Cat on a Hot Pink Rug.

At my desk by 9am. Start writing before I even catch my breath. I’ve always zipped up the step ladder to the attic without it being a thing. One-armed, carrying coffee, water and notebooks. Now it leaves me panting. Twenty minutes to recover.

I get straight to this blog. No preamble. No pre-write. I’m trying to get as close as I can to sharing my diary with you rather than reporting on experience that’s been processed and perfected. Something I’ve always promised but always resisted.

I no longer have the resources for prevarication. CFS is teaching me daily lessons about how to use what I have. What can I jettison? Shall I start with worrying, doubting, stalling, anticipating, dwelling…? They consume so much energy.

And the thing is……

Aaaaggghhhhh!!! Oh NO!!!! They’re back!

The power tools! The week of my diagnosis coincided with our neighbour moving out and the owner deciding to gut the whole house. And it’s been shrill drilling and sanity-draining sanding every day since. EEEEEEEEEEE! On and on. For a whole month my attempts at precious rest have had this relentless squealing soundtrack.

Breathe. Despair takes a lot of energy. Can I find a way to stay positive? All things pass don’t they? The builders will have to stop at some point. It’s just that like the pandemic, the going in and out of lockdowns, the chronic fatigue, I don’t know when.

I have no control.

I’ll have to hold my nerve. Or go stay at my sisters. Although I hate to leave Sefi alone with this deafening, unpredictable noise in her territory. (ML is at work.)

On cue, Sefi bounds up the ladder to join me. She always does it in two logic-defying leaps. She starts to kneads the cerise fleece throw. I watch her, smile and think Cat on a Hot Pink Rug. When I’ve finished this, I will go and lie down next to her.

Deep slow breaths, Rachel. Deep slow breaths.

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