[Philippa takes a breath. Exposition is over. The real work needs to begin.]
[She drops the sick bag.]
It was the tequila
that tipped me over the edge
moved me forward
cleansed me
and made it easy to take the next step.
I have been drunk many times
Haven’t we all?
on wine
on cider
on love
Have you felt this?
Have you been there with me?
I think you were there.
You were there.
[Philippa points to a friend in the audience. If there are no friends there, she pretends.]
I struggle with control
You know when you’ve crossed the lines, right?
It’s hard to be sure of yourself
When you wake up
Someone’s fucking you
you can’t remember why
Your memory’s a fucking blank
You feel sick
You want to throw up
Dehydration
Some sort of flashblack
Which plays like an advert on repeat
Seeing people’s faces triggers your imagination
mashes with your dreams
Fuck.
Me.
This is grim
[Philippa looks in the night before. Finds nothing.]
Staring down at the bowl
Waiting to regurgitate the remains of last night
Thinking I should have just stopped
I should have just not
What am I wearing?
Half a sock
No pants and t-shirt
Where are my keys?
Where’s my bankcard?
I should pour myself a bath
But instead I sit in my own shit
And wallow in pain
In hopeful translucent misery
I pick up the phone
And call Steve
He’ll understand.
He’ll get it
He knows what this thought is
This indescribable notion of wanting to be alone
But needing everyone in the world
TBC
PHILIPPA MANNION 