I have now had no sleep for 48 hours. The BBC coverage of the local elections results has not been the best through the night companion given the BNP results. The phrase ‘Far-right surge’ has to be one of the most chilling things you can hear delivered in a Radio 4 accent.
However rough the withdrawal feels, there is nothing to be done other than bite the bullet, breathe in, breathe out. I just have to think of this as nothing difficult. Part of the trick is perspective. After all, if I cannot hack a few days mental and physical discomfort, how will I ever survive 36 psychedelic hours in a Fang temple in Africa?
Another part of the trick is to be empowered by the all the things that inspired me to tackle this now. Draw strength from happy memories; bask in the glow of an already established better future echoing back across time.
I have grocery shopping to do. A session of physiotherapy to enjoy. A meal with a scoundrel to attend. A trip to Dulwich to look forward to. This discomfort is nothing. A mere black iron prison illusion. Bite the bullet, breathe in, breathe out. This is nothing and I am already smiling about how silly it was to so worked up over it.