Pause and play

So I just popped a dex because I wanted to feel happy and be productive today. I’m not sure how well that’s going, but at least I’ve lost my appetite lol. —I drank it down with a blueberry and almond milk protein smoothie.

I wrote a to-do list in the notes app on my phone and managed one chore while waiting for the dex to take effect. While I wait for that kick I start reviewing foods I’ve ordered recently on Ocado. Call it a writing warm-up exercise? Each review grows a little more enthusiastic as the drug starts to seep in.

But my heart is bleating and my nerves are spangled because we have landscapers in the garden. They’re digging up the back patio to renovate it, which so far has meant unearthing the remains of past pets and relocating their bodies. It feels eerie and unsettling watching their graves be disturbed. I hope they don’t decide to haunt me. I tell myself; bodies are just bodies —it’s our souls that matter, and those leave when we die— but I still can’t help feeling sentimental about what’s left behind.

I feel sick today, maybe because I’ve just finished antibiotics and now I’m subjecting my body to legal speed. I felt amazing last night though. I’d taken three benzos for my flight home from the south of France. Once home, I threw all my worn clothes into a hot wash, unpacked my toiletries, makeup, and new trinkets, then ran a deep bubble bath which I nearly fell asleep in. By the time I got out, my clothes were ready to sort— one pile to hang, one to tumble dry. I did that, then collapsed into bed with half-wet hair, smelling of argon oil, brushed gently through with my fingers— my usual apology for all the bleach I put it through.

Then I ordered Deliveroo; my favourite vegan burger place. Loaded dirty waffle fries with vegan bacon and a vegan chicken burger with garlic mayo and pickled pink onions. Between the brioche bun, those tart flavours really explode.

Today I feel sad. I miss France. I actually wrote half a blog post while I was there, before getting a UTI. I was supposed to finish and upload it, but once I started those antibiotics my brain felt fried. So it’s left half-written. the opening was so strong it almost intimidates me now. I’d also been speculating about Lily’s new album, which hadn’t dropped yet. Maybe I’ll finish that piece now, with a review of the album, which I’ve played every single day since its release. I love storytelling in songs, and that whole album is one long, beautiful, chaotic chapter book. I relate to Lily and her songwriting style a lot. It’s been very influential to me since I was a young teen! Her memoir was insane too, I really recommend reading it

A long time ago I adopted the narrative that when bad things happen to me, they are just another chapter writing itself for my future book. I can tell Lily also follows this direction. Which is certainly a helpful ethos to go by when you’re a creative who tends to stumble into horrible situations.

Since getting sober from my problem drugs though, I haven’t found myself in nearly half as many memoir-worthy disasters. Probably good for my mental health — supposedly, anyway. But creatively, sobriety can feel a bit stunting. Which is why I go in circles sometimes, writing about my circular trials and tribulations.

Sometimes I wish I’d chosen a career at sixteen and stuck with it, like some people I know. I wish I could say, “Look, I followed my dream and now I have something to show for it.” Instead, I get lost sometimes. And it gets lonely. But I’m working it out, the cogs are turning again. I’m waking up after the long pause I’ve been stuck in. It’s time to hit play .

Because moping around in band tees and taking baths at 3pm is only fun for so long. Not that I choose to live like this.

Thank God I have my writing, or my only talent would be being the ultimate male fantasy! Lol. You know I’m not being serious serious. But sometimes it does feel like that. And honestly, I’m not even very good at that anymore. When I’m depressed, I’m too lethargic to do my makeup or spend an hour washing and heat-styling my hair. Don’t attach your worth to your beauty, people say. Because if you do, as you age, you’ll lose your worth. And I get that, I really do. But I’m not insecure like I used to be. I used to tie my entire identity to those toxic hot-girl metrics; my body, men, drugs. I don’t do that anymore. My identity is personal now. I know who I am (it’s none of those things), and yet that old character still feels strangely comfortable to slip back into sometimes— when I need to fool everyone.