It’s Sunday night.
If I stop and notice I can hear: The deep whoops of a frog, the quite distinctive staccato of nearby chirping instincts, the whirring of computer fans, the less distinct drone of far-awayer insects, the occasional rushing of late night vehicles on the wet main road two streets down, the even more occasional high-to-low sequence of a gecko chatter, and every now and then, the clatter and flapping of a flying fox launching from the poinsiana.
I’m sitting at the desk in the back office, second storey, surrounded by windows. Outside the window to my right, at my eye level, there is the foliage and fruit of papaya tree. It’s less than two metres away and the window is open. Just as I finished typing of the flying foxes, one landed on (clumsily blundered into) said tree. I can now see it, climbing along the fronds, reaching down with its snoot and curling tongue, nibbling at the ripest papaya. I can hear it slurping. It has an orange neck ruff. It’s grasping the fruit with its tiny front paws.
It’s 11.45 pm and I have a client in ~nine hours. 9.00 am. I leave for work at 8.30 am, get out of bed at 8.00 am.
People are advised to sleep between seven and nine hours for best cognitive and physical health, however we are individuals and our needs differ. Six to ten hours may be appropriate. I tend to need nine hours, and it takes another hour after that to be able to reasonably comprehend and respond to my fellow person. My colleagues have learned to tone their cheery morning-person greetings down when I inevitably slouch twenty minutes late into the shared office space. The administration staff have (generally) learned that I strongly prefer my 9.00 am appointment slot to remain empty. Unfortunately, we have a new admin person.
This week has been a low one. I cancelled a string of social commitments and my entire “things I simply must do around the house this week” list. I took Friday afternoon, my private practice time, off (I took Monday off also, but I was genuinely unwell). I watched an ungodly number of movies and read several books and spoke to pretty much no one except my mumm and Brenton. It was glorious.
This morning was no different. I lounged languidly abed, reading The Last Unicorn, while Brenton bounced in and out of the room asking advice on repairing his father’s computer. Eventually my eye-rolling muscles started feeling the strain and I got up to help him. We repaired the computer. I cleaned out the innards of our computer. I tested and backed up several extraneous hard drives. I tidied up and concealed the hopelessly-tangled-wedged-under-the-desk cables. I swept. I organised my filing system. I recycled our e-waste. I went grocery shopping. I cleaned out the aquarium. I watered the garden. I helped Brenton fit the blinds to the new office. We took some benzos, ordered pizza, had a few drinks and watched a movie. When Brenton went to bed I started writing an article on understanding and working through infidelity.
I started all this at about 1.00 pm and finished up by writing this post. It’s more than I’ve done in the past three weeks. Now it’s midnight and I feel I’ll never be able to sleep again.
I took a sleeping pill before I began this entry. Usually within ten minutes my eyes outright defy my desire to finish what I thought I’d be finished by the time it hit. Like, when I go to bed, I always read a bit until my eyes get tired. When I take a pill, I’m never ready to put the book down by the time it hits, so every five seconds I have to consciously will open my eyes to continue. The next day I open my book where I left off and always, always, have to go back two or three pages to find something I can remember reading.
This pill ain’t workin. Idk wtf is going on. The worst part is I wake up super groggy when I’ve taken one and it takes me an extra hour to enter the same time-stream as the rest of the world.
In summary, I feel pretty bad for my 9 am client.
I’m gonna go finish my book.