I used to be cool, okay

“Is wearing a thong and sundress on public transport safe?” I google like clockwork every summer.

I abhor the abrasive London underground seat fabric, grazing the uppermost backside edge of my thighs, like a perverse giant tongue. It’s so dry it’s almost crispy, and that— more than anything else— concerns me the most. Honestly, it feels like the rough side of velcro against my delicate peach skin. When possible, I slide my skirt down just enough to cover the seat. But sometimes my outfits simply don’t allow for that adjustment.

This is one of the many reasons I jump in a boiling hot, deep, bubbly bath the second I arrive home. Bathing after public transport use is an absolute non-negotiable. I don’t know how I’d sleep at night, otherwise!

—So yesterday I did something really silly, which made me appreciate truly how retarded sober Ella can be... I long to go back to when my prefrontal cortex wasn’t fully formed. Back when I had few inhibitions, endless access, and absolutely no fear.

I used to be cool, okay.

What happened? Last night I accidentally took a double dose of my trendy pms vitamins. Compared to the random, suspicious substances I consumed for the best part of a bygone decade, these are practically angelic— £50 a month, high-quality, entirely non-threatening supplements designed to ease my demonic pms. And yet, upon realising I’d doubled up, I spiralled. This was my first accidental overdose. —All others had been incredibly deliberate.

I lay awake all night, caught between actual nausea and the psychosomatic belief that I should be feeling nauseous. My brain is highly suggestible and catastrophically imaginative, so before long I was fending off panic attacks every ten minutes. My legs twitching me awake every moment I came close to nodding off… I get these anxious muscle spasms (restless leg syndrome adjacent?) five nights out of seven a week. —Another lingering mystery of my health that I’ve just come to accept. However, the increased frequency of these twitches only added to the sudden new neuroses that I was going to die. Yep, I fully convinced myself that I was going to die from a pms vitamin overdose. Sobriety is crazy! I never used to be like this. Back in the day, dying never felt like a real possibility. I was cocky—reckless—putting myself in a labyrinth of dangerous situations, almost always with no reproductions. Somehow, sobriety hasn’t done my anxiety any favours—it’s actually worse now, lol.

Lately my brain has been feeling so dry. That’s my excuse for dropping the ball on frequent posting. —And understandably, when the most exciting thing I have to report on is a vitamin od. Total face palm.

I’ve been looking after my mother this past week—she’s bed-bound post-surgery, on an NHS Oxy and Codeine cocktail. Yes I am a little jealous, although that is incredibly distasteful to admit. But who wouldn’t have their head turned by Oxy, the drug at the centre of a whole US opioid epidemic. I watched both the Netflix and BBC TV series, dramatising the overprescribing crisis, subsequent addictions and lawsuits. (The Netflix one, “Painkiller”, was my favourite of the two.) Still, I wouldn’t wish the pain I’ve seen my mother endure on my worst enemy.

The caretaker role has admittedly made me reclusive, not that I ever need much of an excuse. However, today I practically forced myself out. Down to the Thames, confronted by the unmistakable eu de parfum of weed that hangs heavy in South London, especially on a hot summer’s day.

It took a while for the day to warm up, but once the sun settled into the sky, it was no sleeves weather—quite the treat in England.

I wonder around, stumbling in my pastel blue suede loafers, dizzy and ditzy like a tourist in my own city. Writing into my Notes app, AirPods in, Blue Banisters (Lana’s Covid album) on loop. I am the living embodiment of a phone snatch invitation. Honestly, it’s a miracle that hasn’t happened yet. I tell myself maybe it’s pretty privilege—like, sure, I can understand why a man might want to rape me in the street, but stealing my phone? Surely that’s gotta be where they draw the line.