow.
It is less and less under my control. It is sieve-like. I test myself over names. This mornng it was Sam Mendes’. I couldn’t remember it at all. I tried making connections. He was the director of American Beauty, he’d been the artistic director of the Donmar Warehouse, had married Kate Winslet and then Alison Balsam and then it came, just before I got into my bath. I forget to bring my milk from the fridge down to the studio frequently. A seed needs to planted daily.
She still isn’t eating and probably won’t now, ever. He says it doesn’t mean that she wants to die, but I am not so sure. Perhaps she isn’t articulating it as such to herself, but her body clearly does not want nourishment. She told him not to nag her about it. Let her be, let it be, even if it is hard to do so. She either cannot or does not want to eat. Let it be. Let it be.
It came last night. The summer is turning, and I have to switch on my anglepoise lamp in the studio. Do I mind? No.