Couldn’t sleep after three-quarters of a tall latte at ten. A few nights ago – those panicky feelings came back, at about three-twenty-five in the morning, after a ridiculous dream. It was then I missed those little pills of mine. Since I got well (how can just two words sum up that tedious journey back to health?), my red pillbox has been overflowing with Prozac, neglected. Every now and then I’d reach in for Nurofen instead, more powerful than paracetamol. When I went back to the doctor’s and I mentioned, tentatively, Ativan please, he scoffed and said ‘How old school!” I hadn’t realised how 1970s our mental institution had been.
Anyhow, that wasn’t what I set out to write about at all. I had been okay for a long time now. Even the dreams are elusive, are fuzzier. But I missed those dreams. I vaguely remember one about flying, to escape some rogues at a spa, high high up, seeing sandcastles on a beach, a decision to power up and fly higher, went up too high past the clouds and had difficulty breathing. Then another, where my teeth dropped out. Common dreams – nothing a dream dictionary couldn’t solve and that disappointed me.




