offness

I really ought to be productive today...there's so much heaped on my plate...but I just don't feel like it.

I've had a horror of a migraine for the past two days, rendering me shaky and blurry and sick, and I don't feel up to anything more taxing than lying supine with my eyes fuzzing on the television. In trying to exact some framework of order on my room (sometimes I miss, dreadfully, having my own kitchen and my own cupboards and walls; my teas and spices and jars of dried legumes and noodles have been relegated to the dark and damp basement, and my heart bleeds for all my pretty, useful things locked out of sight; at the same time I feel guilty for having them at all and taking up so much of my parents' living space), some way of managing the space so that more of my own things can reside close to hand, I was forced to drive down to the local hardware store in search of wall anchors to rehang a mirror, and it took me a good half hour staring at little signs just to piece together which type of anchor would work best with my bedroom walls. Days like these impose a disconcerting disconnect between the information transmitted to my brain by my senses, and the processing of that information by my brain. I feel like a complete and total idiot, trapped in a linguistic handicap, practically illiterate and barely able to speak to anyone intelligibly.

Plus it just hurts to look at things.

Stupid hormones. I blame them for the descent into the doldrums yesterday and today, and for the migraine as well. It's the crash phase of the cycle, and darned if this month's isn't a doozy.

There's only one thing to do on woolly-headed, tongue-tied, thought-derailed, pain-ridden days like today: Pop in A&E's Pride and Prejudice, putter around with things that require minimal attention and try not to think. Worry becomes easy in this kind of physical framework, with all the chemicals jittering around in my blood vessels making me uneasy and a pincered headache imparting a sense of impending doom, and I know they're all utterly unfounded, so it's best to distract myself from feelings. Nothing they'll tell me today will be truthful, and while I can't turn them off, exactly -- it's not in my personality, temperament or nature; I feel, it's what I do and who I am -- I can pen them up with the application of plenty of strong tea and the wit and subtlety between Eliza Bennett and Mr. Darcy.

I can also be grateful, watching the idle gentry playing ridiculous games to amuse themselves, for the technology that yields up so much more entertainment than "taking turns about the room" of an evening. (Though if I had little to do but read, my reading list would shrink more rapidly.)