I spend the whole week waiting for the weekend to come, every morning I wake up and tell myself to just get through the day. I get home and tick off another day that I managed to deal with. But then the weekend arrives and I’m faced with the prospect of it.
Weekends have, for a long time, been difficult for me. Too much time to think, too much time to waste. Friday nights I think about what I’m going to do over the next two days, invariably I achieve little of what I plan. Big ideas turn to disappointment and failure.
I normally end up not wanting to leave the house, I get up early and I sit and paint, I don’t even get dressed. That may not sound like a bad thing, painting helps my mind, I enjoy it, in fact I love it. It may only be paint by numbers, but it’s something creative and I get a huge sense of achievement when I finish one – they usually take over a month to finish.
There’s a flip side to that creativity, it’s a lack of motivation, it’s a fear of going outside, it’s also a huge sense of paranoia of being at home. For some reason I have a fear of telephone calls and also of anybody coming to the door, so although I lock myself away at home, I always have this horrible feeling of unease.
So as I lay in bed watching tv, waiting for the Zopiclone to knock me out, I wonder what the weekend will bring. As always I have plans, I want to clean my car to start with, I want to do something with people, I want to reach out to friends, to anyone, I’d love to go for coffee, but I know I won’t, my social skills are nonexistent these days.
Hey ho, enough for now, gonna settle down. Nite nite world, be kind to each other and try and smile just a little.