Again my words are hiding, until I close my eyes, lose myself in the music and suddenly they arrive, tumbling over each other in their frantic race to the page, hindered by bendily uncooperative cold fingers.
Achelois sees this as a bold thing to do, a brave unveiling of self. She might be right, she's a wise woman, but for me it comes from a weaker place. I write what I can't say. No matter how close the friend, how sympathetic the ear, something within me chokes every time. Yet here, protected by a screen difficult feelings are easy to articulate.
The weeping continues. It's becoming very annoying. And boring. All these weeks of early morning puking and pooping have exhausted me. Whilst my Oxycontin intake increased slightly after seeing the LC it's just slowed the withdrawal symptoms, not removed them. On top of bone deep pain and fatigue lies a weighty blanket of sadness. Fortunately there is still a part of me which knows, were it not for this withdrawal process, I would be upset but not so completely devastated by events the way I currently am.
There is no shortage of food in my flat, just a shortage of interest in eating it coupled with a lack of spoons to make it. That concern has been removed again today by my neighbour delivering a plate of roast dinner to my door. My prescription medication has been collected by Ben, who will also do any shopping I need, as will the neighbours. I'm just particularly bad at either asking for or accepting help. Unfortunately my very dedicated and hard working carer worked herself into exhaustion in the run up to Christmas and is still really poorly. Which is why I've insisted that I'm absolutely fine every time she's asked, as she is far too unwell to be looking after anyone but herself.
My words have gone again. So perhaps this is all I'm supposed to say for today. Apart from to thank you for all your comments and support, they always help.