raven | so much more than a pretty girl (Reply)

As a number of people have asked: I'm all right, really. The night before last it wasn't so much that I couldn't sleep as I couldn't sit still; I wandered around the house feeling really rather insane, and then, at five o'clock in the morning, thought clearly, hell with this, and when it got light, started making arrangements to make the journey north.

As dramatic gestures go, it wasn't bad - I got out of Oxford all right, and somewhere near Leamington Spa, rang my father to tell him that, er, possibly, maybe, I might have adjusted my tickets and might, possibly, be home in a few hours. He was concerned. And then because he is secretly five, carefully didn't tell anyone about it. So at half past four, when I stepped softly through the front door, my mother shrieked, "My baby!" and jumped on me. Which was worth it, really. Within about five minutes she'd made me some coffee whilst simultaneously telling me I drink too much of it, and when did I last eat, do I ever, why didn't I tell anyone I was coming, etc. It was good to be back.

I am actually not entirely sure this was the best idea in the world - there are so many relatives visiting that I'm having to really fight for peace and quiet, and of all the assembled masses, only my father knows why I'm really here, in the sense that he knows I'm quite depressed, not that I've been diagnosed as such. My mother merely thinks that I meant to do this all along as a surprise, and I think telling anyone the truth would lead to a major family meltdown, so. So this isn't actually relaxing as such; I'm having to hide my pills and such. I tell everyone I have a lot of work to do, which is certainly no lie, so can hide behind textbooks when needed.

But there are compensations. The weather in this part of the world is doing something it often does at this time of year, and getting hectically, fiercely beautiful. I went out briefly earlier - before remembering that in small country villages, post offices close on Wednesday lunchtimes - and watched the seagulls wheeling up against powder blue. It's lovely. The family situation is one thing, but what isn't claustrophobic is of course the landscape, which never changes. It's worth this, at least, being here.

Also, it is worth being here for some of my relatives. My cousin Sunny, who is an easy-going Australian medic, is here for four weeks to do his elective and is making my life calmer by his mere presence. He is cool, calm, collected, and predictable in what makes him happy. "Today," he announced this morning, "I am going on pilgrimage."

"Anfield?" I asked, ever-so-slightly amused.

"Yes," he said dreamily, and I wrote down the bus routes for him, because, seriously, who am I to stand in the way of other people's religious experiences. Off he went, happily, at about lunchtime, leaving me to the soft afternoon and the study of the criminal law.

So, yeah. I'm... not okay, but I'm still here. Some things - the small, everyday happy things, like my mother buying me a cupcake, or

jacinthsong ringing me up to be appalling, or being in the vicinity when a life-long Liverpool FC supporter is asked by a well-meaning relative if it's Goodison Park he's going to today, and has to be led to a chair and given a glass of water - are making me smile, and feel good, or at least okay, and then it reverts, and I'd rather go and hide and shiver in a bath. But, well. There is a bath, at least, to hide in.

Tomorrow, if I feel up to it, I am going in to Liverpool to find the post office, get my Macbook fixed and possibly have lunch with

forthwritten; at the weekend,

shimgray is coming up, which will be very good for my mental health and catastrophically bad for his. And on Sunday, I return. I will go and get my head looked at by the medical profession on Monday.

So... yes. Still here.