Hubble bubble…

Last night was Megan’s birthday bash that had been planned for a long time. And it went really well and was a very lovely and very enjoyable night with some of my favourite people in the world and seeing Megan happy makes me happy. That’s not some bullshit I say to make people think I care about her or what I think people think that want to hear. She’s an absolute angel. She’s my light.

Last night, after the proceedings, I came home with the idea that I needed to be alone. I knew that, whilst enjoyable and lovely and all of the other good adjectives I can throw at it, the day would be vey full on and I’d need some me time afterwards. A “social battery” is a term I hate, though I’m not sure why, because it very succinctly explains a mixture of things that all encompass the juices of the brain stew that’s made when people mix with other people. I had pretty much convinced myself that would be the case for days before. So I feel like I’ve decided that people, regardless of how much I love them, are going to be too much for me. Should it concern me? What else will I pre-judge? Will it be fair? Will it be often? Or even necessary?

When we got back, I wasn’t just tired or “done” like I have been every day for months. Instead I was angry. Best I can think is that maybe I’m angry that I finally have a day that I’m not going to be working and I’m forced to spend it doing something other than nothing. My brain feels like shit soup and I’m dying for a day where nothing is demanded of me. Nothing at all. Where I can go a full twenty-four hours without interacting, in any way, with any single person. Although I’m not even sure if it would help me at all at this stage, but the idea seems nice. Or maybe I’ve convinced myself that’s what I need and if I get it I’ll turn out angry because I was wrong and all I needed was a hug or a wank.

So in what I can only describe as a tantrum I fucked off to bed.

Lying there wasn’t comfortable in the slightest. After all, I wasn’t ready for bed I just sent myself there without any fucking supper. So I tossed and turned and felt like my legs were itchy and sometimes felt dizzy and sometimes felt weird and sometimes I’d just stop fidgeting and freak out. I genuinely thought for what seemed like ages that I was going to die. Not in a theatrical way. Just expire.

Started sweating. Legs felt itchier. Times I was convinced that I was going to stop moving, stop breathing and just go.

Wondered what it would be like. What, if anything, I would feel if I went. Would it be like transitioning from going to sleep into dream state where I wouldn’t really know it happened? Would I be lying there staring as piece by piece my body and mind shut down and I’d loose reality and memories and faculties while utterly powerless to do anything?

Realised that while I was thinking about what it would be like to die that all of the manic nonsense I was going through had stopped. No itch. No chest pain or sweating. Went to sleep very soon after.

Today, worked for myself in my burger joint which is good, but has made me poor. Tomorrow I’m back working my other job which should be the easiest job in the world, isn’t, have to put up with horrid, empty-headed girls and barely get paid - thus - remaining poor. But if I make it through to Tuesday I get band practise which should actually make me feel better.

All life seems to be at the moment is swimming like fuck while the rapids throw me around with zero control and if I’m lucky enough to grab a branch for a minute just to catch my breath before I slip back down the river.