I Has a Grump

I really hate waking up like this.  I hate feeling like I hate everything and everything hates me.  I know it’s not true.  Stupid depression.

Huh.  So much for my nice eloquent post about the trials of depression.  Basically, I feel like crap.  I was meant to go to my dressmaking course this morning.  I was also meant to go to it last week and the week before and the week before.  The first week of term I missed for a legitimate reason – we were all snowed in.  The second week I went to Hastings to go to a meeting at my sister’s school.  Then last week I may have exaggerated the headache I had.

But all week I’ve been dreading Monday morning.  I don’t know why.  I enjoyed last term.  I enjoyed learning a new skill, and socialising with people.

Actually, I do have some suspicions.  I think I feel judged there.  I’m waayyy bigger than anybody else in the group – not to mention younger – and I find it difficult to get a pattern to fit me.  At the start of last term I made a skirt from a pattern the teacher helped me draw off one of my old ones.  Then, so that I would know how to use a pattern, I brought a top pattern and made that.  But the top doesn’t fit.

I’ve been telling myself, and everyone, that I don’t mind.  That it’s a top to shrink into.  That I’ll gift it.  But it’s downright depressing as hell.  Learning a new skill and loving it, and then spending your time and energy creating something you can’t fit into.  I hate it.

So why not make another skirt?  Well, I did.  I made a couple at home, but I’m scared of taking them in to show the teacher, because she’s a perfectionist.  She’s a dressmaker by trade, and everything has to be done absolutely perfectly.  I don’t think she’d like the way my applique patches aren’t straight.  Or the way the border on the bottom of one skirt is made up of some fabric facing the wrong way round.

I’d wanted to go back this term to learn how to work with stretchy fabric.  So that I could make t-shirts and pajama bottoms and jersey dresses.  But, let’s face it, I can learn all that online somewhere.  I brought a pattern that requires jersey fabric, but it won’t fit me.  Because there are about three patterns that come in my size: they’re all stupidly expensive, and ugly.

One of my favourite dresses finally reached the point where it should’ve gone in the bin.  Instead, I unpicked all the seams and drew a pattern from the parts.  I was going to take that in today, as my project to work on.  But I can imagine her face when she sees my drawn pattern.  She won’t like that I used pen instead of pencil.  She won’t like that the seam allowance isn’t 2.5cm, even though I drew what was left on the dress and fully intend to widen it before I cut it out.

I don’t like being judged.  I don’t like spending all week dreading something that I don’t HAVE to do.  So this morning I emailed the college and told them I had to withdraw from that particular course.

However, I still have the grumps.  For lots of reasons.  I woke up grumpy, and it doesn’t just go away.  I feel guilty for dropping the course.  The animals are all picking on each other.  I’m dreading facing mum when she comes downstairs and I have to tell her I dropped out.  She won’t judge me, she never does, but I’ll still feel horrible.  I’m worried I’m still gonna be in a funk when it’s time to leave the house to go to the writing club I planned on joining this afternoon.  I’m stroppy because I want to roll over and go back to sleep, and I know that I shouldn’t.  I’m upset that my baking attempts have been so crappy lately.  I’m annoyed that a guy I started talking to the other day has just up and vanished.  I’m….   well.  Everything.  When I’m in this mood every little thing gets to me.

There is one little ray of sunshine though.  I may be still in bed, but I’m sat up.  I’ve done one of my work chores.  I’ve written this blog.  I haven’t rolled over to go back to sleep.  And I have gummy bears.


About Colette Horsburgh

A 30-something creator/baker/writer/doodler/crafter living with several (but not enough) scatty animals.
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