It’s Day 11.
If I were in a cell, I would have scratched out the days on the wall, probably using my own fingernails that are attached to these very useless fingers.
Day 11. We’re into double figures. That’s scary. Reaching the double figure mark frightens the Hell out of me.
Days 1-5 usually get shrugged off. I don’t like it, but I put it down to all sorts of reasons. Travelling, work, evening chores, sleep. I start chanting it like some kind of mantra, because that sort of makes it all okay.
Days 5-9. I’m getting twitchy. I can’t concentrate. Work is a struggle. I can’t focus and it just makes me wonder even more what the Hell I am doing here, other than working to pay the bills, or not pay the bills as the case might be. I’m getting irritable and doing anything to not think about it. Twitter, Tumblr, even Facebook makes a welcome return.
Day 10. I’m going mad with withdrawal. I’m actually going mad. Having crazy dreams about Noel Gallagher in an open top car, about visiting a vintage music memorabilia store, about studying Anne Rice’s ‘Violin’ at university remembering distinctly how it felt to run my fingers across the front cover, and Alex Skaarsgaard is the lecturer and he has a tiny bald patch on the crown of his head. I know when the dreams hit, my head is trying to tell me something.
Day 11. Here we are. Day 11. It’s been 11 days since I last wrote anything and the withdrawal makes my head hurt and my soul ache. Someone lock the door, pass me two buckets and let me climb the walls until it’s over.