losing it

Exactly a week ago I was standing outside and watching the flames which had already destroyed part of the building in which I live, lick ever closer to my home.  It turned out well, and I was - am - one of the lucky ones who still have a home to come to.  I am well aware of how lucky I am, how narrow the escape was, how I should be counting my blessings right now.

But I'm still scared of leaving the house because I'm convinced I will come back to ashes and rubble.  A had to physically prise my darling little cat out of my arms on Wednesday and lead me out of the flat so that I would go to work, where I spent all day fretting.  On Thursday I begged and bribed my mother to go round and check on things, and she humoured me enough to do so (she lives close to an hour's drive away), on Friday A works from home so I was less of a nut-job, but I haven't left the house this entire weekend.

Last Sunday when we were finally allowed back home, I threw a few things into a bag "just in case".  I haven't unpacked it yet, in fact I've been adding things to it all week and it lives on the spare bed next to the pet carrier.  I unplug everything but the fridge if it isn't in use and I am convinced that I smell smoke at least 5 times a day, although I manage to keep this to myself.

Worst of all, though, my heart now beats faster whenever I hear a siren until I hear it fade into the distance.  I work in a hospital, for crying out loud.  I swear I spent most of last week tachycardic.

I have got to get a grip!