Psychotic Slip-Up Saga Continued

Doug walked me back to my flat.  I slipped beneath the quilt and he made me a cup of Chamomile tea.  I drank obediently and clutched my hot water bottle to my chest. Doug sat on the edge of my bed (like a real grandfather) and read me stories – from my own novels, diaries.  Yes, to most of you, it sounds weird.  But hey, guess what, it is weird, because I am weird and most of what I do will be weird so shove that in your pipe and smoke it!

But when he had gone I couldn’t sleep so I didn’t get the oblivion I so craved.  Random thoughts crept through my head.  ‘I was such a brat when I was younger, wasn’t I?’ I said in an imaginary conversation with my mother. I was impossible to punish.  She couldn’t have grounded me because I never went anywhere and she couldn’t do things you could do to most brats like removing my TV from my room because I preferred to read.  (And there really is no justification for preventing your child from reading.)

And besides, I didn’t care what happened to me.

And it is essential that I think my way back into that state.  It is a good survival strategy.

But these words keep flowing through my head, ‘I may have the body of a weak and feeble woman but…but..’

My audience waits, anticipating the words that follow. ‘But..but..’

‘But what?’

‘But nothing for I am not Elizabeth I.  I am not a queen.  I am simply me – defenceless and useless.’

And on that uplifting note, I shall depart.