Dear diary, What's Wrong With Me?

I've written three hundred blog posts in my head I'm sure. If not three hundred, at least 30 and none of them are making it to the ether. This could be because I'm time poor and trying to get to sleep early. But I think it's rather a depressing lack of motivation caused by the roller coaster I've been on for the past couple of months. I think if I have to do one more extreme high (e.g. relief of Mum dying, 11yo with his A average) followed by an extreme low (e.g. Mum dying, missing out on scholarship) I might just risk life and limb and jump off the ride.

I do have time to write. I'm going to bed at 2200 and finding that I'm still wide awake at 0100 and wondering why didn't do something useful rather than stew fretfully in bed listening to the walrus choking on a fish next to me.

Activities that normally entertain me have lost their appeal. The thought of trolling pro-life websites and picking holes in their logic, usually fun, just fills me with a tiredness bordering on despair. Because study next year is still up in the air I can't pick up any philosophy or psycho-neurology without feeling depressed and pointless. Much of my feminist rants were anger driven and the anger just isn't there at the moment.

I can't get pissed off, I can't get motivated, and with the aid of Travis I seem to have cried myself out over my mother. All the cleaning an tidying has left me with a still overflowing in-tray and a house that is only half orderly so the thought of doing more to no avail makes me miserable.

Coffee with friends always helps, as do lists that I can tick so I can see that I've accomplished something for the day. Charming, cheeky 11yo boys always bring sunshine into the house. But right now... right now I just might break out the new toy...