I shot up for the first time eight days ago. My sister made me do it. Get on with it, Holly, she said. The parking meter’s about to run out. There was also a formidable nurse standing over me, smiling encouragingly with one eye on her watch. Talk about peer pressure. I sat between the two of them, needle hovering above my belly, and for a long moment I pictured the three of us sitting there two hours later, still waiting for me to get up the guts to do it. Like the time I stood topless on the cliffs at Yamba for almost half an hour, trying to dare myself to jump into the rockpool below, while a growing crowd of onlookers cheered me on.
It’s 2am and I am wide awake. I have to get up in five and a half hours to inject, now that drug use has become a daily part of my life, and the looming deadline is stressing me out and making it hard for me to make the most of the next five and a half hours by actually going to sleep. My ovaries need me to sleep. I need me to sleep. In the old days, before all of this, it was drugs keeping me awake all night. Now it’s drugs getting me out of bed early on a Sunday morning. This baby is already ruining my life.
My ovaries feel like they’ve got fishing sinkers tied to them–I’ve swollen up like a puffer-fish on a hook. And to top things off I’ve had to stop taking my antihistamines, and everything’s getting itchy. Most of all my tits. The little shit had better be grateful. I’ll be expecting more than just a crummy handmade card for Mothers’ Day.