Futile

I needn't have worried about being in too high spirits and not having anything juicy to tell the psychologist on Wednesday. Yesterday afternoon the mood took a nosedive again and while it gave me great oomph in running, it made work difficult and I felt horribly tired.

B was gorgeous- he ordered me to bed, and stayed up till three helping with my work. I probably slept three nights' worth, because when the clock went at 6 I felt utterly refreshed. It lasted about an hour. Then I tumbled again.

I can't seem to find any hope. I know that we're taking all these steps, the plane ticket, the agencies, the visa, me with the psychologist, but I can't seem to dig up any hope to look forward to any of these things. I seem to have lost the energy to plan.

I re-read Winton short stories on the trolley ride to work and the words sat at the base of my ribcage, thick with longing and salt.

And I remembered, (back to the run yesterday) the reason why I had managed 14k's in 1997 with the cross country team- that afternoon, lovesick for Hugh, and hearing Jane Green gossip something with Sarah, and I misheard...I thought in my eager schoolgirl heart that Hugh liked Sarah and no one had told me... and there it was, all that pent up yearning came out through my feet, and I ran with Meg, who had legs like trees but I remember being so seized by this sadness over Hugh (before we'd even started) that I didn't properly enjoy the arrival at the Barwon Boatsheds where there was disgusting cordial and sandwiches....

I am really feeling Friday today, but there is so much work still to get through.

This sentence struck me the other day, struck me with familiarity "Through a suburb of roundabouts and artful dead ends..."