Perhaps I was veering a little towards smugness in yesterday’s posting, Transitional Demands (on The Word of Sinna Luvva), although I did give a nod towards the possibility of a belated relapse. After another early-to-bed night, the new day greeted me with a crunch that made credit seem buoyant; “abstainer’s hangover” was only a smidgen of the overall condition. Yes, it did feel as if I’d drunk far too much alcohol and smoked far too many cigarettes but, it’s a couple of days since I downed approx two units of alcohol and, I’ve not had a cigarette since October 14th.
[I’ve not given up smoking; I just can’t be bothered to light up! The trick is to ensure an ample supply of ciggies are available chez nous so I don’t make the mistake of going out to buy a new packet when I’m stressed – that latter way somehow leads (having made the effort) to an obligation to smoke the whole pack, whereas if a smoke is readily available I simply decide to postpone the foul deed – strange but true!]
The least I can say is that I felt groggy and bruised, light-headed and nauseous, intestinally bruised and knotted, even the chest felt achingly sore let alone the stomach cavity. Griping cramps held my lower limbs in thrall, turning over in the hope of a further nap seemed an endeavour too far but, I did manage to emerge from my duvet lair around midday. The usual post nasal drip ensured that I was feeling queasy, my stomach convulsively ached and, I generally felt as if someone had practised their sledge hammer technique on my torso.
Come early afternoon, I set out with my beloved to keep a double appointment at the optician and, total dis-ease / discomfort took control. The fact that there wasn’t a loo on the premises served to intensify my sense of disquiet; body and mind swiftly entered into a devastating panic attack. I have in the past few years devised a technique that helps me to cope with an impending attack but, once it takes hold any notion of self-help flies out from the alien or claustrophobic environment and I hobblingly run with a walking-stick towards the door.
Ma belle chauffeuse runs me home and then, drives back to town for her appointment which was due to follow mine. A couple of hours later I’d managed to regain a touch of composure but, I vow never again to attend a venue where toilet facilities are not obviously and instantly available.