I thought my problems had been successfully hidden behind my façade of migraines and adorable quirks (‘It’s a lovely day! Let’s walk instead of getting the underground’).
James knew though, of course he knew. He loved me.
It was nothing that he said.
In our whole relationship we never once talked openly about my panic attacks or depression. I never wanted to admit to them.
Instead, James came home one day with a can of squirty cream, the stuff that comes straight out of the nozzle.
‘It lasts for ever,’ he said, putting it in the fridge. ‘Let’s keep it and then when you are having a bad day you can just take the can out and squirt it straight into your mouth like this,’ he demonstrated, ‘and then I’ll know you’re having a shit time without you even having to tell me.’
It was a joke. But the love and flash of concern in his eyes was enough to tell me he knew. He knew I struggled. Every time I was sad and lay in bed all day, every time I sat next to him on the sofa twitching while pretending to watch TV, every time I convinced him to take the bus or clutched his hand too tightly on the escalator, he knew. He knew, and it hurt him too.
So, I went to my GP.
It was surprisingly easy and he didn’t commit me.
Six weeks later I had my first therapy session. I sat down, the therapist said, ‘So why are you here?’
And I burst into tears.
I didn’t manage to talk, I just cried for the entire forty-five-minute session.
At the end the therapist told me he needed to see me again so was going to make me an urgent referral for a twelve-session course.
When I left, I felt lighter. I was taking control and getting the help that I needed. I would see him every week and I would get better.
My appointment letter arrived five weeks later. Twelve sessions, one a month: the first one would be in nine weeks’ time.
I cried again.
London was expensive. Even for middle-class, white-collar, no-children millennials like James and me, London was expensive.
I could have had private therapy sessions for £50 a pop – £200 a month. I thought it was too much.
I could have asked James, he would have said go for it. I could have asked my parents, who would have paid for it straight away and not even asked what it was for.
But I didn’t ask anyone.
I was too scared what they might think of me.
Before I left the cottage I tried to reason with myself, tried to be cautious and methodical in packing up my things, taking stuff that might help on the journey, not rushing off straight away.
But, of course, that didn’t happen.
I raced back inside the cottage, stripped off my shitty socks and pulled others on, rammed my boots onto my feet, threw a random assortment of clothes and other items into my rucksack, wrestled into another jumper, slammed my hat on my head, yelled to Lucky, ‘We’re leaving,’ and was out the door and across the fields in five minutes.
Of course I was back at the cottage ten minutes later to get the Defender’s keys and this diary.
I did actually pause when I saw the tangle of duvets on the sofa.
I had done all right.
I had found shelter, kept myself warm, found food and water, detoxed from drugs, and I had survived. In fact, I had kept myself and Lucky alive.
I allowed myself the briefest moment of pride and then I bounced out through the door once more to go and meet my fellow survivor.
Lucky was even keener to leave the cottage than I, and was standing by the Defender whining to be let in by the time I got there.
As I turned the ignition key I had a brief moment of paralysing fear that the Defender might not start but, trusty as always, she roared into life first time with a rush of blue smoke from the exhaust.
Those folks at Land Rover know how to make a good vehicle. If anyone ever does read this diary I want you to know that I thoroughly endorse Land Rovers as my vehicle of choice – apocalypse or no apocalypse.
I left the engine running, dived into the back and grabbed a can of Pepsi and a Snickers bar just as I realised I still didn’t have a clue where we were.
I decided to drive down to the village and look for some sort of road sign.
Something or things were rotting in the back of the Defender, but I wasn’t going to waste precious driving time cleaning it out, so I wound down the window of the cab to let some air in and heard a long, loud howl. Lucky dived into the footwell of the front seat and cowered there, shaking. As he did so, other howls joined the first, and Lucky whined softly. I wondered then if there had been another reason why Lucky did not like going outside of the cottage for a crap and for his rush from the cottage to the Defender.
There were eight wolves standing outside our cottage looking up at us.
I decided not to go back to the village and to stick to the road instead.
I drove for about two hours before seeing a sign for Inverness, which, it turned out, was only forty miles away, so we were back there by early afternoon.
My first instinct was to stop at a pharmacy and refill my prescription (that I had prescribed and written for myself), and I was actually taking the packets off the shelf before I stopped to think if it was really a good idea. I’d been free of Tramadol for about three weeks, and was doing okay, I didn’t even really crave it that much any more, but was OBSESSED with chocolate in a way that couldn’t be fully attributed to my near-starvation experience.
Also, I never realised how much I appreciated being able to have an easy and simple shit until I became constantly constipated from the Tramadol. There is a sweet happiness in a visit to the toilet that doesn’t involve half an hour of straining and sweating and pleading with God to produce one tiny nugget of poo. These days I am in and out in three minutes with a smile on my face.
So, I thought, maybe I don’t need to take any. Maybe I am stronger than that.
Also, it probably wouldn’t set the right tone to meet my fellow survivor while high as a kite.
I took just one packet with me for emergencies.
We were leaving Inverness when Lucky gave a sharp bark. I slammed on my brakes and just avoided running over a large black dog racing out from an alley. The dog stopped and stared as if it had never seen a car before in its life. Then it nonchalantly loped on in the direction it had been going. As I watched it go, another dog exited the alley and followed, then another and another. It became a steady stream, all heading in the same direction; mostly in ones or twos, but every now and then in a bigger group.
The sun had melted the leftover snow and bathed the buildings in a rosy glow. The weather was positively spring-like. Things were starting to heat up and I realised that the bodies in the town gathering would soon be starting to defrost. And rot. And smell.
My stomach flipped as I registered that the dogs were all heading in the direction of the town gathering. There must have been at least thirty that crossed over the road in front of me, and God knows how many others from elsewhere.
I beeped my horn at the stragglers still wandering across the road and, when they ignored me, drove slowly forward.
And, as the sun started to set, I drove faster, putting as many miles between me and Inverness as possible.
I have always loved driving long distances on empty roads (hardly ever possible before) and now the road was all mine and the distance was huge.
However, driving post-apocalypse takes some getting used to. For a start, despite the fact there are no other cars on the road, that doesn’t mean I don’t look out for them. I still obey the Highway Code: stopping at (working) traffic lights, using my indicators, checking no one is coming around corners, going the right way at roundabouts. It is hard just to forget the rules that have shaped your driving technique for years.
I am both far too relaxed and also hyper-aware when I am driving; with no one else on the road it is very easy to lapse into a sort of dream-like state where you drive on instinct and d
on’t take notice of anything around you. When this happens, I’ve found I can easily drive straight off the road without even noticing until I feel the change in terrain. As a result, I try to stay very aware of where I am, what is going on around me, what speed I am doing, where my next junction is, what signs are coming up.
I have stopped driving at night unless it is absolutely necessary because, I have discovered, I don’t like the dark. Without electricity and without street lights it is very, very dark at night. I have driven in dark and remote places before 6DM, but I don’t remember it being as dark as this. Maybe it is because it is winter, there is a lot of cloud cover and therefore very little starlight. Maybe it is psychological; I am alone, the night is dark and full of terror, and I am scared. The darkness extends endlessly in all directions beyond my headlights and my fear and loneliness extends with it. Endlessly and in all directions.
My saddest post-apocalyptic driving discovery of all though is that I cannot shake the feeling that someone else is going to drive over the horizon at some point. It feels like when I used to drive on motorways late at night and for the briefest of moments I would be the only car that could be seen in any direction and I would pretend I was the last person on earth (ha ha). Now I am potentially the last person on earth, but I still keep expecting to see headlights come over the brow of the hill.
Of course, they don’t.
Even without driving at night, my desperation to reach Susan Palmers plus the lack of drugs in my system meant I did the previously week-long journey to Scotland in two days this time. I kept up a steady 70 mph on the motorway, which was what the Defender would do comfortably without starting to rattle.
Despite my excitement, I still forced myself to drive through Liverpool and Manchester, which were intact but devoid of signs of life. I had to check that there was definitely no one hiding in these huge conurbations, so found a high point in each city and pressed the Defender’s horn intermittently for a couple of hours. No one came.
Once past Manchester my excitement began to verge on panic. Just to hear another person talk, to hold someone’s hand, to smile and be smiled back at. I unknowingly drove faster every time I thought about it and had to slam the brakes on as the Defender started to shake in protest.
When I am not excited, I am worried. I worry that Susan Palmers may not have had enough food or water to survive since she rang her sister or that her cat has died and she was so lonely that she has already killed herself and all I find is a corpse.
I worry that Susan Palmers had 6DM all along and just didn’t know it when she rang.
Susan Palmers is now my new, and only, reason to live.
I haven’t thought about what I will actually do if Susan Palmers is dead.
I imagine that would send me spiralling into a depression without end.
I think everyone experiences depression differently. One person’s ‘bad day’ is another’s ‘crawl under the duvet for a week’. For me, if my panic attacks turned the dial on my energy, emotions, and digestive system up to 11, then depression turned that dial down to –11.
It always felt like a blanket of inertia had been placed over me emotionally and physically. Given the choice I wouldn’t have left my bed. Whereas normal me would get up, go out, look about and smile, depressed me would haul herself out of bed, struggle out the door, look at the floor the whole time, and forget how to smile. I could easily stare at a wall for an hour, with my own level of emotion perfectly mimicking its blank façade.
Sometimes I cried, sometimes I didn’t. Often I continued with my life as normal, forcing myself to go to work, get tea, chat to people at lunchtime. All through the blanket of fog that lay upon me.
I should have paid for the therapy sessions, but I didn’t, and things got worse.
Just like with the onset of my major panic attacks, there was no huge reason for my breakdown. I got on the bus home from work one day and when my stop came I found that I couldn’t get off.
The fog was just too heavy for me to stand.
I couldn’t get off in the bus station either.
In the end they called the police.
I cried.
The police were kind.
I was too sad to go back to James, so I went home.
My mum didn’t ask me anything, didn’t say anything, just wrapped me in her arms and held me as I cried and cried and cried.
She never asked why.
She just knew I needed her.
I didn’t tell her why. I couldn’t tell her why, because I didn’t know.
I had everything I ever wanted. I was safe and secure. I had James, a great job, a lovely flat, money. Surely this was the perfect life? Every magazine, every advert, every television programme told me that I was living a good life, a life that I should be happy with.
I should be happy.
I should be happy.
I should be happy.
But I wasn’t.
I stayed at home for nine days.
My mum fed me tea and chicken soup and stroked my hair as I slept for hours and hours.
She let James in to see me on day eight, when it became clear I wasn’t going to tell her what was wrong.
He sat on the side of the bed and cried with me.
He loved me. He’d make things better. My life would be better. I would be better.
He asked me to marry him.
I hadn’t changed my pyjamas in a week, my hair hadn’t been washed in a fortnight, my skin was blotched from crying, and he asked me to marry him.
How romantic.
I laughed.
Not because I was happy, but because I suddenly saw how ridiculous it all was.
Me – chasing my romantic fantasy, determined to have this idealised life of happiness, and now I was engaged.
And depressed.
Maybe I should have said no, should have finally been honest with him and said, ‘I have no idea who I am or what I am doing any more.’ Maybe he would have said he didn’t either.
Maybe things would have been different if I had been honest.
Maybe not.
Instead, I told him I loved him too.
It was true, I loved him. James was my life. I didn’t know who I was without him any more.
Without James where would I go? How would I manage? What would I have? Who would I be?
I wouldn’t manage, I couldn’t manage. I would be nothing and have no one.
James loved me and wanted to marry me. I had got what I wanted.
I would get married and have a family.
That would be enough.
We would both be happy with that.
February 24th 2024
I had no idea how to find Susan Palmers without Google Maps but I wasn’t going to let that stop me from reaching my very own talking Wilson. I followed signs for Easington and then for the hospital and then methodically drove from street to street.
It took two and a half days to find the right one.
I’ve always had a really good sense of smell – that’s why I smelt number 17 before I saw it.
Collister Avenue was lined with parked cars, so I had abandoned the Defender at the top of the street and was racing down it trying to spy the house numbers with Lucky yapping at my heels.
It was a smell that stopped me, not the numbers.
There was actually no discernible smell of decay in the suburbs – even for someone with a nose as sensitive as mine. Most houses had doors and windows shut, so there was very little room for the stench of putrefaction to escape.
This smell was new and made me stop.
It wasn’t a nice smell, but it was something familiar that I hadn’t smelt out in the open for some time.
I was trying to work it out when Lucky went into a complete frenzy of barking and raced up and down the footpath of the nearest house.
So I turned to look …
I didn’t see her at first.
Instead, the first thing I saw was the doorstep and pathway,
laden with piles of shit.
That was the smell.
Shit.
But not dog shit, that was what had been confusing me; I was used to the smell of dog shit now.
This was human shit.
That was when I looked at the window.
For a moment my brain refused to acknowledge what I was seeing. I thought it must be a statue or a tailor’s dummy or a huge doll.
But it wasn’t.
It was Susan Palmers.
My instant impulse was to charge through the front door and hug her.
I lurched towards the door, dodging piles of shit and yelling, ‘Susan Palmers! You’re alive! You’re alive!!’
She began to bang furiously on the window and pointed at her front door.
I halted for a moment, hand outstretched for the doorknob.
She banged again, more furiously.
I stopped, looked at the door, took a step back.
KEEP OUT. I HAVE A GUN AND I WILL FUCKING SHOOT YOU.
Thick, black and painted on the door.
Oh.
It really took the wind out of my sails.
I didn’t know what to do.
My brain couldn’t think past having the full-on heart-wrenching, happy-tear bawling, hug-fest that I had spent the last 450 miles and three months dreaming about.
But that obviously wasn’t happening.
I picked my way back through the shit to stand in front of the window.
I couldn’t see her very well as she’d covered the windows in clingfilm. I’d have guessed she was maybe in her seventies, wild hair greying, pale skin sagging. She was thin, very, very thin and when I looked closely it looked like her hair could have been falling out.
‘Hello.’
It seemed as good a place as any to start.
‘Herroinhurgosmolof’
No idea what she was saying.
I cleared my throat and tried again.
Lucky rubbed against my leg. I looked down at him.
‘This is Lucky.’
‘Infckstrgogmesfd’
It was no good, the window was muffling everything, I couldn’t hear her.
Last One at the Party Page 19
