Help me, Obi-Wan, you're my only hope
Feb. 7th, 2010 10:50 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
desperanceSo the emergency plumbing people didn't come yesterday, tho' I waited in all day on the offchance. I am officially expecting them today, and so first thing I did was clear out the big bookshelf in the bedroom, and shift same once it was empty. It is now lying on its side half on the landing and half in the office here, because I can't shift it any further. There are twenty-odd of these seven-foot steel bookcases throughout my house, and I put them all up by myself, but that was years ago. These days they pretty much defeat me.
So does everything defeat me, except perhaps the actual trick of putting words in order. This house, particularly. I seldom ask people round any longer; it's only when I'm expecting someone - and strangers, yet! - that I realise what a state the place is in. Apparently I can drift around within it for days and weeks and months on end, follow my regular patterns and just never really see my environment. As soon as I know someone's coming, the scales fall from my eyes and - eww, real people? Are coming into this...?
Oh, I hate it. I love my house, except when it betrays me; I hate the way I fail it. I've said before, I should never have been allowed custody of a house. I'm just not competent.
And right now, even if I swore a great oath to look after it better, I'm not physically competent. As witness, defeated by shifting a bookcase. Granted it's sheet steel, seven foot high and three foot wide; and granted I have a ruined neck and desperately hurty shoulders; but even so. Gah. I need help. (And I hate that too, of course, that apparently I can't do this by myself any longer.)
I'm sorry, I seem to be dreadfully whiny this morning. I am kind of dreading these plumby people, when they eventually arrive. Which is another symptom of what's wrong with me, and why the house is in such a condition: I'm no good at dealing with strangers. It is ... not a coincidence, that my job allows me pretty much to hide from the world, either here or in the library. I probably need help with that too (see entries hitherto, about acting like a grown-up), though I suspect my house would be easier to fix.
And I should probably not post this, but soddit. Don't care.
So does everything defeat me, except perhaps the actual trick of putting words in order. This house, particularly. I seldom ask people round any longer; it's only when I'm expecting someone - and strangers, yet! - that I realise what a state the place is in. Apparently I can drift around within it for days and weeks and months on end, follow my regular patterns and just never really see my environment. As soon as I know someone's coming, the scales fall from my eyes and - eww, real people? Are coming into this...?
Oh, I hate it. I love my house, except when it betrays me; I hate the way I fail it. I've said before, I should never have been allowed custody of a house. I'm just not competent.
And right now, even if I swore a great oath to look after it better, I'm not physically competent. As witness, defeated by shifting a bookcase. Granted it's sheet steel, seven foot high and three foot wide; and granted I have a ruined neck and desperately hurty shoulders; but even so. Gah. I need help. (And I hate that too, of course, that apparently I can't do this by myself any longer.)
I'm sorry, I seem to be dreadfully whiny this morning. I am kind of dreading these plumby people, when they eventually arrive. Which is another symptom of what's wrong with me, and why the house is in such a condition: I'm no good at dealing with strangers. It is ... not a coincidence, that my job allows me pretty much to hide from the world, either here or in the library. I probably need help with that too (see entries hitherto, about acting like a grown-up), though I suspect my house would be easier to fix.
And I should probably not post this, but soddit. Don't care.