When I think more than I wanna think
Do things I never should do
I drink much more than I oughtta drink…

Because it brings me back you

Jeff Buckley, Lilac Wine

Yesterday friends came.  We walked from Canterbury to Whitstable.  Maybe I imagine the looks they exchange.

Today I finished my Works Cited around six a.m. and took myself to the library.  I got all my books for next week’s courses, sat in the Quiet Study room and realised I couldn’t do the morning without a drink.  I sat and felt sick until ten, Sunday opening hours.  Then I went to the shop and bought a beer, just one, and this is something I feel proud of.  That’s not right.

I am not going to see the CPN tomorrow.  They only ever make me feel worse, more guilty, iller and less convinced that I’m ill.  I am not the one who fails to engage; it’s them.  I can pull myself out of this. There are friends I won’t talk to anymore, because there are looks in their eyes that I don’t like anymore.  Boredom, mainly.  Slight embarrassment.  Tiredness. Yesterday, I saw the essay as a kind of suicide note, leaving nothing unready before leaving the world.  As I watched it get light, finishing the hideously difficult bibliography, I felt an odd relief, a completion that left me ready to leave.

But at 9.22 (I was counting the seconds) I took out books, and the suicidal don’t search for books.  And the mentally healthy don’t hear voices in an empty library, I know.  And the physically healthy don’t leak from de-stitched wounds.  Or sit in near tears waiting for the day’s first drink.  I know.

But ill and finished are two different things.


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