Friday, June 4, 2010

A terrible beauty

It calls for both a 'woo' and a 'hoo', this day that greets me every three weeks when I am allowed to give myself a medicated, synthetic energy boost.

It is my most favourite of medications, 30mg of a liquid known as Arenesp. If I were to create a metaphor (and it would be rude not to) this excursion through dialysis could be regarded as a marathon and the Arenesp days mark the water points along the route.

It comes in the form of an injection. I keep a box of syringes in the fridge, currently next to four bottles of beer and out of reach of any children - though if they are any childer-beasts found near my fridge, they've broken in to my apartment, so I say let them stab themselves in the eyes, that'll teach 'em.

It is I who performs the task of giving myself the injection - and it took some getting used to. Nobody likes needles and fewer still are comfortable with not having a doctor or nurse to silently curse and hold accountable when you feel that pinch.

A quote I read from Ian McEwan recently summed it up nicely. He points out that there is nothing in nature to resemble the sight of a syringe piercing skin. It goes against the natural reflex of every sensory nerve to inflict this upon yourself, to willingly infiltrate the bloodstream with something unnatural.

Deep, I know.

I actually didn't come up with any of that myself. I heard two junkies talking down around the Cornmarket the last night. Deep in reflection they were before shooting up.

I'm an awful woman for eavesdropping.


  1. I fear a lot of poetry was conceived thusly.

  2. And yet nobody ever refers to this creative genius in the debate over headshops.