I am suffering from exhaustion.
Look, I know when I'm tired and I know that everyone is fucking tired.
But I have never experienced the disfortitude to even talk.
Friday I had a quick gin and tonic with Doc at his furniture emporium. Knew I was tired because I didn't have the energy to even stand up, so kipped briefly on one of his Indian beds at the back of the shop.
Saturday, after twelve hours of sleep – twelve hours – I said 'yippee-yi-yay' to a fabulous party invitation at a loft above 44 Stanley. It was a Wimbledon-themed thing, set in this amazing loft apartment just above the Refinery. Complete with minimalist industrial finishings, I wish I had the mental capacity to absorb it all.
There were bar tenders serving mojitos from the huge kitchen counter, the tunes were playing and everyone was sparky.
I knew something was wrong when I couldn't speak. I had had twelve hours of sleep and a little snooze in the afternoon, but I still felt like I hadn't slept for five years. It was beyond the feeling of being run over by a bus, because I could feel that sections of my brain had literally shut down.
I nipped down to the garden for some quiet time and just so that I didn't have to talk to people, which is strange, because usually I love talking to people – especially after two strong as fuck cocktails. I had to sit, and also my mouth simply wasn't working or moving.
Just creating words like, 'Hello my name is Peas, pleased to meet you,' took monolithic effort. It was like I was dead.
I got more and more irate, almost panicking completely, when random strangers would approach me in the garden, to chat. Small talk is one thing, but small talk when you don't have the energy to even smile at a person?
Eventually after mistakenly plonking my posterior into a puddle, I lost it and burst into tears.
Doc, now on his ear, had to explain to me how I was to open his gate after he got a nice dude to take me back to where my car was parked at his house.
"Press the yellow button first, then the brown one. That's for the beams. The yellow first, then the brown. DON'T press the red, it's the panic button, and don't press the blue one because that'll wake my folks up."
Fuck. Getting into Joburg houses is more hassle than it's worth. Seriously.
Then I vaguely remember him saying to the guy who took me home, "She's terrible company. You don't have to talk to her, in fact, don't. She's too tired to talk."
I got home and slept for another twelve hours. Surely that would sort someone the fuck out? Twenty four hours of sleep in a weekend has to have some bearing, surely?
But no. On Sunday, I woke up and still felt like my asshole had been ripped out of my body. Mustered up enough strength to get the fuck to Clicks and buy me some vitamins and energy boosters. All in a vacuous haze.
I don't know what this is, or why I have zero energy to even walk around, straighten my hair or simply answer phonecalls from friends.
Been a sterling example lately of how you really can sit around staring into space doing fuck all. With no intentions of moving or doing anything except sitting, listening to your own breathing.
It's, I think, a mixture of the book, the overwhelming feelings coming with it, the hype, too much partying, work – work is a huge one, I have been working my butt off – a long, crazy year.
This holiday in a week's time, (I hit Argentina on Sunday), might, literally, save my life. Rehab. I've never felt so tired in all my years.
I'm feeling more chipper this morning. As in, I can engage in conversation without falling asleep midway through a sentence.
This week I have to:
1) Learn Spanish. (Aunt bought me a disc: Learn Spanish In One Week. Let's give this baby a crack and hope for the best.
2) Go on a date (yay!)
2) Try to claw through the week.
3) Decide, now that I have gone through my guidebook on Argentina, on whether l'll go north through Rosario (where Che Guevara was born), and up to Iguacu Falls or south to Bariloche and the glaciers.