Drugged up but still pretty

So much for making a new, positive start. It was all going so well. I watched Wrecked (good ep, although I doubt Willow's magic addiction stops there) and went to bed. It was about half nine and I was beyond any reasonable measure of tired. I was so exhausted that I'd given up on any kind of analgesia and bowed to the inevitable.

And I couldn't sleep. I couldn't. Couldn't turn off my brain, couldn't, just couldn't, and by midnight I was in total despair and wandered downstairs looking for something to do that didn't involve staring at the ceiling. My mother was still up, studying, and seemed unperturbed at my vaguely tearful explanation of what I was doing still awake. She rummaged through the medicine cabinets and produced a fairly potent cocktail of paracetamol, ibuprofen and antihistamines. I took them without complaint, and waited for the placebo effect. I'm not allergic to anything, nor do I have hay fever or anything else - we only have all these different types of pills becauuse the pharmaceutical companies give us the free samples.

"Is this going to work?" I asked.

"It worked when you were a baby," she said, thoughtfully. "I used to mash them into bananas and feed them to you."

I barely registered this before I fell asleep on the kitchen table. I can't remember finding my way to bed, but I must have done - I was in a state of general anasthaesia for most of the night, and when Pedar came in at seven o'clock this morning, he couldn't wake me. Apparently, I gave him some cause for concern - he'd never seen anyone in a naturally occuring coma - but dragging me bodily out of bed did work. I couldn't speak for a long time, but I managed to explain about the antihistamines. "Not a good idea!" he exclaimed, but I was running for the train and missed the end of that.

The inevitable happened, of course. The bloody antihistamines didn't wear off. I started losing count of explaining all this to the people who wanted to know what the hell was wrong with me. When Sam saw me, the first thing she said was, "Are you on drugs?", which seemed oddly appropriate. It was more or less like being drunk, only without the good bits. I was totally spaced out for most of the day, and most embarrassingly of all, I couldn't walk straight. I was swaying from side to side most of the time.

Of course, today would be the day for a Chemistry practical. It was a titration, which Sarah and I were doing, and I felt compelled to explain to Mrs Miller just why I wouldn't be at my best today. She was concerned, but mostly amused. I wasn't acting sober - at least, not so much. I am, as a lot of you know, a meaning-of-life drunk. I get philosophical and then depressed. But I amused today's Chemistry class, no doubt. I even did a successful titration (it was Sarah who forgot the phenolphthalein) despite Mrs Miller saying, "Sarah, you're very trusting."

I overshot one, and managed the other. I rock. I am out of my skull, but I rock.

Later, Mrs Miller was heard to remark that she hoped this hadn't worn off by tomorrow, because I've been very entertaining. I groaned and weaved my way down to lunch. Becca called me "suicide on a stick." I concur.

Miranda's project for the week is doing a talk in English on a book of her choice, a task with which I have been compelled to help. We're doing Soul Music - specifically, the scene where Detritus looks on as the band steal the piano from the Opera House - and having rather a lot of fun saying "ook!" and giggling.

Somehow I made it through the rest of the day and got myself home. I can't explain how I feel now - wide awake, but dizzy, lost and out of my head once more. It's not pleasant. Tomorrow, I have to go to lessons and mentoring, but I'm having myself a half day. I need it, if only to re-do all the work I've made a pig's ear out of today.

Once again - I can do this. I'm not going to give up and surrender.

This song is right in the middle of my vocal range. "She will be loved, and she will be loved..."