Thing is, I can put up with all of it except the fucking ants.
I doubt you can imagine it.
The incessant buzzing noise in the back of your skull is bearable compared with the sensation of their crawling.
The thick tongue is tolerable. As is the constant taste of metal in the mouth.
The slow-moving glaciers of your exhausted sluggish thoughts that occasionally crash into each other and shatter into splinters of nonsense.
The uneasy feeling that you are also making other people uneasy when they speak to you. Because you have to stare at them blankly for a few minutes whilst your brain grindingly processes the noises that have come from their mouths.
The short- to medium-term memory loss.
The sensation that your eyeballs are filled with sand.
The less-than-uplifting sensation when friends of several years who have not seen you like this, who don’t know about it, take one look at your eyes and say ‘Fuck, what is wrong with you?’
Bluffing your way through work, speaking to clients when you can’t remember a meeting from a day ago let alone what they said thirty seconds ago. And coming out of it ok, but only just.
Using the traffic lights. It’s a big city, you’re a big boy. But you just don’t trust your reaction- time. Not now. Best to be safe. Wait for the lights with the blind and the old.
The short temper. You say things. Things you would normally quell for the sake of an easy life. The astounding thing is that when you drop any social etiquette toward people you dislike they are so befuddled by it and by the dead look in your unblinking eyes that it actually makes life easier for a little while. But not in the long term. And you’re so detached you feel no sense of satisfaction or victory anyway. You just ARE. You exist. Because you have to. And if you stop, the momentum may just disappear forever.
And so you eat. Not because you are hungry but because you have to.
You laugh and socialize. Not because you want to. But because you don’t want people to think you hate them. Which they would, if all you did was stare, which is almost all you can do.
Four days now. Either asleep by twelve (late for me) and awake by three or wide-eyed-awake until three and awake again at five-thirty. It’s a new pattern I do not understand.
All of it would be tolerable but for the ants under the skin of my forearms. Crawling.
My lower back too.
That would be fine were it not for the fuckers under the skin of my cheeks and the back of my neck.
The worst thing is that it makes you feel like yourself again. A self that you worked hard to get rid of.