“Once you think you have tasted death. All that is left, is the fear of survival” – MP.
Wednesday, 10th April 2019.
I found myself squatting in the shadowy undergrowth. Down by the edge of the water. My fever induced sweat, dripping off my eyebrows, down onto my cheeks. I could see the happy couples passing, as the beads continued down, trailing across the blade between my teeth.
I shuddered as the sweat turned to ice. I looked back at the river. It had to be warmer than I was feeling.
I longed for it’s warmth, but all too soon I hungered for it’s icy embrace. The fever had turned.
I feel their love and hate them for it.
I crept, naked, back to the pit from where I’d come. Hoping no one had noticed.
There was no knife, nor river, nor love.
Just sweat, ache and agony.
The pain. Everywhere.
I’m gonna smoke a joint.
Luckily, Carter rang. I vented my angst at her.
She was kind.
I owe her cigarette money plus she said she would pick me up some food in Feltham tomorrow.
I haven’t got any money.
Thursday, 11th April 2019.
I’ve got up. Made my bed. Got dressed.
Put a bit of Al Green On.
I’m just rebuilding myself to enter the world again. I rung work and told them I’d be back tomorrow.
I’ve shaved and had a little organise. I talked to work again and tried to adjust my brain back to where it needs to be.
Then I got the “Ex” call.
She was still keen to send Sonny to me for the weekend but I explained it wasn’t a good idea. I have my reasons.
1. My illness.
2. I reminded my mum about Sonny coming on the May Day weekend and she lost her shit. Saying it was the first she had heard of it.
Saying sonny was coming tomorrow. Jesus! She would have had an embolism.
Louis is going down to see them on Sunday. I’ve asked him to do some “big brother” tasks. Such as, talk to Sonny, listen to Sonny, gauge what he’s thinking.
Life is Fucky tough. Being a parent is really Fucking tough.