“I’m dying,” I tell myself.
“No, you’re not,” I reply. “Stop being stupid.”
Then I catch myself.
“Why do you feel like you’re dying, honey?” I ask, the way Q and Rachel have taught me.
But there’s no answer.
I’ve been falling apart for days now. Since Sunday. I feel…weird. Like Rea has died, and I’m someone different altogether. I feel completely hysterical and completely calm all at once, and I couldn’t go to work if my life depended on it. (Which it does, sort of, at least the part that involves having a roof over my head and food in my fridge.)
Something is very wrong.
Yesterday was Monday. Yesterday Nikki texted to confirm that I definitely wanted to cancel my appointment today, which I did, even though I didn’t. (Money, money, it all comes back to money.) I told her yes, but could we move my Friday appointment to Wednesday, because I felt like I was decompensating?
Today is Tuesday. Today I’m sitting in the emergency department, covered in blood and trying not to throw up. Today I was stupid.
At midday, I called Nikki. “Can you call the private hospital and find out if they have any beds available?” I would have said. “I don’t know what’s wrong but something very bad is happening and I don’t feel like I’m going to hurt myself but I’ve never felt like this before and I think I need to do something.” That’s what I would have said, only she didn’t pick up.
That was okay. I knew she would call back. Instead, I took some deep breaths. I opened the blinds. I lit a candle. I went for a walk and bought some flowers. I took some more deep breaths. It’s okay, just breathe, you’re okay.
She called back, and everything went wrong. I fucked up. I asked her to call the hospital, and to come over and do a session, but I panicked and I couldn’t breathe and instead of waiting for her to come, and going to the hospital, I took an overdose, and I cut my arm, very deep.
Nikki was in my house. Nikki isn’t supposed to be in my house.
And then she took me to the hospital, in her car. I’m not supposed to be in her car. And she stayed, and she got paper towel to mop up the blood that was running out through the bandages, and she gave me chocolate, and a hug, but then she left when the doctor took me me to get stitches, after he’d decided that probably I hadn’t cut any arteries. And I wanted to cry, and ask her not to leave me, but I don’t do that, so instead I said I don’t want to get stitches, but she left anyway.
I messaged Carol and asked her to come, but she has a full and rowdy household tonight.
So now I’m sitting, breathing and trying not to throw up.
I don’t know what’s wrong with me.