Weymouth. Nickname from childhood, it stuck, and I am writing this the morning after because I want to get it down before it becomes an anecdote.
Background, briefly. I do not do needles. Not in the way people say that — I have not had a blood test since 2011, I left a job medical halfway through, and when my dentist mentioned an injection two years ago I walked out of the building and did not go back. My GP knows and has been kind about it and it has cost me things.
So the prescription sat in my fridge for six weeks. I read everything on this site. I got as far as holding the pen twice.
Last night somebody from this circle got on a call with me at eight o’clock. I am not going to say much about the details because they were quite personal, but the shape of it was this. They talked for the first fifteen minutes about absolutely nothing — a broken washing machine, mostly. Then they said they were going to describe what they used to do, and did, in a very flat voice, with no encouragement in it at all, which I now understand was deliberate. Then they asked whether I wanted to get it out of the fridge, and said it was completely fine if the answer was no and we could just talk.
It took another twenty minutes. I got as far as the skin and stopped twice. They did not say well done or nearly there or any of the things that would have made me put it down. They said, both times, that is fine, you can wait as long as you like, I am not going anywhere.
I did it at about twenty to nine. Then I cried a bit and they talked about the washing machine again.
Fifteen years of this. I want that on the record somewhere, and I want to say to anybody else in here with a fridge they cannot open: ask. Just ask.
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