every day is like monday bloody monday

Oh here we sodding well go again, from sad agitation all the way




You know this, right? You wake feeling as if your heart was made of lead and you get up only because you have to.

Tears, but not healing ones. And just when you think your heart cannot possibly break any more, it shatters and dry ice fills the space it leaves.

Blah blah blah mawkish quasi prose poem. Fuck. Here is a cheerful song: Joy Division – Disorder

Drive to the city like a zombie (if zombies drove), the sun is too hot, too bright. My sweat still smells oddly sweet. Birds … yellow flowers on whichever acacia gets yellow flowers … hot, hot, hot and the city even hotter. 34 degrees C and plenty of humidity (before the day really got hot).

They’re putting out displays of easter eggs at the supermarket. It’s January.

Air con at the psychiatrist’s rooms and a big glass of water (so big that I suspect it might be American). I was early, I’m always early. It’s a combination of good childhood training and dollops of my very own anxiety. I didn’t recognise two roads on the way, that usually happens rarely. I’m rather fond of transit lounges and waiting rooms, they feel like time out of life and the world.

I feel so absolutely fragile.


(Stephen King – The Stand)

Logged out of fb again this morning; I mostly just keep fb messenger on anyway. Every damn time my damn heart breaks (with arhythmic frequency).

Last night I dreamed I pulled a few of my teeth out. There was no pain, they were ready to come out.

One of the receptionists laaaaaughed and said, Oh my gosh what we’ve got to deal with here and then she laugh laugh laaaaughed some more. They are typical of their type (in this country anyway), they are sweet and call everyone sweetie. They panic a little about payment and they sound desolate of they have to tell you there’s no appointment whenever you want one. They were so pleased to see you back, said the psychiatrist a while back, but they never have a clue who I am. Mind you, neither do I.

I’m not bitching, it doesn’t bother me (there are four psychiatrists and it’s always fully booked here). I’m just writing, writing, writing to keep the thought-wolves from the proverbial door.

Please fill in this form, we need to update your details for this year. Name, address, phone number, yes I have those. Next of kin – none. My nextofkin is on another continent.

The sky is relentlessly bright blue. I’m fraying at the edges.

In case you wondered …


Ooooh *insert my name here* I’m sorry I’m late, I’m just swallowing some chicken.

I fold myself over, head as down as I can get it without looking completely stupid. Hungry … don’t think I’ll be in any state to go anywhere except home afterwards.

Turns out there was a major crisis and then everything ran late; she still gave me more time than I paid for though. She’s immensely kind. It should have just been 15mins, so I unburdened fast, but she slowed me down. She said

The zopivane might be causing you anxiety, can we try you on phenergan instead?
We will increase your lamotrigine next week.
I want to start you on concerta for the ADHD, but not just yet.

Well she said a lot more than that, but those were the salient points.

After that I went to swallow some chicken too (although I had time to chew it as well) and drove home. Shorts and tshirt, sit by a fan, stuff those sodding, sodden, futile tears back into the abyss in my gut.

Blah blah fucken blah hey.

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