same again...

...sore. Sober. Stiff. And miserable as all fuck. Long day, including another shift at the rehab centre. Where I excelled at being useless and did almost nothing but managed to be exhausted by it anyway. Now sitting here too tense to go to bed, and have just rediscovered that I am supposed to go to an all-day lunch/tea/dinner thing tomorrow. Ex-volunteer at the centre, who I actually like, is back home on holiday from an extended earning-some-real-money sojourn in the UK. I want to see her. Just not...yet. I'm not ready for any of the social things that seem to be coming way too fast, and way way not prepared for the whole Christmas bit.

I love my friends and family. Just don't want to have to see any of them. I am becoming more and more asocial, and don't know how to explain to people that it's not their fault - I feel as if my entire supply of social interaction is used up by people with birds/shop assistants/street vendors/other arbitrary conversations. Nothing left over for any more people, even the ones I care about.

I am just so tired of all this. Feeling crap. Feeling guilty. Dreaming about dying accidentally so that I don't hurt people any more. Enough already...

this was a weekend non-work day?

OK, so I get to take weekdays off a lot of the time, but still, there's something about working on weekends that leaves me feeling slightly deprived.

Nightmare morning visit to the city centre. About a million pedestrians all busy ignoring road-rules and seemingly intent on becoming accident statistics. About the same number of minibus taxis doing the same. Me and the woman I was meeting to assess feral pigeon injuries and catching possibilities were very likely the only palefaces in the whole city. Followed by afternoon shift at the centre, where I never quite got into the rhythm, so it was all a stuff-up. And finishing off with an even more nightmare visit to the inner-city tenement area to fetch a feral pigeon with a broken leg. Figure that if there is ever a reason why I would stop being the local mad-pigeon-lady, it will be the insalubrious and dangerous areas that they thrive in. Even though my secret theory is that being suicidal actually makes me bomb-proof. If death is attractive, then the possibility of it happening at random isn't that frightening. And it takes away the guilt and planning aspects too.

Didn't stop me though from being very nervous about the little mongoose in the clinic this afternoon, who was passionately in love with my sandal-clad feet. He was scent-marking and nosing between my toes, and inside my denims, and far too interested in my bare skin for comfort. Not fearing death is a lot easier than dealing with the likelihood of small teeth and painful bites...