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  • Stop All The Clocks...(the beginning of the end of me)

    Bear is dead.

    Bear is dead, and in an instant, the wobbly little scaffold that was keeping me together collapses and crashes in pieces all around me.

    I'm  broken.

    I'm done.

    It's a week before my birthday and the only thing left in my life that I actually give two shits about is lying dead on a table in front of me.

    I literally cannot bear it. I feel my head implode.

    My phone starts to ring.

    I ignore it.

    It rings again... this time I answer, attempting to explain through my tsunami of tears to some poor, unsuspecting, faceless person on the other end, that “No, actually, I can’t talk right now, because my world is crashing down around me and so I really do not want to buy your life insurance, or  phone contract,  or whatever it is that you are trying to sell to me today”...

    I hang up before they get a chance to draw breath.

     I'm ushered into a side room. I’d like to think that it's because the staff care enough about me and Bear to want to make sure that I'm ok...but in reality, I think that they just don't want me scaring anyone else in here with my madness.

     They make me cups of tea; a box of tissues appears. The staff tell me to stay as long as I like until I'm feeling better.

    I can't bring myself to tell them that as of today hell will literally freeze over before that can happen now.

    I stay for what feels like an eternity. I just can't bear to leave him here, in this place that he hated. It always used to scare him... His very own Room 101. I try to tell myself that at least he doesn't have to be scared anymore...although that's little consolation. None at all, actually.

    The staff are getting twitchy now. They tell me that if I'm ready, they will take it from here.

    Only I’m not ready. I'll never be ready for this day. So no, I don't want them “taking it" whatever that means, and I definitely don't want them taking him.

    He's my friend, my wing-man, my everything right now; a furry, one-eyed ball of glue that was the only thing keeping me together and it's incomprehensible to me that the next time I see him he will be just ashes in a box. He doesn't belong in a box...He belongs here... with me.

    I wish that I could tell them that, but I can't  formulate the words, and anyway, I know that I don’t actually have a say in this now. He's dead and I'm grieving. I'm not thinking rationally. The staff have got a job to do. I need to let them do that.

    I finally let them take him and then I'm shown out of the side door, and within seconds I'm alone and out on the street.

    I cry all the way back to the caravan park, fully aware that I must look a bit deranged. I don't actually care if I'm honest, and so if anyone asks me I will say “Yes; yes, I am deranged actually, thank you for asking”... because as of this moment it's true.

    Maybe they will console me, or take me somewhere warm, possibly give me a shot of something so that in my dreams this isn't actually happening... Then  my life won't be a car-crash and Bear will not be dead.

    Only no-one stops to console me. Or take me somewhere warm.

    There will be no shot to take my mind off things. I simply walk on in the rain instead.

    I literally cannot take this. It's too much. My heart was already broken...now it lies shattered, fragmented, in pieces.

     Like me.

    An eternity later, I get back to my van and curl up on the sofa. It's raining outside. Floods, actually. My tears make it look like a drizzle.

    I don't bother to change out of my clothes, I don't have it in me to care that I'm soaked. Instead, I cry and I cry and I rage and I rage... at the ceiling, a cushion, the walls and the sky. I tell God that  he can stop now. That there's nothing left to take.

    I don't think that he's listening. Or maybe, I tell myself, he just doesn't care...

    I look at Bears bowls in the corner on the floor. I was hoping that he would be needing them tonight.

    Only today has shown me that there is no hope now. There wasn't for him and there isn't for me.

    And I realise with absolute conviction and clarity, that I literally give no fucks about anything now from here-on in.

    I've had it with this shit.

    I'm finished.

    I'm done.

    I want out...

     

     

     

  • Groundhog Day

     

     

     

    My days become Groundhog Day.

    I wake up, worry, drink and pass out. Wake up, worry, repeat… Everything else is a blur.

    I no longer have “good” days. Now that Bear is gone they range from “numb”, “repetitive” to “really, truly, awfully shit.”

    I’m struggling to function. Getting out of my head is all that I care about now, and it’s starting to take its toll on me.

    My hair is matted and is starting to break. I run my fingers through to comb it but then start to pull it out instead. It’s not intentional; I was trying to make it look better. Instead I make myself look a million times worse.

    I rarely eat.

    I don’t have an appetite, and the more that I drink, the less able I am to keep anything down anyway. My clothes fall off me. I go from size 8 to size zero in weeks, barely noticing … getting drunk is all that I care about.

    I check my reflection in the ladies. A hollow-eyed tramp stares back at me. For a second I think that there’s someone behind me, until finally I realise … the hollow-eyed tramp is me.

    I head back into the bar and drink until I’m asked to leave. I should be embarrassed by this but I’m not. It happens a lot. I’m used to it now. I fall down the stairs as I try to leave. I don’t remember where I sleep.

    The days turn to weeks and the weeks turn to months.

    I collect bruises and breaks like old ladies collect china. My head is full of white noise and a million shitty encounters.

    “Friends” start to avoid me. I see one cross the street – pretend to be engrossed in some tatty old window display, blatantly willing me not to see her. It’s fine. She was never truly my friend anyway, but that’s another story…

    I resist the urge to go over and tap her on the shoulder, just to see the look on her face. But I’m starting to withdraw. I don’t have those 30 seconds to spare. The off-licence beckons. She gets a reprieve.

    I wonder what they think of me. The guys behind the counter, as I hand over some small change and head back out with my booty. The thought lingers for a second, but then I crack open a can and forget what I was thinking about.

    I start to fall down a lot damaging my ribs, my face, my coccyx and my knee. I tell myself that I really need to steer clear of stairs. But then I fall off a kerb and hit my face on the pavement. I can’t steer clear of pavements, too. How would I get to the pub?

    I tell myself to be more careful and nurse a black eye for weeks.

    I go to my doctor and ask him for help. He tells me that he’s unsure as to what to do. That he took an oath to “do no harm” and that addiction is not a field that he’s familiar with. He doesn’t want to make things worse, he says. What he is telling me basically, is that he is not the guy to help me today.

    I thank him for his time, Google the medications that I think I might need, go back to the doctors and get a prescription. Then I pick up my meds, attempt to guess the quantities and I try to do a home detox.

    The tablets calm me. I think that this might work. But then I crack open a can and drink that as well swiftly followed by another, then another, until all of my cans are gone.

    I morph into a zombie.

    This is not going to work.

    My life is a car-crash. I’m now running solely on alcohol and prescription drugs.

    The man that I am involved with is vile.

    He’s an alcoholic, too. One who doesn’t like women very much, as I quickly find out to my cost.

    Our “relationship” involves him shouting, me crying, constant gas-lighting, total head-fuckery, and more than a smattering of cruelty and violence.

    I hate him.

    But I have nowhere else to go by now. My head is full of alphabet-spaghetti and I am totally reliant on him.

    The penny starts to drop as he attempts to drag me up the stairs by my neck. As I manage to break free and make my escape, the thought crosses my mind that I really can’t keep living like this.

    If the alcohol doesn’t kill me, then maybe this guy will. I think that he’d enjoy it.

    The thought terrifies me.

    It’s the wake-up call I need.

    I pluck up some courage, walk shakily into a meeting and I beg the staff there to help me.

    They take one look at my broken, emaciated frame and start the paperwork immediately.

    They are throwing me a life-line.

    I’m going into detox …

     

     

                                                                                                                                              

                                                                                    

                                                                                        

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