Susan, by Jacek Yerka

oh, how I love my sober sleep.

getting into bed tired but not blotto. feeling drowsiness well up in me like a pool of deep green water. surrendering gratefully to the kindness of its lapping approach. luxuriating all night in its depths…

B.C. (before children) we were lucky enough to go scuba diving in tropical waters. and my enduring amazement and wonder at being able to be part of this magical, previously inaccessible environment is much the same.

have started counselling, therapy, what-have-you. second session yesterday. fine during but afterwards feeling as if would burst into tears at the slightest provocation: but being unable to. counsellor lovely. kind but firm. she has warned me of this and it is therefore completely within expected parameters of how I ‘should’ feel. have read various metaphors about starting therapy being like stirring up sediment that has settled at the bottom of a bucket, and it takes a while to clear. so in meantime I am adopting Anne’s maxim of ‘extreme self-care.’

I went back to bed last night between 5.30pm and 6.30pm, then from 7.30pm till 9.30pm. read. rang a friend. caught up on sober blogs. then actually went to bed πŸ˜‰

feeling more chipper this morning. but better safe than sorry! so – clean sheets, tonight. more bed. re-apply as necessary!

the title of this post is taken from Sylvia Plath’s poem for children, ‘The Bed Book’. I find it heartening that she, who is perhaps as famous for her struggles with despair and darkness as for her writing, had a joyous lighter side which loved the possibilities of beds too. I had (and still have, and read to my children) the 1976 edition of the book which you can see in its entirety here, illustrated with his usual madcap fervour by Quentin Blake.

night night, sleep tight! Prim xx

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