Sick? Nobody gives a shit.
The
thing is, is that when you’re sick, nobody gives a shit.
Being
sick and seeking out sympathy is akin to having a bad dream, and verbosely trying
to tell everyone at breakfast that Harry from One Direction beat up your baby,
tried to kiss you after you ran away, and forced you to explain how it would be
impossible to have a relationship with him because you don’t like watermelon
and anyway, is that a dancing meerkat over there or is it just you?
Life
lesson: You kinda had to be there for it to be interesting. Except, your
imagination has standing room for one only, so you can’t really bring anyone
else along. Ever. Dreams? I don’t care. Ill? Die quietly and in the corner,
please. I’m busy.
Oh,
except for when they are my dreams
and it is me that is sick, in which
case PAY ME ATTENTION AND STROKE MY HAIR AS YOU WHISPER “IT’S OKAY, SWEETNESS,
YOU’LL FEEL BETTER IN THE MORNING.” Also: yes, I would like a little whisky in
my honey and lemon. Thanks. You may kiss my forehead now.
But
it doesn’t happen that way.
When you’re sick, the brother you live with could insist you take thrice-daily shots
of Echinacea, and might even lie you out on the sofa with a glass of Beaujolais
(it’s medicinal) whilst his fella puts on a reading from Keats and together
they cream leeks and feed you French baguette with real salted butter. This
will be because the more food that is your mouth the less likely you are to be
able to moan about how poorly you are.
When
you’re sick, your parents might call, you know, to ask if you took enough
paracetamol to keep your temperature down because you’ve never been very good
at remembering to do that. But also, they’re probably calling you as you’re
under your duvet because you tend to be a bit of a dick to them under healthier
circumstance, and illness leaves you vulnerable enough to spare the five
minutes it takes to say, “I know. I love you too.” You must try to be nicer to
them.
When
you’re sick your boss will email, but that’s because your project was due
Friday and he kind of needs to know if you will make the breakfast meeting on Monday
morning. Feel better soon! means, Are you going to make up this lost time
before Christmas? Don’t kid yourself otherwise.
When
you’re sick, your best friend will email hourly, but he lives in Spain and so
that doesn’t count.
Okay, that counts, but still. He’s not
about to knock on your door with tofu soup and a stack of Joshua Jackson DVD’s.
It’s
incredible to me how in minutes I went from chandelier-swinging, man-eating
good-time seeking SNBATWOMOS domestic slut to… well. Wearing the same
sweatpant/hoodie combo for five days without even thinking about a shower,
leaving the apartment only to buy more tissues, and yup can’t lie. I may have downloaded all four ‘Step Up’ movies and
cried as many times as I have fingers on my hands. THOSE KIDS HAVE DREAMS, MAN.
My
dream is for somebody to design nose tampons for snot.
Being
sick forced me into a downward spiral of an absolute self-loathing depression,
which I’m pretty sure is a common thread. At least, I hope it is. I have to believe that everyone else has
the same inner sickness monologue: everything
sucks, no-one loves me, I’m a failure and a nobody and pathetic and also it’s
quarter to two in the afternoon and now I am officially behind schedule for my
nap and I CAN’T GET ANYTHING RIGHT GODDAMN IT WHAT. IS. WRONG. WITH. ME.
My
biggest achievement was not picking up the phone when I got a 1 a.m. booty
call. OH HOW I WANTED A WARM BODY PRESSED UP AGAINST MINE THAT NIGHT. I think
it is a sign of maturity that I recognised the self-destructiveness behind my
desire to have him come over, so TEN POINTS TO ME I DIDN’T ANSWER THE PHONE. I’m
a grown up even in the face of adversity and a bad cold.
Somebody
contractually obliged to nurse me back to health would’ve been nice, though.
Really
nice.
Love
me. Take care of me. Give a shit.
I
think my point is that this past week has been the antidote of all antidotes
for the high I’ve been riding since I got to London. This week I’ve felt more
like a lost, undecided, confused twenty-six year old girl than I have done in a really long time. I’ve been emotional
and frustrated and… sick. I didn’t want to mention that because remember: nobody
gives a shit.
Except
they do, really, and any thought to suggest otherwise is all in my head.
I
think it’s so important to admit to these moments, because I can write as many blog
posts as I like about the exact placement of my balls in relation to the wall
but this wouldn’t be real life if I didn’t also say, yeah, hi. I feel sad today.
I’ve
felt sad all week and that’s just part of it all: of knowing that there are
people who will stick on an audio book of poetry to cheer me up, or call, or
email, or write overly long posts on my Facebook and somehow it still not seem
enough.
It’s
got nothing to do with what anybody else can or can’t do for me. Just like
everyone else I get to be my own worst enemy sometimes too, and let the fear
and loathing take over.
Internet,
I think I just wanted to say that if you feel this way too, it’s okay. We’re human beings and we’re all a bit
unsure, and none of use really know, and it really will all be okay. Right?
RIGHT? Please say yes.
And
in the meantime, probably there is little else we can do other than download something with Channing Tatum in it. That man can dance.
It helps.
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