The Bloody Doors Off

Fresh from a visit from Harold.

My manifestation of despair.

I was in the kitchen, making a grilled cheese panini for my wife. Decided to have a late-night snack.

And that led quickly into my recent heart scare, and receiving not one but two mailed confirmations of my appointment with the cardiologist at the end of the month changing it from a stress test to a phone consultation.

As if they were going to take that away from me.

Like it’s some kind of fucking badge.

I survived a (tiny) heart attack.

And if they took that away, I’d look like an attention-seeking liar.

That’s not the worst of it.

Because I think to myself.

“Well, maybe I should have a heart attack. You know, a small one; no lasting damage, but scary enough for me to start taking better care of myself. Just because I had salad three times last week doesn’t really fucking count because they were Caesar salads.“

Maybe I should.

If that doesn’t scream potential to commit self-harm.

It lasted one second.

Just one.

Long enough for Harold to slip through my defences.

I need a distraction.

Think I’ll finish watching Holey Moley.

You walked into my house last night
I couldn’t help but notice
A light that was long gone still burning strong
You were sitting, your fingers like fuses
Your eyes were cinnamon

You said you stand for every known abuse
That was ever threatened to anyone but you
And why should I know better by now
When I’m old enough not to?

Beth Orton, Stolen Car