I didn’t go to the farm today. I also didn’t achieve anything productive in town. Which means I’m basically feeling like a decomposing sack of potatoes as I sit here on the couch wondering when the indigestion from the frozen quiche is going to arrive before the heart attack from all the salt. My stomach hurts from having too much food today, because obviously home and bored means eat stuff and I can feel the tension in every muscle because I didn’t work them into the submissive jello like consistency required to stop anxiety attacks from constantly trying to tense them into a cramp.

I’m incredibly aware that suddenly throwing myself into constant work at the farm is just another form of self medication to keep me focusing on [waves arms theatrically] other things. Currently the exhaustion and occasional light injuries are the only the thing I have to look forward to, and that really isn’t sustainable, let alone healthy.

The problem is I can’t actually see any other solution at this point than to just keep going and hope I stumble arse-backwards into a solution to any time/money problems, or an artery blocks up from all the TV dinners and kills me. Did I mention taking the day off isn’t a treat anymore? Most of my concentration today went into writing a 10 page to do list in my notebook. This became necessary because the previous 4 page list that was meant to take me up to the end of the month was finished 2 days ago. I underestimated the amount of manic activity required to stop me getting a bit sad about [waves arms theatrically again] my life. Oh and all the Christmas stuff that is everywhere can go and do one because I don’t have the time, money of goodwill to spare on that tinsel nightmare.

I’m really starting to wonder exactly how much longer I can keep this up, because I’m pretty sure I am now the world’s third largest producer of cortisol.