It all began innocently enough. Insomnia. One long night with no sleep, turned into two and then three. What followed was a three week sojourn of sporadic sleep. Two hours one night, four hours the next. But never more than that. By the end of those three weeks I was sleep deprived and falling apart.
I phoned Dr S who faxed me a script. But to no avail, I still could not sleep. And then the depression showed its face. I could feel it wrapped around my ankles, crawling up my spine and pressing down on my shoulders. Trying to drown me silently. So I went to see Dr S.
It’s hospital for you, she said in her beautiful french accent. Noooooooooooooooooooooooo, I screamed in my head. Hospital will perpetuate the stigma at work that I already have. I will be judged an inconvenience, a hypochondriac, an incapable drama queen, that crazy girl. They’ll whisper “But wasn’t she in hospital four years ago? Why wasn’t she cured then?”
So we compromised and she booked me off for a few days. And here I sit at home. Alone. Meds increased. Lots of sedatives. I’m asleep longer than I’m awake. And I’m starting to feel better. Less like a shard of shrapnel and more like an undulating body of water. The edges of my mind jagged no more. At peace.
But this remedy comes at a, uhmmmm, hefty price. I’ve put on weight. I have expanded 3kgs in 3 days with no change in my daily diet. Everything about my body is swollen. I look like an unfriendly blow-fish.
Stop laughing……don’t play koi with me, have a little sole for goodness sake. I’m barely keeping my head above water. Did you catch that? I’m being punny.
At least my sense of humour has survived, if not my waistline.