We interrupt this travelogue to bring you a lot of me whining.
Today, I am unbelievably sick of being alive. I have actually considered whether it is possible for me to spend the next week in a drug-induced coma so that I don’t have to deal with the maddening grind of my imprisonment.
Alicia and Aaron are impossibly good to me, but the fact of the matter is that I went from moving a lot, and doing a lot, to being trapped in this flat with very little to do other than sit at my computer. Trapped at the top of an impossibly long and horrendous flight of concrete stairs. Trapped in my bower. Trapped by my stupid, aching ankle.
I would chew my own leg off like a fox in a trap if it would help anything. (Alicia points out that this would just make the problem permanent.) It would, at the very least, be a gesture of my despair.
I wish the pool were open. I wish the pool were open, and not separated from me by two flights of fairly easy carpeted stairs; one impossible, long, and terrifying flight of concrete stairs with the bannister on the wrong side; a five minute walk the last minute of which is up a hill; another flight of concrete stairs; and an entire pool full of slick, unfriendly tile.
I can feel myself going mad. I never had any interest in being such a close observer of my own descent into madness.