Not 24 Hours from Tulsa

I have been awake for about 36 hours straight.

I was awake and crying all night. Mindlessly clicking on the laptop.

Some nights my brain chemistry just rebels against my meds and refuses to respond as it should – by sleeping.

At least that’s what I thought.

Turns out Phil, who is usually so reliable, forgot to give me my evening meds.

No quetiapine.

No sleep.

I sit here now, waiting for today’s meds to kick in and give me just a little relaxation and a  little relief.

But I am shaky and nervous.

I hate that at 47 I can’t be trusted with my own meds. That I don’t realise when I haven’t taken them and can’t remember if I did.

I want to scratch away my anxiety. Not the usual tiny repetitive scratches that gradually remove the top few layers of skin in one little spot. No, I want great raking movements. Top to toe.

Making my whole body sing with relief.

I hate the ways my body smells.

I want to shower, but if I do and then I eat, I will smell wrong again and need another shower.

So I wait.

Feeling more and more irrational.

Knowing that today , I am not ‘normal’. Hating myself for my inability to stop acting this way.

Soon, they will bring me some food. Then I can get ready to sleep.

Maybe take some zopiclone.

Maybe a diazepam.

Yes, definitely diazepam.

Without it, this skin won’t scratch itself off.