Wednesday Wibble #4

"The Whale Has Swallowed Me" by Hugh Laurie is drifting from my laptop speakers.

I'm contemplating going to be very early, but I know I still won't sleep until very late.

Then again, if I stay up late, I will have nothing to do with my evening.

The nicks in my fingers from two successive slips with a new craft knife blade are very tender. In future I must remember to be less clumsy.

As is so often the case recently, my mind is elsewhere: to thoughts of wargaming; to her; to the upcoming gig...

The gig.

It feels like far longer than June 2011 since my last one...

My word. So much has happened.

I'm certain the old magic is still there - I just have to not be overconfident and actually PUT THE TIME INTO PRACTICING!

I'm completely calm about the whole prospect.

What a lie. I'm bricking it.

Group therapy has come to a conclusion. The next hurdle? Psych assessment.

With the excessive levels of self-doubt I have displayed of late, part of me wonders: Is this really necessary?

I'm clearly mad as a brush.

Who else (Besides Stu Hamm) would attempt to learn to play Moonlight Sonata on the bass guitar?

There is also the part of me that, above all else, utterly regrets throwing up my hands and asking for help.

Why? It's always good to get help for this sort of thing! I hear you shout (or words to the effect of)

True. I'm grateful to all the friends and professionals who have helped me get through this last 13 months and counting. And yes, some of the happier moments of my life have occurred in the last 13 months...

I have, however, had (more than) my fair share of shit.

I miss the bliss in being completely ignorant to my condition.

While I relish the clear-mindedness my medication has given me, I also miss being able to tune shit out or put it to the back of my mind.

I also despise the fact that I was forcibly disrobed of my emotional armour, forced to admit I needed help, then trodden on by an oath-breaking, cradle-snatching, devious harpy, whom, it should be noted, still has many of my clothes! Oh well, I hope she's either burned them or feels like a bitch whenever she sees them.

In much the same way that you don't ask a person who you gave a plaster to, to return it; I don't want them back after that bitch has had them.