Chelsea Hotel #2*

The unglamorous reality of life with a mental disorder:

Take a cab to the gym because I can’t walk because of my breathing. Take my hair-washing stuff to the gym but of course don’t actually wash hair as my anxiety makes me think that I’m running late whereas of course I’m running early as usual. Get another cab to the station.

Arrive at the Southbank Centre ninety minutes early to meet my friend and go up some steps to have a coffee and of course I can’t breathe because steps are uphill but I have a Diet Coke and then go to the loo several times because I forget my bladder pill this morning.

We see the Leonard Cohen tribute thing and it’s not that good and everyone in the world is at the Southbank and it’s hot and I’m wearing the Joseph Ribkoff dress that I wore yesterday to see my aunt and a cashmere cardigan and no-one has unloaded the dishwasher and no-one has unpacked my case and I tell my friend how worried I am about antisemitism in the Labour Party and Brexit and what if something happens to the fluffy monster. Cry at my friend twice.

Have to buy a deodorant at Boots at Waterloo because I think I leave my deodorant at the gym this morning but when I arrive home it’s sitting on my bedside table.

Have to go on the underground twice and it’s disgusting. I don’t know why someone can’t do something about it but maybe it’s a menopausal thing: I get hot flushes on the underground and maybe it in itself is not that bad. I used to love walking but now I can’t breathe.

Speak to Mum on my walk home from the station and she tells me to have some supper so I’m going to do that. And she offers to pick me up but I’m fine really I’m fine, all I have to do is sleep.

I’m lying on my bed with the panther and he rests his head on my shoulder and I know I need to have something to eat and I miss my sleep again this afternoon and I feel either worse or better I don’t know. Maybe worse and better are the same thing.

Everyone is drinking at the Southbank and I realise that I’m too old to die tragically young: I’m not twenty seven anymore I’m forty.

And I’m sorry that this post isn’t brave or inspirational or anything like that but it’s true and real. It’s all real until reality shifts again.

On the plus side Laila had some cubs. Here they are:

Happy Sunday everyone!

*1974. Song by Leonard Cohen. Song from the album New Skin For The Old Ceremony.