I am so tired this afternoon. It’s not that my sleep wasn’t too good last night – it’s never very good at the best of times, and this is far from the best of times – so it’s probably not that, but I am just back from therapy (darling).
I feel far more cream crackered after an hour in the psychiatrist’s chair than I do after a day’s labouring. Where my body creaks and groans after physical activity, my brain almost shuts down after an hour’s mental activity.
I don’t want to mention again my unhappy childhood and a completely unfulfilled life since then, but I’ll do it anyway. I went back to my junior school days again today, recalling how nothing much made any sense, just like it never made sense in senior school or even at worse at work. I remember my mum cooking some cheap pig’s liver for about the third day on the trot with some chips. All fried, of course. There was no such thing as grilling food in those days. And a lot of high fat foods never did anyone any harm, except when it caused them to die young, obviously. Everyone smoked too because smoking was good for you, or rather no one realised it might just be bad for you. We didn’t know about carcinogens back then.
Next, I was running round the playing fields of Brislington School in cross country, my legs steadily getting heavier and heavier. I’d forgotten about this happening and it happened quite a lot. It wasn’t a physical thing. My whole body seemed to slow down. It was an effort to move. I was so fucking sad, if I am being honest.
I worked out who had encouraged me to do well at school: no one. The teachers didn’t bother. In those days, if you struggled at school, there were always others in the class who weren’t struggling. If you were struggling, it was probably your fault. Don’t worry: you can leave school soon. Find a job. What job? Well, that’s up to you. Actually, no one ever asked. I was left to make my own indecisions and poor decisions. I made it up as I went along. I’ve been making it up ever since.
Will I ever be fulfilled? I’m moaning again, wallowing in self-pity. Everyone else seems to be fulfilled enough. They all have great weekends and amazing jobs. How do I know? They tell me on Facebook. My weekends are rarely great. They’re pleasant enough, some are very good, but great? I just want to write, I’m no good at anything else. I’m not even sure I’m any good at writing. Only others can tell me that. But it’s all I want to do. What if I come to a point where I finally realise and accept that I won’t be able to make a modest income at writing. I don’t want a lot of money, but for a lot of money spent, I have not made a penny. And no one writes for nothing, do they? Well, apart from me. But how do you know everyone else is telling the truth? You don’t know what’s going on behind closed doors. So I’m not the only one who feels like this? Hardly.
My mood chart wasn’t good. I record my levels of mood during the week and it was much worse than last week’s. Too many what you might call negative thoughts, too many dark thoughts, too much pessimism, AKA realism. Was I eating too much or too little? Yes and yes, same with drink, except the little bit. Was I very fidgety (you are today)? Yes. Always fidgety. Can’t keep still. How many days have you felt like shit? Not the actual question but it might as well have been. Every day this week. Feeling down, depressed and hopeless? Come in and take a seat.
My therapist pointed out that no one is good at everything and most people are good at not many things. But they are good at things that matter, aren’t they, things that fulfil them and make life worthwhile. Did I tell you I failed to even get an interview for a cleaning job last week? A cleaning job and I wasn’t qualified enough.
You get the idea, don’t you? Right round the houses and back again – in depth. An uncensored journey back into the darkness where I was every bit as ill as I am now. I had forgotten many sad episodes in my life but they all came back into view today. Did I really walk for mile upon mile for hour upon hour in the driving rain, getting so wet in the process that I had to virtually peel off my clothes by the time I got home? Did I really walk the full length of Foxes Wood train tunnel between St Annes and Hanham whilst trains were rushing through? The blackness alone was terrifying but the gusts from the passing trains – well, I hardly cared. And I sat in the storm tunnel by the river. What if it had rained just a little bit? Doesn’t bear thinking about.
How are you feeling so far? This offering is a bit rambling, isn’t it, but that’s where my head is at. Dazed and confused, a papier mache mess.
Are things going to get better? Who knows, but this therapist is good, very good. I just wish I wasn’t so tired.
