The night before my period starts my brain goes a bit bonkers. Snippets of crazy dreams pinch me awake and my whole body throbs with some kind of tingly exhaustion. While I am desperately aware that sharings your evening escapades is the height of all that is deadly dull, some dreams are so very loony they require analysis and demand debate. This I’m afraid is one of those dreams.
There is a knock on my door and I open it to find an old boyfriend standing there. He has grown taller since I last saw him but I feel it would be rude to mention it, so allow him to embrace me in a spiky hug instead. Alison, he says, there is a hole in your leg. I look down and to my surprise he is right: there is a pin sized hole just below my knee, softly oozing a silvery liquid. We go to the doctors and wait, holding hands, in a room papered in portraits of Princess Diana. We don’t talk. For once I have nothing to say. The doctor comes in, rolls up my trouser leg, and shakes his head. I smile benignly at the man holding my hand. I’m bleeding, I say. He shakes his head again. No, he says, it’s not blood. It’s your life seeping away. Just keep mopping it up.
Oh God. It’s too awful isn’t it? Just keep mopping it up.
I’m all of a muddle lately. I feel like I’m something of a middle-aged battleaxe, head down determinedly making it through my days. Mustn’t think. That would be a bad thing. A very bad thing indeed. Must keep on keeping on, mopping it up and starting over. And over. And oops, over again. On the one hand the benefits of keeping on keeping on, wrapping doubts in beautiful, comforting ritual are many. They bring contentment and contentment is not to be sneezed at. But on the other hand bigger issues are eating me alive. Threatening my fertility, making holes in my skin and wrinkles on my brow.
I don’t say it much. I’m not allowed to think it. But I hate not being the family we were. Loneliness gets me at 9.00 on a Saturday night. Pokes me in the stomach and runs away giggling.
Like I said occasionally my brain goes a bit bonkers so do accept my apologies for putting on you like this. I’m off to bed in my crimson high heels. Legs and life wrapped tightly in cling film.