We don't deserve dogs.
I did sleep finally, fragmentedly, but I can tell they were PTSD dreams because my linens were soaked in cold sweat and I had kicked the pillows and covers all over. (I'm thankful I don't remember these, but I have a general idea what happens during because of what my exes and roommates have told me over the years: talking, whining, fighting, sweating, and hyperventilating.) My dog woke me up twice during the night, at 4:30 and at 8, barking and whining and yawning. Both times I got dressed and took her out for a walk but she didn't seem to need to go, so she was probably worried by the noises and movements I made while asleep and just wanted to wake me up. Such a good girl...!
Assistance came over, I ate guac with extra oil and pumpkin seeds as well as instant oatmeal with PB and jam, we discussed the bureaucracy situation and I did some chores, and I bought dog food and bones online, so all things considered, it's not so bad. She said that if I can't go to the occupational therapist tomorrow, I can always call the OT and ask for an online meeting. But that would just postpone the stress, so I'll rather bite the bullet and get it over with.
Tomorrow's wonderful task by which my future care is hanging from will be to... Dun dun dunnn.... Prepare a batch of tuna pasta. Last time it was arts and crafts (I had to bind a booklet). I have to admit that there's something hilarious about this whole thing. The meaninglessness of these tasks and the personal consequenses of failing at them, especially when I have no idea by which criteria I will be evaluated, reminds me of Rumpelstiltskin and the girl who had to weave straw into gold.
Somehow in times of distress small things like my dog being so smart and the assistant being supportive can really carry me a long way. 25 hours until the occupational therapy, 26 and a half hours until it's over. I can do this.