A mug of Horlicks and a razor blade

I sometimes feel a bit like my life is on hold, my slightly weird head operating on a reduced service, awaiting repairs. Repairs unscheduled, as yet.

Tonight there was an office poker game, and my colleagues were going to the pub for a few drinks before this, there was no good reason not to join them for these things. Normally I enjoy pub drinking and poker. Bearing in mind that I'm not sure whether to define 'normal' as the me of the past few months, or the months before that. Right now 'normal' is 'getting by', at work, at home, enjoying the happy spots where everything seems ok, amongst the feeling-a-little-bit-mental spots, and there's a large cloudy grey area where I feel like I shouldn't feel mental, but don't feel happy either. And if I don't feel happy isn't that mental? I get scared about feeling bad, and I tell myself I shouldn't feel like that, and I wish I could just relax, and calm down, and be happy. But how do you make your head do what it's told? I shout, 'Get happy!' loudly at my head. And it just whimpers and says, 'I'm doing my best, but I can't... I'm rubbish...' Stupid head. I hate it.

Last night was a very-mental blip, just when I'd decided I was on my way to happy. Have you read Steve's blog post about his drug experiences? It was so funny, but he told me last night that he was pleased that I was upset about it at the time. I love him for being this safe, and for being brave and fighting his way to 'happy'. after the sad stuff I know he started out with.

Alcohol is my drug of choice, it isn't any help. It promises a different me. But the difference is usually just that I don't care about crying, or hurting, oh and I was going to say 'getting angry.' But I don't do angry. Unless Steve says the wrong thing, like some kindly trying-to-help thing, and then it's just 'Fuck off!' and he's forced to forget help, instead he tries to make me forget, and sometimes it works and the sad stuff is buried, and we continue to enjoy our evening.

He's in Barcelona now until Sunday. That's ok. No hugs, but plenty of emails, texts, and messenger too maybe. Phone calls even. Although I don't like phones.

Last night I fell asleep in Steve's arms on the sofa, our converstation so intense we didn't even notice that we hadn't put the TV on as background noise.

I didn't want to go to bed, that meant goodbye.

And I was drinking and the sad stuff had crept up on me, because it's loosened by alcohol. For some reason I decided drinking more was the best way to shake it off. Drunk, tired, scared of missing Steve like I had the last week he was in Vegas, these were the ingredients simmering in the witches cauldron of my head. Sometimes it hurts so much I think stupid. I think desperate. I think anything outside of my head must be better than what's inside it. I've often tried drinking so much my head goes fuzzy. I've also wished for pills and powders or scary chemicals, like those the cool nutters take, those with the sad-fucker contacts. And I've thought of cutting.

I would never have thought of hurting myself if someone I knew hadn't done this before. It's as if this might make me closer to him. And I know it will fucking hurt! I might be desperate and stupid, and mental, yet still the thought of pain scares me. But physical pain feels like the biggest distraction you can find. Distraction is the Big Plan. I think I want to point and say, 'look behind you' and lose my weird head, as it goes one way whilst I go another.

If you can't get an injection to shake your head out of it, or drink enough to numb it, then why not scare it off with a sharp knife?

It's all about doing anything but thinking.

Which was daft, at least yesterday, as I drowsed in my boyfriends arms. Sleep is a friendly route to oblivion. Even if it comes with the danger of bad dreams.

Of course I didn't do anything daft with any razor blade, and I don't think I ever will. I hope not. And I promised Steve I wouldn't while he was away, and that I'd get help. Although the route to this help doesn't seem easy. I have a doctor's appointment next week - but I have a minor ailment to mention, a cover story if I run scared of bigger problems. And I also have the phone number of an organisation with too many letter's in its name, one of which stands for something I can't say, and I hate phone calls anyway. Can't imagine ringing this place, but I may.

So tonight, instead of going out to the pub, and to the poker game, I came home. Too much drink, not enough sleep, and too much head-mess, had taken out of me. I sloped off quietly as others chatted, to go home, to drift off to sleep. No razor blades tonight, just a mug of Horlicks as my drug of choice. And I hope that friendship and poker will be there for me, to be enjoyed one day when I wake up.