I’m just really tired.
Last week I told my therapist that I do my best to appreciate what I have, and day-to-day note the happy little things that keep me ticking over. Like finding a £10 note, or chocolate milkshake, or skittles, or spooning. I’ve struggled for years to get to this point and she looked me dead in the eye and said: “but everything is not okay, is it?”
You fucking what?
A week of being nearly caffeine-free and three days post my return to England, my heart feels as though it’s beating in my nose and my brain as though it’s been rolled in sherbet.
Highlights of my time-not-here include sun-burning only a small patch of my arse; feral cat charming with stolen mackerel; coming-to from a poolside nap to find myself dribbling on the sunbed, and only having to take two lots of laxative to counter the sugarfat jamboree that was every mealtime.
Such peaks of summer holiday happiness can only be countered with a prolonged and undignified sulk, and a more concerted effort to remember to my pills in the morning. That, and a fuck tonne of watermelon in vain honour of the breakfast buffet.
I spent at least half an hour this evening imagining how I’d look with an undercut, a dip dye, additional tattoos and a dermal neck piercing, before realising that I’ve got a 9-5 these days (I say these days like it’s a surprise – clearly I’m still in a state of shock) and any attempt to look like an individual might jeopardise my runt of a career. Note to self: flights of fancy no longer practical.