It’s my own fault; which only makes the taste even more bitter. There was no good reason for me to binge last night, and I should have had more self-control. Now my stomach is cramping from the ridiculous food choices I made, and along with IBS I’ve concluded that there was no reason to take laxatives anyway; my own body has decided to evacuate without any additional effort from me. I should be pleased, but I just feel disgusting.
Sleep was a strange creature last night. I eventually nodded off after forcing myself to smoke a very strong spliff in the hope that it would knock me out, and as a result I totally missed getting up to phone the doctor to get an appointment for a second opinion. I’m frustrated with myself, but I suppose the important thing is that I’m awake now and I can give sleeping another try later.
Shopping didn’t go too badly, even if the entire main street did seem to be full of people crazier than I am. Usually I get stressed and panicky if it’s too crowded or full of dimwits shambling about like lost children, but I think I had my determined head on today and I coped quite well.
Appearance-wise, I think I probably frightened a few people today. The act of giving a shit about how I look started off with good intentions of wearing something pretty, but inevitably I ended up wearing jeans. Jeans which don’t even fit; which are so big that my legs don’t even touch them. I’m still wondering why I didn’t take them back, or at least think logically about buying a size 16 – as I said, I have no idea of my body size or shape – because they’re driving me mad. At least my muffin-top of epic proportions doesn’t ooze out over the waistband like so many other pairs of jeans I own. Small mercies. I didn’t brush my hair, choosing to shove a green bobble hat over my head instead, so masses of frizzy orange hair was sticking out all over the place. I wore my old pink coat (the unflattering one) and knee boots, and surrendered myself to the big bad world; terrible hair and all.
I used to care a lot about the way I looked; too much, really. Everything had to be perfect – not a hair out of place – and I felt so comfortable with my physical self when I put the effort in. I’m not sure what happened to all that. I still spend the money on the products, but I don’t seem to look any better or less bedraggled.
Had a long, hot bath and a joint as soon as I got back home; sweat was clinging to my back and hair, and I felt disgusting. The steroids may be wonderful for clearing up the eczema (I have almost normal skin now!) and help with the muscle pains, but they make me sweat like a pig. A big, horrible ginger pig. Threw a load of extra-moisturising olive oil bath milk into the water along with some Bio Oil, rubbed in a John Frieda emergency hair mask (I hate this time of year; it couldn’t be less hair-friendly), sandpapered myself with vitamin E body scrub and tried to concentrate on the book I’ve just started reading; Before I Go To Sleep by SJ Watson.
Plucked my eyebrows and checked my face for steroid-swelling (there, but not as noticeable as I’d feared), rubbing my too-orange makeup off and trying to untangle the ungodly knots from my hair without breaking most of it off. I bought two salon-sized bottles of TIGI shampoo and conditioner today; money I can’t really afford but if I don’t get this haystack under control I’m going to lose it.
Spoke to Z a little on Facebook messaging about seeing her tomorrow. I realised I can’t afford to take us for coffee as I’m getting my hair done (I was going to buy her a coffee, to make up for being a shit friend) so we’re going to stay in, watch films, drink amaretto coffee and play with make-up. I think I feel okay about it; it’s a little easier to cope if I plan ahead. Of course, that could all change if I sleep as badly tonight as I did last night.