I've been making a bit more effort on the home front. By which I mean an almost discernible effort, as opposed to none at all. It's become truly horrible round here since I stopped doing shit. Bloke, who talks a good talk about what a feminist he is and how he can turn his hand to any domestic task doesn't see ugliness in his surroundings and doesn't realise the impact it has on mood, so doesn't do the little tweaking things that make a place feel nice. And I found some of the worksheets from the self-compassion group I did at the psych hospital last year, which kind of shone a torch on my behaviour. I mean, how am I meant to not feel like shit when I'm living in a place that looks like an ex b&b, currently being used for storage, with stuff just dumped and left where it falls and more stuff on top of it. There's just a small accessible patch in the centre of each flat surface, like the kitchen counters, the rest buried under teetering piles of god knows what. And surprisingly, although much of the surface detritus is mine, the big stuff is all his, boxes of books he still hasn't unpacked or thought about getting a bookcase for, bags of his father's stuff - it's so hard to chuck dead people's things in the rubbish, isn't it?

So I'm starting with the conservatory (which seems a ridiculous name for the ramshackle structure stuck loosely oton the back of the house) by moving the table back out there, having a wipe round with a damp cloth and making a place to sit. Bloke was gobsmacked about how different it feels - not exactly home-like, but moving in that direction - which made me want to smack him or not speak to him for a decade or so, but I didn't.

One of the women at the art group on Friday said something which might be filtering through. We were talking about being able to do some ordinary things but not others and I mentioned that I can go to the supermarket and do YD's food shop by gritting my teeth and ploughing on through, but if it's for me, I'm overwhelmed and undone by the lights and the noise and the movement and can't get myself inside at all. Why can I do it for her but not for me? Why does the same task change so much? C suggested that can look after YD but not myself and maybe I might need to do these things for little Anna. Which doesn't make me want to go to the supermarket and buy food, but does make me want to make a nice home. I don't want to live here, but here is where I live so I'm going to make it nice. For me, and for the little girl I once was. Meh.

I can't believe I am so mental at a time when British politics is going through historical fucking shit and I CANNOT BEAR to read more than the headlines because they are all such CUNTS, Jesus fucking Christ, how did it come to this? We had a referendum in which the side that won lied consistently during the campaign, right up to the point at which they won, when they said, ah no, those weren't promises, just possibilities, which in any sensible universe would mean the whole thing is null and void, scrap the whole thing, as you were, carry on. And now they're all resigning, the ones who've just won, because they didn't really want to leave the EU and never thought they'd actually win as that just makes a big fucking mess and they don't want to have to deal with that so they're off. But the ones coming in to replace them are another bunch of absolute shites. But anyway. I want to turn off every source of info about current affairs, but how can I?

Grateful for - the person who found my purse on a city street and handed it into my bank without taking a penny or leaving their name; the barista in Pret who gave me a free cup of coffee when I told her all this shortly after I'd got my purse back, still agitated as fuck; and other stuff but I'm going to bed now