At the clinic

Time has its special tactics. Whenever I feel I am determined to go against it, I become tired and it grows bigger than anything. Then a series of disruptive sleep and bleeding scalp find my way. I don’t think I’ve quite figured how to switch off, yet.

It seems my mum is worried and suspects that I’ve fallen victim to drugs or something while others believe I am happy and ready to turn the page. I believe it, too, but behind my eyes I still see reruns of stories I don’t want to tell anymore.

Coming back to mums, they always know when something is the matter or when you lie to them. Do you sometimes also have the urge to deliberately piss your mum off? For instance I told her I booked a flight to leave Europe on the next Friday, 13th.  So if your mum is superstitious, you will understand why my mum flipped out.

At the end of the day they know you and they know you will not listen. Like she will not understand that you only booked that flight because it was cheapest.

 

During the department dinner I had one of the most interesting conversations with the company’s vice president, involving dreams, 70s punk and OCD. Who would have known? And then receiving the nicest compliment just made the whole idea of being employed by that company somewhat significant. While all the other girls around the table were too skeptic, I was probably most open; I heard no trap question or anything that appeared too personal and intrusive like they did. Those who know me will know that I don’t talk about anything else. I like swimming in people’s past, but not many trust me enough to let me dive under.

As for me, you can eat my past for all I care.

 

I hate nurses. First I thought OK the last one seemed acceptable for not making me bleed, but eventually she sent me a letter indicating an appointment at the clinic due to abnormality of the cells in the test results. Whenever I hear the word ‘clinic’ I smell disinfectant and think of push-beds. Now, most likely, another fucking woman will examine me down there. I’m close to sending a postcard to my gynecologist back home to tell him how much I miss him.

 

So last night I dreamt of clinics. I was being examined and announced pregnant with twins. If I was pregnant I would abort it without telling anyone and it’d be the only secret I’d take to grave with me. I can’t imagine anything that’d make me more vulnerable than having a child.

I often have moments where I have a sudden urge to throw everything away, no matter if it’s of value or not, away, away, just away. And interestingly I don’t miss it afterwards.

 

It’s almost been 3 years, London, almost…but it won’t be. I am counting sheep and days. Despite being low on cash, I realized it’s not worth staying in the end. I spend most days looking around and then I remind myself to always look at my feet to make sure I’m still on solid ground. During a hypnic jerk before falling asleep you twitch because you’ve lost the awareness of it, which is why I hate sleeping.

Once when I was young my mum fed me the wrong tablets, which had increased my sugar levels and I was sent to a clinic for a week. I’d slept most of the time, but I remember the most terrifying fractions where  female nurses force-fed me and stuck suppositories up my anus.

 

For the past two days I’ve been watching this little fox in the neighbor’s garden, either he’s feeling lonely or he’s seeking solitude. But for some reason the sight of it reminds me of Jesse waiting for Celine in Vienna. But she didn’t come. She was at a clinic because her gran was dying. That is a good reason to ditch your date, though. He didn’t find out until ten years later.

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