Contemporaneous: Chapter 19
19. Arriving at work the next day, I feel a disquiet. My workmates still chat the way they always do, but I pick up a glance here, a lowering of the voice there, a sense of expectation – when you’re somewhere long enough, you pick up the rhythm of the place, as well as any disruption, no matter how small. I might’ve been pre-armed with the script that this was going to happen, and I’d decided to bluster my way through it – or maybe that was the way I was told to play it. But I can’t now. Fuck the script. This is an affront, even if it…
Contemporaneous: Chapters’ 8 – 12.
8. I wake too early like I ‘ve done every day since I was on antidepressants for five years over twenty years ago, and they fucked with my sleep, and even now, even with them clean from my system, the side-effects they introduce remain. Grabbing my phone from the bedside drawer where my clock radio sits, I check it, tensing as I expect some Lana diatribe. Sometimes she does that, sending me an essay detailing why I’ve behaved so poorly, a guided tour into my inadequacies that immerses me in guilt that overwhelms any equilibrium I have, until all that remains is the doubt that maybe, just maybe, I…
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