Thursday, February 01, 2007


I’m waiting.

For oh, so many things. But this morning, I am waiting for my groceries to be delivered. It took all the willpower in the world and about two hours to get online yesterday and make a list of things I could eat. Or thought I might want to eat over the next two weeks.

It is a well known, but perhaps understated fact that a diet of stimulants: sugar, caffeine, cigarettes and alcohol, increase anxiety. I have been told on many occasions to cut it out to help the panic attacks but felt I couldn’t cope without the artificial uppers to get me vertical. However, I am rarely vertical these days, so I figured, what would it hurt?

I haven’t had a drink for months. I miss that crazy, slack jawed effect that too many Jack and Coke’s has on me, but it limits the affects of the old anti depressants, and with the heady concoction of pharmaceuticals that I consume on a daily basis, I am too scared that one day I will be found, cold and grey, in a pool of my own vomit. I do wonder if the warnings that come from my dear stepfather and retired GP are merely scare tactics? But do you know what? I’m not prepared to gamble.

Tomorrow/tonight the “detoxing” begins. If I can get that amount of food into my mouth. I eat too little, (hence the constant sleeping) which is hilarious, considering my current girth. I’m sure they (the professionals) think I am lying when I say that I hardly eat. But then again they are the ones that keep telling me it’s not the medication. Who to believe…?

So, yes…waiting. I haven’t felt like talking since I went away to my Mum’s, which is why I haven’t written for a few days now. Writing at times is just like talking, especially when you live silently and sometimes I just don’t want to let anyone in. Sometimes it’s as simple as needing the space to gather my thoughts, just like anyone else.

This is the last five days in a nutshell…

Friday: I got on the train at 10.10am. With my hamster in my bag. That in it’s self deserves a round of applause, at least? Not the hamster part, but the fact that I got on a train, on my own - fully aware that I was going to be trapped on it, alone, for three-and-a-bit hours. And I didn’t die. I sat there with my laptop watching back-to-back episodes of “Alias”, much to the delight of the woman sitting next to me. I’m sure she must have wondered what the hell I was up to as every time she glanced at the silent screen, she caught glimpses of what could only be described, by an unsuspecting observer, as the beginnings of either soft porn or Guantanamo-style interrogation. I, on the other hand was Sidney Bristow in the flesh. Kick-ass, devious, criminal mind fighter.

When I got to my Mum’s I was thrown head first into normality, which for the untrained was agonising. A completely physical reaction of whooping, swirling angst as my body tried to recalibrate. Talking, eating and being around others for the next five days.

Saturday: I ran errands. Just like I used to. At home, I cannot do my own errands, yet there I was, list in hand, preparing to go into the village to pick up bits and pieces for a Burn’s night spectacular and my Mum’s birthday. Back at home, I sleep instead of doing things, but what would I have said to them? “I’m sorry I can’t help out, I have to sleep now”. My every day excuses that I use with myself don’t fit into the real world.

A small aside: My body has developed a rather spectacular anti-coping device, which comes in the form of complete and utter shut down. Without warning I am suddenly so physically tired that I have to sleep, wherever I am. It (the body) takes over. I have zero control. My tongue becomes too big for my mouth and I start slurring like I’ve had a thousand Alco-pops. My body becomes a lead sausage and my eyes roll. It is a thing of great beauty.

So, I battle hard to keep going, I smoke a thousand fags, one after the other, I drink strong tea, I stand outside in the gale like winds, and then I walk. One foot in front of the other. I keep walking, until I get to town and manage to purchase the Haggis in the stomach lining. “It cannot be in plastic”. I get the candles, the balloons; the weird tray from the charity shop for the beast to sit upon before my (step) father recites poems above its head and then menacingly slashes it with a knife that has been stuffed down his knee-sock all evening. I get the papers and mouse water bottle and then my father calls me up and asks if I want a lift home.

So I go home and stop fighting the sleep.

Sunday: My Mum’s 59th birthday. I am having a very physical reaction to yesterday’s feat of gargantuan proportions and my body does not want to co-operate. I take my vitamins; I take Diazepam. I drink very strong espresso. I pace and mutter, and then we go out to lunch. Food in front of me and very noisy children beside.

We come home, I am overcome and I sleep.

I get up and we have Birthday cake and I have a mouthful of champagne, which I am completely convinced, made me drunk.

I slept again. “Happy Birthday Mama.”

Monday: Wobble, crash, sleep. Oh and mum bought me a whistle, which I then proceeded to 'snake charm' her with all the way home in the car. I'm sure she loved every second.

Tuesday: I came home. On the train. On my own. (Again, with my small charge in the bag). The train was noisy and full of rambunctious twenty year olds drinking Strongbow. The lights were on because it was after 4pm and they were bright and hurt my eyes. I was hungry and tired and hated every second. But…I did it, and I’m not dead.


Blogger MasterQ said...

congrats on being not dead

4:23 am  

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