What will I worry about when I can't worry about this anymore?

You have probably already guessed that we still haven't exchanged.  I know, it's almost a running joke now.  We have set a firm deadline now of tomorrow lunchtime, which, if missed, means we will have to renegotiate a completion date.  I don't want a new completion date.  But I've been assured every single day for the past week and a half that today is definitely the exchange day, so I really don't believe that if I put all of final arrangements in place, the exchange will magically happen at the last minute.  The erosion of trust is now too great and reassurances that "it will happen Tuesday before 11 o'clock, honest!" no longer inspire confidence.

The uncertainty is such a heavy weight; it is my constant companion at the moment.  Waking and sleeping, it occupies a huge portion of my mental energy.  I dream about it, I check my phone obsessively to see if there's any news.  I phone my solicitor and estate agent daily, begging for some understanding of what on Earth is going on.

I start to feel bitter because it wasn't our idea to set a super-quick completion date at the beginning of the process.  It wasn't us who said "November or else".  And yet we've deconstructed our lives and given notice to all the people who needed more than an offhand "see ya later" on that basis.  And now we are potentially stuck with no furniture, no childcare, no cleaner and still no move date.

I despair, folks.  If it weren't for my family and friends, it would be even worse.  Instead of just feeling constantly sick to my stomach, I might actually spend all of my time in tears.  Very useful.  Since we put our house on the market in August, my life has felt terribly mutable.  I can no longer imagine what it's like to walk through a day reasonably confident that no major life changes are looming, as when one is sick and one longs for the unappreciated days of good health when one's throat wasn't sore, one wasn't coughing and sneezing and dripping snot.

I keep telling myself that it will be over soon, that this whole period will fade from memory like childbirth.  When I look back it will be a fuzzy time of "not terribly pleasant" memories ending in a triumph.  My extended contraction-fake-labour with Cillian only lasted a month, though, and this has been going on so long that I now feel like a drained husk.

It will be over soon.  It will be okay. 

My trust in my own pep talk is starting to erode...