Poor me

I am about to take some time out from my usual style. Apologies to those coming here expecting my usual silliness and optimism, but I'm in that rarest of states for me: a bad mood. A REALLY bad mood. I've been in it all day. I am iraira (irritable). I am iraira at everybody and everything. Everybody is stupid and unreasonable. Everything is stupid and unreasonable. Life is stupid and unreasonable and ridiculously tragic and unfair.

The Man has been out all day so I've been alone, trying to get stuff done for next week's classes and not succeeding because I'm too iraira to think straight or to concentrate. Being alone means that the only person around for me to get iraira at has been me, so I've been iraira at myself all day. I am stupid and unreasonable and I wish I'd just go away and leave me alone. I have been iraira at things, too. When I knocked over a cup in the sink I cursed it for being stupid and getting in my way. I told the frypan it was its own fault when I burnt it. I got angry at the computer when I spelled students' names wrong. Then I got iraira at students for having names with too many vowels in them. My typing fingers don't like it.

This is so unusual for me that I know it has to be connected with my physical condition. It almost always is. The connection between mood and physical condition has always been fairly clear to me, but was made explicit one time when The Man and I discovered during a massage one day that if he pressed down on my belly on a particular spot in a particular way I became instantly and deeply sorrowful. It was as if all the sufferings of the world suddenly descended on my shoulders, and I would weep from the unbearable sadness of life. It was all too much. Then he'd stop, and I'd be all cheerful and unreasonably sunny again within a few minutes. We experimented with this for a while because it was so interesting, but stopped when the acupuncturist told us it was dangerous.

But I have never taken moods seriously since then. If I feel sad or irritated or angry my first reaction is to start wondering if I've been eating and sleeping properly. If there is something valid for me to feel irritated or angry about, then I eat and sleep properly and see if I am still irritated or angry. Usually I'm not. Usually I can just deal with it and stay calm. Life is sad and difficult and and unfair and full of pain. I know that. It is the way things are. It doesn't mean I have to be sad and angry and irritated all the time, though. Nor do I need self-pity. We're all in the same leaky boat.

And, of course, I haven't been eating or sleeping properly, and the stomach virus didn't help. I've been WORKING. The first week of work is so damned hard I want to give up. I want to say, "THAT'S IT! I'VE HAD ENOUGH! I WANT A REASONABLE JOB!" Each class in itself has been fine, but there are just too many of them. I want to teach them well but how can I? I will do my best, of course, but just thinking about it makes me tired. Poor, poor me.

But I also know that in a couple of weeks I'll be back into the swing of things and my body will have adjusted to the demands I'm putting on it, and I'll become more sensible about food and sleep, and will cope with the demands of work, and the iraira feeling will vanish. It will probably vanish by tomorrow, after a good night's sleep.

It already receded a little when The Man came home, looked at my face, looked at the burnt frypan, gave me a cuddle, and said,

"Don't worry about it. I'll do it."

And he did. I am no longer iraira at the frypan.

So don't worry. I'll soon be back to my normal unreasonably cheerful self.