At the clinic

Time has its unique tactics. Whenever I feel I’m determined to go against it, I become tired, and it grows bigger than anything. Then a series of disruptive sleep and a bleeding scalp get in my way. I don’t think I’ve quite figured how to chill out yet.

It seems my mum is worried and suspects that I’ve fallen victim to drugs or something, while others believe I’m happy and ready to turn the page. I think so 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 piss your mum off deliberately? For instance, I told her I booked a flight to leave Europe the next Friday, the 13th.  So if your mum is superstitious, you will understand why my mum flipped out.

They know you, and they know you will not listen. Like my mum will not understand that you only booked that flight because it was the cheapest.

During the department dinner, I had one of the most interesting conversations with the vice president, involving dreams, 70s punk and OCD. Who would have known? He then gave me the most beautiful compliment, which made being employed by that company pleasant.

While all the other girls at the table were raising eyebrows, I was probably most open in conversations. Those who know me well know that I can’t talk any other way. I like swimming in people’s past, but not many trust me enough to let me dive in.

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. Eventually, she sent me a letter indicating an appointment at the clinic due to an abnormality of cells in my smear test. Whenever I hear 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.

Last night, I dreamed of clinics. Doctors examined me and announced me pregnant with twins. If I were pregnant, I would abort it without telling anyone, and it’d be the only secret I’d take to the 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 three years, London. I’m counting sheep and days. Despite being low on cash, I realised 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 lose awareness of wakefulness. That is why I hate sleeping.

When I was young, my mum fed me the wrong pills, which had increased my sugar levels. My parents took me to a clinic. I’d slept most of the time, but I remember how the terrifying 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 neighbour’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. She didn’t come. She was at a clinic because her grandmother was dying. That is a good enough reason to ditch your date. He didn’t find out until ten years later.

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