By the time this hits the interwebs, I’ll have been “out” for 36 hours. There’s a lot to be said about that, but most seriously, the big question remains: how the hell can I have lost my toothbrush inside my own home?!
Home: sorely missed, deeply yearned for, recently attained. Peace and quiet. Uninterrupted time with the dearly beloved. Meals when you’re hungry … and dinner at a civilized hour (as opposed to 5pm). Television without negotiation. Sleep without interruption. Freedom!
Home: no timetable, independence, self-reliance. The absence of staff available around the clock if something goes amiss. Responsibility for your own medication regime, psychoeducation, personal organization. The inevitable realization that just because you’ve left hospital behind, your depression is still with you. The black dog rides your back and anxiety lurks in your bowels.
Arriving home: bags to be unpacked, washing done, medication sorted. Adjusting to the delightful but constant presence of just one other person (the dearly beloved). Settling back into home rhythms, home patterns. Training the black dog to sit in its corner once again; luring the anxiety out into the open to be dealt with, not ambushed by. Transition.
And … change; disorientation; confusion. But getting back to the question of the moment: I mean, seriously, WHERE’S MY FUCKING TOOTHBRUSH?! How can you lose your toothbrush in your own home?
I know I cleaned my teeth earlier today …
… I fetched it during the ad break of a TV show I was streaming, catching up; is it in the living room? No …
… I brushed and rinsed into the ensuite sink. I definitely remember that! But I can’t see it …
And then I unpacked some more. Ahhhh! I’ve undergone a gender change in hospital! I was doing a ‘man look’. I had to move the things I’d unpacked since then.
Toothbrush found. Order restored.
Great – now I’ve just got to pick up the rest of the scattered pieces of my life. Simple … right?