Belfast, week one, and I have decided to write this while it is still strange, because I have a feeling that in six months I will not remember being this frightened of a Thursday.
Things I did not expect. That I would cry in the pharmacy — not from anything sad, just the relief of a thing being in my hand after fourteen months of asking. That the fridge would feel different. That I would tell my mother and she would say oh thank God and I would have to sit down.
Things that were exactly as advertised. The going off tea. Which for me, in this house, is a genuine loss and not a joke. Two days of it and I have never wanted a cup so badly while being unable to face one.
Things nobody mentioned. How much of the first week is admin. Where do I put the sharps. What day suits. Do I tell work. Am I allowed to have a glass of wine at my cousin’s thing on Saturday. None of that is in the leaflet and all of it took up more of my head than the medicine did.
I am not asking anything really. I just wanted a record of the week where it was all new, and I would rather leave it here than in a notebook nobody reads.
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