We come full circle.
To recap: I left you on Friday morning.
Friday night, I went out. I drank two virgin mojitos (I read about them on Mummy was a secret drinker). I drank two virgin marys. They were good. Pickles and olives, and thick shoots of celery. Shit loads of Worcestershire sauce. I love the lady who made ’em. She wanted me to enjoy them. No cigarettes.
It hits 11pm and I guess, if I were smarter, I’d have sidled out of the bar and gone home. My two companions could barely see. Instead I ordered a campari and soda. It’s the most unlike a drink drink that I could think of. I sipped at it slowly. Played the pokies ’til I’d lost my money well and good. Ordered another. Drank it unenthusiastically, and went home.
It felt like an achievement.
Saturday came. The inside of my mouth was heavy as felt, abandoned by saliva. My chest: wheezy. My head: thick. I drank a kilo of water. Seemed a lot like a hangover to me, minus the good mood.
My sister was selling her old wares at the markets. I joined her. Ate like a hungover person eats. Fucked around like a hungover person fucks around. Talked shit the way hungover people do, and bought a bunch of crap from my sister that I don’t want. So far, doesn’t feel that different, except I’m tired. So tired.
Saturday night comes and goes. I’m asleep on the sofa at 7. Awake at 9. In bed at 11.
Sunday, I get up, expecting something good. Mouth like felt, etc. etc. I walk the dog. Sit at the top of a hill and feel empty. Walk to the movies. Eat shit. Walk home from the movies. Lie on the sofa. Watch shit. Eat shit. Fall asleep. Wake up. Go to bed.
Tomorrow. That’ll be good. Monday morning, I’ll jump up at dawn. Go practice yoga. Walk the dog. Start writing again.
Monday morning. 6am. Turn the alarm off. Hide my head under the pillow, until everyone’s gone. By 9.30, B, my kid, my dog. All gone. As the door shuts, I breathe. And I sleep. I wake. I read. Can’t read. I sleep. Wake. Flip through the channels. Read. Can’t read. It’s all shit. Sleep. Look at the clock. Gotta be up by 4. M comes home at 5. I get up. 3.45pm. Shower. Walk to the park. Find that stupid fucking jogging app that only makes you run for a minute. Do that. Go home. Make a curry out of what’s left in the fridge. M comes home. Goes out. I sit on the sofa. Flick through channels. B comes home. Eats. We watch TV. I watch normal TV. Not the digital thing. That’s different. Check in on D overseas. She’s happy. I’m happy. Snooze on the sofa. Go to bed.
Tuesday. Jesus fucking Christ. Is this how it goes? On and forever? I don’t want to get up. Gotta get up. Got a meeting with the bank manager. Stay in bed ’til the last possible dial and then move. Shower. Dress. Walk. The bank manager is like, 17 years old. I’m going to the movies. Movie. Food. Eat. Office. It’s 4pm and I want a motherfucking cigarette and a beer. I want them both like I want my hands not to look so old; like I want them not to to look like they belong to someone else. I suck on that e cigarette thing. Stare at the computer screen. Move some words around. Go home.
B & I go buy KFC. Eat a shit load of chocolate. Watch TV. Say hi to M. Watch TV. My eyes blur in to the wee hours.
Wednesday. Enough already. I wake up giving up before I begin. Fuck yoga. Fuck writing. Fuck it all. It is all an empty expanse of nothing. I am full of shit. I shower. I stand on the scales. I’m all KFC and chocolate. Duh. I miss my daughters. D is overseas. Where the fuck is M? Right there. Right here. We go for breakfast. I listen to her talk. I watch her pretty face in all its facets, rise and fall and care and wonder. I love her so much. She is so much smarter than I ever was. She comes to the office with me. Sits at the table behind me. I love her blue jumper and her pale skin. At lunch time, she sits at my table. We eat in silence. I sense she’d like to talk but I have nothing. She sits on my lap. I move her over. She hugs me. Where am I? What else matters? She goes to the library.
5pm, I leave. I march. March up the road, talking to myself on the street. Talking myself out of it, as I buy a packet of cigarettes. I walk in to the bar. I order a drink. It all tastes like shit. Not true. The cigarette tastes like shit. The wine tastes like nectar. And then it doesn’t. I write. It comes easier but I’m not present any more.
I go to my sister’s. We do our scripts on a Wednesday. I’m there for an hour and a half. Then I’m gone. March. Marching back up the road. Back in to the bar. Three drinks later, I am loose. Writing shit. Writing magic. Bar closes. I’ve bought more cigarettes. I’m sitting on the pavement scrolling through Facebook. Who are these fuckers? I look to see if D is good. The photos say she is. Go home. I go home.
Smoke a cigarette with B. Fill my glass. Look at my story. Smoke and smoke some more. Make some changes that tomorrow won’t make sense. Fill my glass. Shivering in the cold. The familiar stumble as I fill my glass. Mouth shuddering. SO cold. Fill my glass. And then the numbness, and I’m gone. It’s like arriving, this numbness. Away from all that nothing, and yet nowhere at all.
pickledtrout 