This morning I woke up feeling sick. Waiting to get into the bathroom was virtually impossible and so by the time I made it in I was too late to reach the toilet to vomit.
My PJs were covered in sick as was the bathroom floor. Everything I touched was marked by the horrible fluid that had been expelled out of me.
Once I had gathered myself I was able to start the cleaning process.
Cleaning, something that shoule have been easy for me to do but painful to complete.
I cleaned the initial mess then washed. If I was dirty I couldn’t clean anything else as I was risking spreading the germs that were on me. So I needed to washed and changed.
Germs are such vial things. They make you and other sick. They can kill you or give you long term conditions to deal with.
I can’t be responsible for doing that to someone else. So I clean.
Bleach, disinfectant and boiling hot water. It has burnt my skin so that it was lost its brown glow. It’s ok because I know then it’s working.
It takes me an hour and half to complete the room which is no bigger that a large storage closet.
Why? Because I can never be convinced that it was actually clean. I scrubed every surface several times until I was sure it was safe but even then I wasn’t really sure. So I would scrub it again.
Have you ever played the game, ‘the floor is lava?’ Imagine that the room is lava. I feared touching anything just in case I was further contaminated and spread that unknowly to other parts of the house.
Cleanliness is like Godliness. If the rest of the house is dirty then prayers wouldn’t be accepted. The angels wouldn’t visit and I wouldn’t have the protection of God.
Eventually it’s over and I can have my second wash.
I’m already late for work and my boss knows why. Once I’m ready and my clothes are in a boil wash I can start my usual ritual of leaving the house.
As always it takes forever but I get to work.
I’m not convinced I’m clean. There is still contantiation on my body and I ask for reassurance.
‘You are fine,’ they say. But I’m not sure.
It’s only 10.30 am. I still have the rest of the day to go.
At the end of the day when I finally make it home I’m no more at peace than when I was at the start of the day. I think I am still contaminated and so is the house. The heavy stench of bleach is not enough to convince me otherwise.
I’m so tired.
I never wanted to be mentally ill.
I have no choice.