Peaches

This morning I slept through my 7am alarm and woke up with just an hour before I needed to leave the house! My heart was in my throat as I forced down breakfast: birth control and klonopin. Before my bubbly bath had finished running, I jumped in and begun shaving my legs while Davines nourishing-miracle-deep-conditioning treatment worked its botanical magic on my hair. I have a strand test later next week, and I absolutely cannot fail it—I need to get my roots bleached, that is non-negotiable.

Thankfully, I made it to my appointment on time, pleased as my masseuse was perfectly punctual too—something I deeply appreciate. Nothing sends my anxiety spiralling faster than waiting-room limbo. Just last week, I was sat in my dentist's office for nearly an hour! That kind of delay isn't just annoying—it’s mentally exhausting. Too much time to overthink and unravel before an appointment.

On the intake form, I resisted the urge to draw tits and marked up the human body illustration instead by circling all my troubled areas—upper and lower back, legs, shoulder blades —and noted under my concerns that I’m a tense, anxious, lockjaw hottie with a chronically achey body. I was nervous, so I popped a second kpin before the appointment. Honestly, since coming off Seroquel, my anxiety has been troublesome. It’s like my baseline anxiety reset itself higher than before. I really hope this doesn't stick around, because doubling up on Klonopin is becoming too frequent for my liking.

I was so blissed out after my massage that half a Marlboro Silver-Blue went straight to my head. I stubbed the rest out on the bottom of my shoe.

…

Still, nothing soothes my little palpitation-prone heart quite like a simple, healthy routine. As someone with an obsessive-compulsive personality type, I thrive on repetition. It’s safe, predictable, and deeply satisfying. My current routine looks like this: train, aubergine dish with a potato side, warm chit-chat with the always-lovely waitstaff, quick bathroom break, then I mosey on down to grab an ice-cold, grass-green matcha. —But you already knew that part.

Today Peaches joined me. She’s my chocolate-fawn, deer-head chihuahua—obvi. She’s a spoiled COVID puppy with anxious attachment and a touch of over-protective rage. She’s perfect. Smooth and warm like a menstrual heating pad. She also refuses to walk most places— just like me! …Before I had a chi, I always assumed girl’s carried their chis around in handbags as a fashion accessory. Now I realise, if a chi doesn’t want to walk, they simply will not.

Because I raised Peaches during the 2020 lockdowns, she’s only really familiarised with the local park and cemetery. Places where she wonders confidently. But anywhere else? She tucks in her knees and goes flat against the tarmac, refusing to walk. This is not remedied by a firm tug on her camo-print harness and instead I’ve come to accumulate a small collection of bags to chauffeur her around in. The sleek black one I’m using today was bought in Milan! It’s great because it’s light-weight and folds up small. So when not in use it can be slipped into my flimsy free people tote bag, along with my water bottle, keys and whatever else I can’t cram into my trusty denim coach tabby. Although I must admit, even for a small dog she becomes heavy fast! I’m sure carrying her around is somewhat equivalent to strength training at the gym. She’s a ball of muscle! I no longer judge anyone with a "handbag dog." Realising the bag to be a tool of necessity, not luxury.

Before leaving the therapy offices I booked myself another appointment for next week, this time a 90 minute slot, as an hour seemed to pass way too fast! Massages are half the price of my usual talking therapy appointments, so really they are quite a cost effective replacement.

Early tomorrow morning I do have an important appointment with my psychiatrist though, those are expensive. But she holds the key to the medicine cabinet (prescriptions). So that is understandable. And hey, it takes a village. Especially in 2025, when being a mentally and physically unwell girl feels like a full-time job in itself! Everyone plays their part in keeping my head above the water, and I’m genuinely grateful for the resources, family and friends I have.

I’ve been applying for a few local jobs lately—nothing glamorous, just boutiquey shop work. I’ve missed having the extra income since I left my last job. Especially now, with the idea of ditching uni to “go travelling” floating around in my head. Money matters… But I try not to dwell on it too much. If I do, I spiral into that deep fear that I’ll never have enough. Or worse—that I’ll never be enough.

I remind myself, again and again, health is wealth. That’s my guiding principle. What’s the point of being wealthy if you’re too unwell to enjoy it? Some people are lucky enough to have never had to think about that. I’m not one of them… But I know I’ll eventually find my own riches, hopefully doing what I love. And meanwhile? Well, I’ll marry rich. It’d honestly be inhumane for someone not to snatch me up as their trophy wife. That isn’t to insinuate that I am not a romantic. I am a tragically, hopeless romantic through and through! Love has always been and remains both my weakness and my top priority in life.

Looking around now, I’m surrounded by cute couples sharing matcha and flirty glances. It stings a little. I’d love to be sipping on a straw while fluttering my lashes at someone too. But good things come to those who wait and I know he’ll find me. I always dreamed of being married by 25—I’ve got one solid year left to make it happen. Crazier things have happened, believe me!