Sometimes I just think,
If only we’d bought that fucking houseboat.
Do you?

*whispers* It’s coming home…

28 days without codeine. 4 weeks without a single painkiller. I’ve broken some bones in my foot and not even taken a paracetamol. I can’t be bothered to go to hospital, and I know they’d offer painkillers and I’d say yes. I should be pleased about quitting but it’s not the same as the pride I’ve felt before when I’ve quit alcohol. And anyway I’ve replaced the codeine with something worse.

It’s coming home, it’s coming…

Of course money can buy happiness.
If you disagree, you must be even madder than me.

Football’s coming home…

My hair is falling out and getting greyer by the day, and I still suffer with the same acne I started getting when I was 13. I am neither old nor a teenager. Can I just have one or the other, please, not both? These things make me want to cut my head off. Life is unfair. Or rather, as a wise man once told me, life is fair because it’s unfair to everybody. Fucking life.

It’s coming home…

I can’t imagine ever shedding this exhaustion. I wear it like a skin. You don’t understand that this type of tiredness cannot be cured with sleep and bubble baths and rest, but by death and only death. I’m glad that you don’t understand; I hope you never do.

It’s coming home, it’s coming…

The panic attacks are worse than ever. Much more frequent, more intense, harder to control, harder to stop, impossible to predict, seemingly impossible to explain. Until now the triggers have always been obvious but recently it seems the attacks are caused by something much bigger, something which I don’t have the strength to face.

What is it that I am so afraid of? I fear that I know the answer to that. Maybe it’s that fear that brings the panic.

Football’s coming home…

Do you know that every time you fail to listen to what I’m saying, I genuinely consider never speaking another word aloud again? Voluntary mutism has become so appealing to me recently. No, of course you don’t know that (but you would if you’d listened).

It’s coming home…

How could you?
You used my own body as a weapon against me.
I didn’t think you were capable of such cruelty.
That was such a wicked thing to do.
I didn’t know you had it in you.

It’s coming home, it’s coming… THREE LIONS ON A SHIRT!

1 Comment

  1. I relate to so much of this – the exhaustion only death could cure, the hope the person you’re trying to explain it to will never actually understand because then they’d be experiencing it too. Only sometimes for me though, so I’m luckier than I could be. My panic attacks have been getting worse, like yours. I have also been getting acne again and, worse yet, I’ve been skin picking EVERYTHING so it’s probably going to scar. I can’t really bring myself to care though, despite my vanity. My hair might be turning grey, I wouldn’t know, I color it with henna too often. I have considered voluntary mutism before (in my mind I thought of it as “taking a vow of silence” before I looked it up (I look everything up, must have been studious in a past life or something) and learned it had a real name) but I haven’t because it said online it’s something that usually happens with young children and I feel like enough of a fuck up as an adult already, you know? I didn’t know you were addicted to pain meds. My little brother is/was too? I don’t know, he doesn’t speak to me anymore.

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