Stalking

A strange time of picking up old threads while trying to find new ones strong enough to get hold of, to follow. And of just surviving this winter, now shifted from the seemingly relentless cold to mild but windy and frequently dull, though there was a glimmer of sunshine as we drove back from Todmorden this lunchtime, after visiting our new friend H.

L is stalking the house for rogue drafts with a candle. Thank goodness for the warmer weather - we had been burning more pounds a day than I care to tell you - I hold my head and moan every time this conversation arises. We look at brochures for woodburners, weighing the initial outlay against the steady drain of funds on gas.

My finances are close to rock bottom, and I can't afford to do anything akin to a luxury. My brother's partner is having a 60th birthday party in May. They live in Brussels and I can't afford to go. It's an odd experience. I have not really been quite this poor before. Still hoping the school work will start soon, but have waited all week to hear when the planned meeting next week is to take place. No word. Painfully slow, the progress towards a living. And my one child client has this week decided she wants to stop for a while, maybe forever. Awake in the night in panic - the ground dropping away beneath me kind I experienced when the complaint was first made, and I realised I would probably lose my job. A diluted version of that. Sleepless like I haven't been for ages. Wide-eyed and nervous system roaring at 2.30 and 4.30 am.

At the same time I feel a steady growth of optimism, of excitement.

I have tracked down my first therapist whom I haven't seen for nine years, and exchanged emails. Strange. Important. Somehow linked with reading my Dad's letters. I went to her the year he died, sensing that somehow my numbness wasn't right.