Bless My Uncle B.

I called him to see if the estimate I got on shoring up the rest of the ceilings was reasonable and I told him how I’m just sick with the idea that ever pop or snap in the house is a nail popping out of the ceiling joist and he pointed out that I could measure the ceiling height at the wall and the ceiling height in the middle of the room and voila! I would know if the ceiling was sagging.

Of course, I can’t find the tape measure, but it still makes me feel better.

Here It Comes

I think it’s because everything that can be done is done. There’s only so much cleaning that can be done because there’s still an open hole in the ceiling and an enormous construction project to happen before cleaning isn’t actually futile.

But I am fucked up today.

I’m convinced my bedroom ceiling is gong to cave in. Like today. I keep thinking I hear the nails popping out–which would be totally unlike what happened in here, and rationally I know that, but I’m about hysterical over it. And I’ve become more and more terrified throughout the morning about the prospect of getting everything fixed. I don’t want them to start fixing the living room until the rest of the house is secure, because I don’t want them to knock the rest of the ceilings loose.

But what if even screwing drywall screws into it is enough to bring it down? What if some dude gets killed trying to fix my mess?

I just want to throw up every five seconds.

And I know–I know–it’s just my brain letting off steam, trying to find some way to deal with this. The way out is through and all that jazz, but damn. It seems like the trick with anything, especially the older you get, is just not letting your fucking brain make you miserable while you’re trying to cope.

I’m not doing that very well today.

But I am waiting on someone to come over and give me an estimate. So, that’s something.