Some days

Some days, like today, for example, and yesterday, if we're dwelling on it, are Black Days. On a Black Day, nothing matters. Death has the room that is my mind. Symptoms don't come and go, but organise. As if on an unseen rota, they visit each area of my body at random. Depressed beyond words, then tingly, then numb, then unbalanced, then sad, then that strange not-drunk-but-could-be thing, then back to numb, but in a different part of my body. Today, my little finger and I have broken up and been reconciled about 39 times. My left foot is in the process of divorcing my left leg, but she's fighting for the kids.

Then there's the headaches, which while not out-with-Tim-on-a-Bank-Holiday-in-2005, please-kill-me-now, Richter-scale-rewriting things of yore, are persistent, localised little fuckers. I swear I have had one for a day and a half, on an off, and all because I lifted a sofabed over a stairgate yesterday afternoon. Fuck this amateurish mess. More than once this week, I have begged the anvil to fall and end all this nonsense while we all have our marbles. It's not a happy place, my head. This is one of the days (or is it a pair of days) where it's obvious who's going to win. I am on the wrong pony here.