The Raveled Sleave

This sort of paralysis continues.  At work I'm Madame C, excellent PA.  At home I'm just sort of sitting, smelling like soup.  Before 6 November I have to decide if I'm moving because three months' notice is required.  I cannot decide.  I can't think or do anything personally administrative at the moment either.    Perhaps it's an attempt to recreate some safety.  If I do nothing and be very quiet no-one can hurt me.  Old messages.

I've never wanted to be rescued.  Chances are the rescuer would just want a shag, or I would get impatient with the rubbish rescuing and grab the horse.  Right now though I'd like it if someone could say this is what you are going to do, and this is how you are going to do it, and I'm going to help you.  Realistically that person is going to be me, but there is just no fuel in the tank.

The idea of moving yet again (the third move in a year) is exhausting.  Last time I moved this much (three times between becoming pregnant and my daughter being seven months old) was half a life ago, and I was driven by the fierce urge to find a nest for us.  Now, I'd quite like to go and lie under the bed with the plastic boxes of sheets and towels.  I just want to sleep, and sleep, and sleep and then wake up in a nice apartment.  I bet in Hollywood you can actually do that.  I bet they Propofol you out and shift you to another house, unpack all your stuff and then prop you up at the table with a coffee and your laptop.