That fly, or it’s even more annoying cousin, is still buzzing around my bedroom. Seriously, Blue Wings, go outside, it’s a lovely evening. I’d be out there in a palpitating heart beat if I could.
I now have a migraine which is probably as a direct result of my epic puking session this morning followed by another night of not sleeping till three am and excessive cold sweats.
When I got up with ElsaDaughter this morning I did not feel well. Queasy. It built up quickly to “I need the bathroom, I’m going to throw up”. And throw up I did.
I felt awful so, despite my best intentions for a productive Friday, I went back to bed for a bit.
Waking again at around ten thirty, I still didn’t feel one hundred percent (has anyone actually ever felt one hundred percent well? How would you even know if you felt as well as your body could ever possibly feel? You’ve no proven optimum to which you can compare each day). I posted a bit, on the Facebook page – seriously, go click “like”! – and then felt crampy. You know that sudden urgent, breathtaking cramp that screams “Find a toilet, now!”? So I did. Luckily, I know where the toilet is kept in my own home.
I knew I was going to pass out, but I did that thing you see in movies when someone gets hurt and their love interest/cute ambulance man/army comrade starts slapping their face and urging in tear-choked, forced upbeat tones, “Stay with me, dude/babe, don’t you go dying on me!”. But I said it to myself, well a variation, I was pretty sure I wasn’t going to die but there was this one little bit of me screaming internally, “This isn’t fucking normal! You’re on fire! You’re actually melting! You’re Olaf!” I’ve never sweated so much so instantly, every bit of my face and body was covered in slimy sweat straight of the production line in FeverWorks. My head swam, “Just hold onto something, concentrate, you’re fine, you just need to…” And then, well I don’t know. I wish there was surveillance camera footage because I’m sure it was hilarious. Unfortunately we never thought to set up a camera in the bathroom to monitor self hygiene/bladder and bowel movements.
The overwhelming sense of peace I felt when I came to was brief but delicious: I thought myself awoken after a wonderful night’s sleep in my royal grandmother’s castle in Norway. Seriously, that’s where I thought I was. Just for the record, one of my grandmothers is from Wexford town and although she might act pretty haughtily, she’s got no links to the Norwegian monarchy. Is there a Norwegian monarchy? My other grandmother, although she claims we’re direct descendants of Brian Ború (and she’s the queen of my heart, of course) has never mentioned Scandanavian ancestry and, to my knowledge, does not own a castle but you never know with her, she seems to magically produce fifty euro notes from the crevice between the sofa cushions where she keeps her purse.
Soon, like within two seconds, my Norwegian reverie was shattered when I found myself reclining on the toilet and I realised my mouth was full of… something… Did I fall asleep eating a cookie? It’s possible. No, I don’t think it’s a coo… Bleugh! Gross! My mouth is full of vomit! I stood up quickly – bad idea, massive head rush – PJ bottoms around my ankles – sexy – and spat and wretched into the sink only to realise my t-shirt was also covered in puke. What the fuck just happened?
It’s almost three am, I just woke up, pyjamas and sheets saturated, again. I’ve lost count of how many times I’ve changed my PJs in the last thirty six hours.
I was having nightmares: this time about being in the States with the family (only it wasn’t Texas, it was some weird hybrid futuristic/retro ice land… who knows?). It was time to leave, and I didn’t want to leave. It was horrible, but not as horrible as the second nightmare I had but whose details are buried under a pile of earthy feelings of terror. I think I was screaming; I know I was sweating. Before that it something about being the eldest sister in an evicted fatherless family.
Someone just puked outside, that’s Dublin at closing time for you. Now I think I might.
I am crying. I am exhausted. I am fed up. Half my fucking head is being attacked by firebombs.
I know, I’m whining again.
I keep getting this sensation that my heart is itchy. Ok, I’ve completely lost it: an itchy heart? But it actually feels like my heart and its surrounding vessels are fizzing with an itch. It’s driving me mad.
As if she needs to be “driven” mad, I hear you chuckle.
Stop feeling sorry for yourself. You are wallowing. Everybody gets sick. Suck it up. I read that phrase came from fighter pilots forced to swallow their own puke brought forth by G-Force to prevent it clogging up their oxygen masks and suffocating them. Probably the wrong choice of phrase after this morning’s mouth-full-of-vomit experience.
I’d love to be a fighter pilot.
“This lonely impulse of delight drove to this tumult in the clouds…
The years to come seemed waste of breath”
I’m afraid to go back to sleep. Pukey migraine land seems preferable to cold sweat night terror land.
It’s now twelve thirty on Saturday. I’ve been thinking about creating a 1-10 scale to accurately describe my state of mind because today I reckon I’m coming in at around a six or seven.
1 – I don’t know what this looks like. I’d imagine something like the end of Notting Hill.
2 – Yeah, I can do drinks in a busy bar tonight – I have the money, the energy and my social anxiety is under control. You know I’m the wittiest person here, right?
3 – I have my To Do list checked off; I’m not obsessing over my weight/failures; I’m happy being on my own; I’m self sufficient and I’ve been for a run.
4 – Will it be bed time soon?
5 – I’ll fixate on whatever the fuck I like.
6 – Hear those slamming doors? That’s me.
7 – Don’t talk to me. Don’t open the curtains. Don’t switch on the lights.
8 – Knives and scissors are my only friends.
9 – I’m keeping these pills beside me for a reason.
10 – See ya world, have fun being a giant bollox.
I did a stupid fucking thing yesterday after FaintGate. I called my Gentleman Caller. Knee jerk reaction. I was panicked and rapidly my brain was trying to figure out who’d be nearest and likely free to… what? Put my pukey t-shirt in the laundry? Hug me? Put me back to bed?
Do I call my neighbour? I really like my restaurateur neighbours but do I really want to explain to them why I need her to come in? My landlady? Again, she’s lovely but it’s not the kind of thing you ask of someone you still owe a week’s rent to for April is it? My family is sixty kilometres away. My bestie is on a flight home from the States. My close friends who live nearby are in work. Call ElsaDaughter to leave school? That would be a new low in parenting even for me. Boy, did I feel needy and vulnerable and pathetic. There’s a reason this isn’t relationship material and I just acted like I thought it was.
There should be a Rent-A-Man service for situations like this. Friends With Benefits are easy enough to come by but sometimes a girl just needs a strong armed man to hug her and hold back her hair while she throws up. Maybe fix a leak while he’s here.
I just remembered more nightmares from last night and they all involve the loss of power in my arms and hands. I hate that dream.
This day is growing increasingly worse and I’m really struggling not to punch something or reach for the knives. My head is pounding; my eyes are stinging. I can’t fucking do this anymore. Everything is just grey and burning and interminable. I feel so lonely and angry. I know I’ll never be part of a couple or a proper family unit again and despite all my bravado I’m sick of doing everything on my own. Maybe I’m just missing my mother already who is on a plane to Turkey to go on a well deserved holiday with her two pals.
Rational part of brain says “You’re sick, you’re just having a bad day. You’ll be ok when your head is better and you can go for a run” but right now I could gladly just curl up with the box of painkillers.