Notes from the shoreline of my nervous system on Ambien —and Retinol: Will I ever find my “beach”?

I take half an Ambien, lamenting the fact that within an hour I’ll begin to feel really enthusiastic and happy about my silly and sad little life. I’ll start making all these plans in my head, like some demented enthusiast! Promises I can’t keep, like how I’m going to solo travel for six months and find myself. Or go back into formal education… Then I’ll wake up the next morning, feeling too afraid to even get out of bed.

I see slivers of the person I imagine to be the real me when I take anything that massages the GABA receptors in my brain, —like Ambien. I experience who I could be, with my anxiety and self-doubt torn away. Who I might be if I didn’t feel as though I was carrying the weight of 24 years of trauma around like an unsexy ankle weight.

Deep down, I know I am intelligent, creative and ambitious. With a “rod of steel running through me”, as my parents often enthusiastically remind me when I am upset. However, dealing with honestly, pretty appalling at times, physical and mental health issues really does have a way of suppressing these desirable qualities of mine. It’s easy to lose sight when you’re shackled in all your discomfort, to a comfortable bed. The person I am and the person I want to be could not feel further from eachother. Which is really frustrating and gut wrenching.

If only she could just try harder—that’s what I imagine people think when they look at me. But the truth is, recovery, especially in the context of illness, doesn’t arrive in one triumphant, cinematic swoop. It is, in fact, humiliatingly slow. Progress is not waking up one day, bronzed and reborn on a Bahamian shore, a Pina Colada in hand, my sickness dissolved like the sugar in my drink.

Progress is quieter. A single grain of sand pressed into place, then another. A shoreline forming almost imperceptibly beneath your feet. At first feeling so unknown its unremarkable. Before you notice the air growing warmer, the salted breeze . And suddenly, in this imagined arrival, you’re standing there in baby pink Galliano-for-Dior circa 2003 runway swimwear! Clinging to your bones and breasts like some sort of hot girl badge of survival.

But I haven’t found my beach yet, much less much my archival designer bikini!

As I lay here, I wonder about the damage I’ve probably inflicted on my body over the years via eating disorder —at best through weird and disordered eating, at worst through militant starvation —oh, to be fourteen again. At least I don’t do that anymore. The thought makes me strangely… hungry. An inspired idea pops into my head… Tofu summer rolls! I deliveroo a serving straight to my bed. The stairs being a minor inconvenience I conquer while the Ambien takes root.

Food tastes so good when you’re a little high. All those crisp textures.

As per I’m watching sociological based analysis of pop (and non-pop) culture video essays on YouTube. Tonight’s lineup consists firstly of: Why do we like to watch hot girls die in horror?

I think the world could die happy watching a hot girl do anything, honestly. The way some men gawk at me for just wondering in to Waitrose or wincing in attempt to dry swallow a pill on the train is enough evidence. I know that’s not a unique experience, in fact I don’t think you even have to be hot for men to treat you like an object. Though of course, god forbid you be ugly!!

I digress,

Lately I’ve started to notice my face aging, particularly around my eyes, in photographs. Having always looked young for my age, this has come as an unwelcome surprise. I read somewhere —reputable? Who knows, that the iPhone camera is so hyper-detailed that it captures more than the human eye can actually see. Perhaps this is the case, but I’m not taking any chances. All of this has spooked me into a new nighttime skincare routine, just shy of £100. This is why men pay for dates.

Now, I’m not usually one for an extended skincare routine. As someone who spends most of their life fatigued and lethargic, the less I have to do the better. My ocd on the other hand, insists upon unrelenting self care rituals, that take up far too much time already. Adding in another step, god forbid— by choice, can easily equate to another 10 to 20 minutes of bullshit.

After some google-level research and analysis, I came across Paula’s Choice; Ceramide-Enriched Firming Eye Cream with Retinol and Vitamin C. £45 for 15ml. High quality beauty products do tend to be sold by measure at prices comparable to party drugs.

I started with an eye cream, as I said, I’ve noticed these signs of aging most prominently around my eyes. —And I’ve read enough beauty magazine articles to know that you never dare to put anything other than an eye cream around the eye area. Perhaps these eye bags could be resolved by… I don’t know? More sleep? But I don’t want to risk it.

The cream is slinky, like a sort of liquid silk. Melting into the skin without any trace or irritation. As someone with unreliably sensitive skin, this is notable. Impressed, a week later I purchased the Paula’s Choice; 1% Retinol Treatment With Peptides and Vitamin C Face treatment. £63. I’ve been using the pair in duo for the past few nights.

Whether I’m smearing money on my face in a genuine attempt to improve myself, or simply as an act of capitalism driven stupidity to fight the inevitable, I don’t yet know. But retinol is a proven anti-aging ingredient, so I can at least hope some magic is happening.

And just like that, the Ambien reminds me progress can wait until morning. For now, the only beach I’m making it to is in my dreams, where I will always be forever young.

I have such a bad headache.