everything. permanently
Wednesday 1st January 2003.
Morning.
Shit! This is how it starts. I couldn’t sleep after that whole thing happened in the kitchen last night/this morning. All I can think about is that is this my mind letting go? Are the nerves in my brain letting go? Am I slipping into that arena of life when your body starts shutting down around your ears?
I went back to bed putting the experience to one side. I was probably still drunk, was one thought I came up with to explain it. Already hungover and slipping into sleep even though I was wide awake? Who knows.
Claire didn’t know I’d been up, herself so drunk that she slipped into an alcoholic coma and even the American’s dropping bombs on the city by mistake wouldn’t have shaken her awake. I say that as she worries terribly about London and the war after September 11th. I guess everyone does, but I’ve got bigger personal problems.
At this rate I might not be alive, or at least I won’t realise I’m alive by the time I reach my forties.
I had scrambled eggs again for breakfast with an alka-seltza chaser to sort my system out. I then retired back to bed where I hoped that I would sleep long enough for my brain to repair itself. It was a failed attempt and so-called the hospital to enquire about Deacon and to wish him a Happy New Year. He was sleeping so I left a message.
A sickness gripped me at around 4 o’clock in the afternoon and so I determined to make an appointment with the police doctor first thing in the morning. My mental state is in question, no doubt about it and I need help. Having said this though, Claire keeps telling me that if I think my mental state is in decline it probably isn’t.
My Grand Mother knew that she was losing control of her memory early on. Probably about my age. She saw it happening. She had front row seats to the only horror film she couldn’t cope with. First was long-term, which was scary enough but when the short-term left her I wished her life had too. Forgetting who we are is the same as dying anyway I suppose. All of those memories, emotions, dreams. All gone for good. Missing in a soup.
As I write this I am in bed at six in the evening, sleeping tablets currently blending with my fluids, with my blood and thoughts. I can feel the fight going on in there; but the tablets are winning. I welcome oblivion. No more dreams. No more voices; just infinite darkness – if only for a short time.
Tomorrow the doctor will fix me, I hope. I want to forget.
Everything. Permanently.
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