DAY 42: Shaking at a detox

I NEARLY gnawed off my own leg to get out of this one. Nothing says “Ooooh, maybe skip it” like the thought of public speaking. And nothing says “Have a drink, why dontcha?” like the thought of public speaking at a detox.
I’m pretty sure I’m coming down with something. My eyes loom like little pissholes and my hair looks like shit. Yeah, definitely not well.

“I feel like I’d be really predictable if I cancelled,” I say regretfully to my detox setter-upper, leaving a trail of dots.

“You would be,” she answers crisply, “and it’s not about you.”

“You can get fucked,” I think. I suppose THAT’S predictable as well?

Yep.

By the time evening comes round I’m vaguer than your mum at Christmas and have been struck down by a whole raft of psychosomatic illnesses, at least one of which is fatal. I wish this stupid storm outside would break; I’m stifling in my own skin.

I used to volunteer at a detox in England, back in my most hedonistic days, and I’d always forget what side of the fence I sat on. Now, again, I feel like I’m the wayward child that needs to be guided. I shouldn’t be trusted to speak to anyone about anything.

In the TV room at the detox someone grudgingly presses mute and my voice vibrates like a freshly twanged nerve, but I resolutely get to my point and plant my flag at the summit. Afterwards people clap kindly and murmur “onya”, also forgetting which side of the fence I’m on. I guess there are no fences. The storm has cleared and I feel better. Does anybody else feel better?

Keeper: If anyone really wants a house call from Doctor Awkward, I’ll give it another shot.