because none of us is fucking up like we think we are, is what i'm trying to say

Monday, 17 December 2012

Sick? Nobody gives a shit.



The thing is, is that when you’re sick, nobody gives a shit.

Being sick and seeking out sympathy is akin to having a bad dream, and verbosely trying to tell everyone at breakfast that Harry from One Direction beat up your baby, tried to kiss you after you ran away, and forced you to explain how it would be impossible to have a relationship with him because you don’t like watermelon and anyway, is that a dancing meerkat over there or is it just you?  

Life lesson: You kinda had to be there for it to be interesting. Except, your imagination has standing room for one only, so you can’t really bring anyone else along. Ever. Dreams? I don’t care. Ill? Die quietly and in the corner, please. I’m busy.

Oh, except for when they are my dreams and it is me that is sick, in which case PAY ME ATTENTION AND STROKE MY HAIR AS YOU WHISPER “IT’S OKAY, SWEETNESS, YOU’LL FEEL BETTER IN THE MORNING.” Also: yes, I would like a little whisky in my honey and lemon. Thanks. You may kiss my forehead now.

But it doesn’t happen that way.

When you’re sick, the brother you live with could insist you take thrice-daily shots of Echinacea, and might even lie you out on the sofa with a glass of Beaujolais (it’s medicinal) whilst his fella puts on a reading from Keats and together they cream leeks and feed you French baguette with real salted butter. This will be because the more food that is your mouth the less likely you are to be able to moan about how poorly you are.

When you’re sick, your parents might call, you know, to ask if you took enough paracetamol to keep your temperature down because you’ve never been very good at remembering to do that. But also, they’re probably calling you as you’re under your duvet because you tend to be a bit of a dick to them under healthier circumstance, and illness leaves you vulnerable enough to spare the five minutes it takes to say, “I know. I love you too.” You must try to be nicer to them.

When you’re sick your boss will email, but that’s because your project was due Friday and he kind of needs to know if you will make the breakfast meeting on Monday morning. Feel better soon! means, Are you going to make up this lost time before Christmas? Don’t kid yourself otherwise.

When you’re sick, your best friend will email hourly, but he lives in Spain and so that doesn’t count.

Okay, that counts, but still. He’s not about to knock on your door with tofu soup and a stack of Joshua Jackson DVD’s.

It’s incredible to me how in minutes I went from chandelier-swinging, man-eating good-time seeking SNBATWOMOS domestic slut to… well. Wearing the same sweatpant/hoodie combo for five days without even thinking about a shower, leaving the apartment only to buy more tissues, and yup can’t lie. I may have downloaded all four ‘Step Up’ movies and cried as many times as I have fingers on my hands. THOSE KIDS HAVE DREAMS, MAN.

My dream is for somebody to design nose tampons for snot.

Being sick forced me into a downward spiral of an absolute self-loathing depression, which I’m pretty sure is a common thread. At least, I hope it is. I have to believe that everyone else has the same inner sickness monologue: everything sucks, no-one loves me, I’m a failure and a nobody and pathetic and also it’s quarter to two in the afternoon and now I am officially behind schedule for my nap and I CAN’T GET ANYTHING RIGHT GODDAMN IT WHAT. IS. WRONG. WITH. ME.

My biggest achievement was not picking up the phone when I got a 1 a.m. booty call. OH HOW I WANTED A WARM BODY PRESSED UP AGAINST MINE THAT NIGHT. I think it is a sign of maturity that I recognised the self-destructiveness behind my desire to have him come over, so TEN POINTS TO ME I DIDN’T ANSWER THE PHONE. I’m a grown up even in the face of adversity and a bad cold.

Somebody contractually obliged to nurse me back to health would’ve been nice, though.

Really nice.

Love me. Take care of me. Give a shit.

I think my point is that this past week has been the antidote of all antidotes for the high I’ve been riding since I got to London. This week I’ve felt more like a lost, undecided, confused twenty-six year old girl than I have done in a really long time. I’ve been emotional and frustrated and… sick. I didn’t want to mention that because remember: nobody gives a shit.

Except they do, really, and any thought to suggest otherwise is all in my head.

I think it’s so important to admit to these moments, because I can write as many blog posts as I like about the exact placement of my balls in relation to the wall but this wouldn’t be real life if I didn’t also say, yeah, hi. I feel sad today.

I’ve felt sad all week and that’s just part of it all: of knowing that there are people who will stick on an audio book of poetry to cheer me up, or call, or email, or write overly long posts on my Facebook and somehow it still not seem enough.

It’s got nothing to do with what anybody else can or can’t do for me. Just like everyone else I get to be my own worst enemy sometimes too, and let the fear and loathing take over.

Internet, I think I just wanted to say that if you feel this way too, it’s okay. We’re human beings and we’re all a bit unsure, and none of use really know, and it really will all be okay. Right? RIGHT? Please say yes.

And in the meantime, probably there is little else we can do other than download something with Channing Tatum in it. That man can dance. It helps.

Want to say something about this post? Talk to me! 

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