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.