Monday, 9 December 2013

York sandwich

I now have 10 working days left in York. But fuck 'working days' because I don't have a proper job. So, really, I have 13 days left in York.

And in a way I'm leaving this city much as I arrived - a big ball of spiky anxiousness. As soon as I moved from my comfort zone of Leamington Spa, I haven't managed to chill the fuck out, if I'm honest. In fact, it could be said - and, indeed, has been, by the odd doctor and shrink - that my panic disorder has become A Thing.

Here is a list of things I can't do without the very high possibility of having a panic attack: go to shopping malls, go into wide open spaces, eat out at restaurants, go to parties, go to pubs, go to fucking Waitrose, go for a walk, fly, go to a station. In short, as long as I stay within my house and approximately five other tightly controlled locations, there is the humungous chance that I will have a panic attack.

I have been here before. Agoraphobia has been an on and off thing since I was about 16. So it's not new to me. It's been up and down since then, with some years very very little and other times a heinous amount. After the stresses and strains of the last year or so, the severity of it is freaking me out somewhat. And the pressure. Oh god, the pressure. I want to take my brain out and wash it. In bleach. Start over.

The number of things I haven't been able to do, attend, see and experience since I've lived in York are, of course, major reasons why I'm moving to somewhere I can properly relax. Get better. Sort it out. Get my head together. Do some meditation. Chill the fuck out, man. Stop taking everything so very, very seriously. Regularly get drunk again. Do some life affirming stuff.

But before then comes a month of high stress and full on terror in some cases. And before that comes packing. Even that's making me anxious. I selected the nine pairs of shoes I'm going to take with me yesterday. NINE. That's fewer than I had when I was nine. Nine pairs of shoes, about 100 books and a few clothes. Fatty is going to have more stuff going down with him than I am.

I'm going to be living like an actual nun. Without the praying. Obviously. I could be down for some Huxley style Devils action though.

Time to wrap this sandwich in cling film and stick it in the freezer for a while. I'll be back for it later.


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