I don’t. It brings to mind lungs and other parts which should remain inside the body, shouldn’t they?
I now have that flat, sunken feeling that comes after…. after what? I still don’t know what to call it, how to describe it. None of the commonly used terms feel comfortable for me. Episode. Meltdown. Attack. They’re all too medical, too clinical, and back to lungs again. Blood vessels actually, that’s more relevant. Too attention seeking too. Some people won’t like that. This morning my arms were tingling, limbs were shaking. It was panic, that’s the only word that fits really. Experience may be a suitable word too, it is factually accurate. I don’t know the words, only the feelings. I know them very well now, I can see the signs coming. I once used the word “outbusting”, but that was in reference to Henry VIII and his unhealthy appetites. I’ve resumed drinking coffee again, and can feel the damage it is doing me. I was supposed to attend a meeting today about something I have no interest in but was talked into. As the time got closer I distracted myself, prevaricated, told myself I could do it and get it out the way, thought about running away, shook, paced around, decided it wasn’t worth the trauma, pulled out, wondered about the words I’d used, felt ashamed, called myself a failure but only for a brief moment, said it was the right decision, still felt bad, carried on shaking, decided to step out.
So here I am now. My forearms still feel the muscle tenseness from earlier. That’s one of the body’s way of correcting, reversing, protecting itself. These things, episodes, explosions are not over instantly, the aftershocks ripple for hours, sometimes days. I’m wondering about postponing plans to meet James tomorrow. I probably will make the effort.
So many people have two phones these days. I might get a second one and keep the number secret, select. I could have a different email address too. A different life contained within a bland depersonalised item. Switch everything else off. There’s a man sitting adjacent who is drinking Staropramen, slowly reading a book by Louis Theroux, a hardback edition with library style plastic covering. He has two phones, he’s wearing a check shirt. I wonder what happens in both his phones. I don’t like invading other peoples’ lives though. I wouldn’t really like to have someone else’s phone in my hands. Staropramen reminds me of that time I spent bumming around the disused factories in Zagrab, shortly after a hard right government had just come to power. Louis Theroux looks like a dictator on the book cover. The man himself looks like Louis, the French man that Geoff slightly flirts with.
There are people with backpacks and bucket hats. It’s travel season, although I suppose any time is good for travel if you want to. I need to do more, I need to let go, cut ties, see the world. I could sell possessions, put things in storage, make a usual list of essentials.
I talk about it. I should just do it.
Andrew Stevenson 