Chapter Seventeen
Title: Nausea
(You should know the side effects of antidepressants include nausea, increased cravings and, inexplicably, higher chances of suicidal tendancies)(and I meant to go more into the cravings, but it didn't come out that way):
The bathroom floor under my hand is textured, sharp. Like gravel. It's going to have left an imprint on my plam when I move.
The rim of the bowl of the toilet is more forgiving.
I hack up the final dregs of my lunch, the effort bringing tears to my eyes, and spit into the tiolet bowl.
I tighten my grip and my body, trying very hard not to collapse on the floor.
After about five minutes I build up the strength to stand agian. Supporting myself against the basin I wash out my mouth, which doesn't really help, and finally collapse against the wall.
Annie opens the door and I feel my eyes darken behind the lids.
She enters and closes the door and they go back to brown.
I feel her presence in front of me and she's combing my damp hair away from my face and trying to get me into a more comfortable position.
She presses a glass of water to my lips to make me drink and touches a cold flannel to my face, whispering words of comfort.
"Shh, you'll be okay, you'll be fine, you'll be fine, shh, I'm sorry, you'll be fine, you'll be fine,"
And normally I'd send her away because I've been through worse and George is going through worse but this is shit and what's she's doing is nice and no-one's looked after me, mothered me, like this for years. And I don't really have the energy to move my mouth and complain.
Where she's touching me, even without the flannel, is cool. Still damp, but a different sort of damp.
She finally rises and moves towards the door, pulling me out of the sleepy stupor I've fallen into.
"Don't . . ."
She turns.
"I know it looks . . . like I won't move for hours . . . but if I smell . . ."
Her eyes widen in realisation.
She moves towards the door, but this time to lock it, an action I had foregone in preferance of reaching the toilet in time.
"I'll come back soon if you haven't come out." she promises.
I give a pale imitation of a nod and she dissapears.
(You should know the side effects of antidepressants include nausea, increased cravings and, inexplicably, higher chances of suicidal tendancies)(and I meant to go more into the cravings, but it didn't come out that way):
The bathroom floor under my hand is textured, sharp. Like gravel. It's going to have left an imprint on my plam when I move.
The rim of the bowl of the toilet is more forgiving.
I hack up the final dregs of my lunch, the effort bringing tears to my eyes, and spit into the tiolet bowl.
I tighten my grip and my body, trying very hard not to collapse on the floor.
After about five minutes I build up the strength to stand agian. Supporting myself against the basin I wash out my mouth, which doesn't really help, and finally collapse against the wall.
Annie opens the door and I feel my eyes darken behind the lids.
She enters and closes the door and they go back to brown.
I feel her presence in front of me and she's combing my damp hair away from my face and trying to get me into a more comfortable position.
She presses a glass of water to my lips to make me drink and touches a cold flannel to my face, whispering words of comfort.
"Shh, you'll be okay, you'll be fine, you'll be fine, shh, I'm sorry, you'll be fine, you'll be fine,"
And normally I'd send her away because I've been through worse and George is going through worse but this is shit and what's she's doing is nice and no-one's looked after me, mothered me, like this for years. And I don't really have the energy to move my mouth and complain.
Where she's touching me, even without the flannel, is cool. Still damp, but a different sort of damp.
She finally rises and moves towards the door, pulling me out of the sleepy stupor I've fallen into.
"Don't . . ."
She turns.
"I know it looks . . . like I won't move for hours . . . but if I smell . . ."
Her eyes widen in realisation.
She moves towards the door, but this time to lock it, an action I had foregone in preferance of reaching the toilet in time.
"I'll come back soon if you haven't come out." she promises.
I give a pale imitation of a nod and she dissapears.