Blue Lenor is the scent that immediately transports me to my mothers house. Memories of her are tied up in the olfactory trigger I usually avoid when perusing the multiple varieties of fabric softner in the supermarket aisle. I bought it on purpose yesterday, leaving the warmth of a rare sunny day in London for the air-conditioned dim lighting of Wilkos to purchase a bottle of Blue Lenor. I needed to feel like she was somehow with me, wrapping herself around me, making me feel better. The smell has permeated every corner of my apartment as load after load I pour full cups into the dispenser drawer, then tumble dry… If I close my eyes I can almost hear her voice… almost.
Its been a quest of sorts for me this week, revisiting the past, the deepest of reveries.
“Hello?” finally the phone connects to the receptionist at the doctors surgery, “Is DR O working today? I need to speak to him,” I wait as it is explained that he is fully booked. I give my name, DOB, and then the question…
“So can you tell me why you are calling? What do you need to speak to the doctor for?”
I explain between sobs that I am actually not coping very well this week and I am considering restarting my medication as suggested by Dr O a few weeks ago when I sobbed in his office and he handed me a stream of tissues.
“Hello. It’s Dr O,” he calls me back 1 hour and 12 minutes later, “What’s gong on? Are you having thoughts of harming yourself?” he pauses, I cry.
“No… well… I drove into a post yesterday, just not with it, but I’m not hurting myself, I just feel anxious, can’t stop crying…” I sob uncontrollably as if someone has switched me on. We discuss the prescription I have for Fluoxetine and I agree that I am going to retry the medication. Three weeks of anxiety, panic attacks, no sleep, crying are the start of a cycle I can now recognise. I need something to hold me up, a crutch until I can get my head around all the new and the old stuff that has happened lately.
I hang up with the box of meds in my hand and an appointment booked for a week away and a crisis line number Dr O insists I take in case I cut or have any suicidal thoughts. I hang up. I pour myself a glass of white wine. I put the meds back into a box and high up in a cupboard that nobody can reach. I’ll take them tomorrow, I decide, sipping the cold wine.
I guess the side effects of starting are not easy to manage for me, the thought of cutting that flutters around my mind when the pain of what has happened flashes. The opened letter from the judge agreeing to a divorce sits on the top shelf of a bookcase sandwiched between passports and an I -DO -3D kit. I run my finger along the edge of the envelope but don’t re-read it. The sun streams through the windows, laundry hanging from the curtain pole and the smell of Blue Lenor drifting gently from the breeze that makes the clothes sway. I’m not OK. I realise I am not OK. Tomorrow…
I dig in the back of my underwear drawer for my rabbit, I’ll masturbate to feel better. Coming always helps. I wash the rabbit, pat it dry. Switch it on and it barely buzzes. Scrambling in drawers, shelves, I search for new batteries, nothing!
Tomorrow… Tomorrow… I breathe deep… Lenor… My mother… I close my eyes but cannot feel her arms… just the sorrow. Tomorrow…
Saatchi Art Artist Batu Gundal; Painting, “Unsatisfied”