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A weight pressed on my shoulders, forcing me to crawl up the stairs. I did this sometimes, when I'd get half way and give up, falling to my hands and knees to scrabble to the top.

The house smelt like disinfectant, I'd doused everything when I came in from the hospital. If I could have gone back and stopped myself I would have. I didn't realise how hospital-like the house would smell, I just wanted to get rid of my sickness. To wash it off the walls.

I sprawled out at the top of the stairs, left leg slotted through the peeling white banisters. The carpet was rough on the skin of my neck and arms, and on my back where the T-shirt was rising up. Still, the hard floor straightened out my spine, giving me a click here, a squeak there. My rusted joints weren't built for prolonged activity. They needed sleep and I didn't sleep, I just lay very still and hoped I could fool myself into dreaming.

It wasn't working.

downstairs, into the kitchen, under the sink, take three sleeping tablets. Back through the lounge, up the stairs, onto the landing…

I took up my place, under the smoke alarm and waited for the sleeping tablets to work. I began to think that maybe I should have taken four.

My mother said it was stress that was making me feel like this, and I should take up smoking. Good Idea.

downstairs, into the kitchen, purse in the fruit bowl, lock the door behind me, five minutes to the shop, buy a small packet of cigarettes, buy a lighter, walk home, unlock the door, walk up the stairs, unplug the fire alarm and smoke in it's general direction.

I threw up, except there was nothing to throw up, just clear bile. Just nothing.