Sick as a dog.

Something has taken root in the lung. Yet I staggered to work, delaying the full hysteria of my symptoms, the stridency of denial such that it cast a reminder of my early twenties, all intense and feverish. I staggered on, swaying from one age to another like a toy in a storm, greeting Helen in the kitchen, finally, as if I were a functioning, consistent thing. It was only in seeing her that I understood I should be in bed. I said nothing. Anger, was it?. Oh god, had her paltry admission of sexual feeling for other people, had that hurt me? Was I ever so precious? What now, as I take the stairs to my room, is it me or my illness belittling me? I was spiralling away. The dream of the huge arse, merry on my face. I found a dictionary of psychiatric terms and discovered, with some elation, the clinical definition of nightmare. It is a dream of being sat upon, to the point of suffocation, by a female monster. Oh Helen, what have you done? I staggered home, cancelling everyone.