Seven
I’m not going to do this as a diary. I keep writing as if it’s a diary, but I can’t. Too much everything. I’m going to write down deep personal thingummies, when I can. Everyone says, “Get a counsellor.” But all the counsellor can do is be there for me as a conduit. That’s what happened last time, with the psychologist. This journal can do that, too. Too. As well. Equally. Maybe not equally. Maybe better.
One thing I hate about being ill is that no one believes it unless I share it all with them, and even then they don’t act on it. My nice neighbour said he’d pick me up today so I didn’t have to walk two miles with the bus strike when Hal was the other end of town. He picked me up and then he went to two different supermarkets and the petrol station. I wasn’t quite as tired as I wo
