I’m glad I wrote what I wrote earlier and not now. Almost immediately after getting home from the first of 12 weeks of mental health treatment, I blogged about it. I’ve had lots of ideas of what to write about next but the writing tank is completely empty tonight.
This is in part down to my anxiety-driven near insomnia which keeps me awake at irregular intervals throughout the night but mainly down to revisiting my entire life in 50 minutes.
Once again, I had to introduce myself and explain my life history, carry out various assessments as to my current level of clinical depression (severe at the moment, so not too bad, and don’t worry: you won’t notice if you see me in the pub) and, after about 45 minutes, explain to someone else how a worldwide renowned humanitarian organisation like the British Red Cross can employ bullies and abusers. (By the way, I learned from a former Red Cross colleague that at least one abuser and a manager read this blog so I hope they aren’t enjoying my entirely honest and truthful representation of events. There’s plenty more to come.)
If I thought I was tired driving through Hambrook on the way home and having to pull over just before the new Harry Stoke bypass, it was nothing up to how I feel now.
This confessional stuff is SO tiring. It shouldn’t be really, I suppose, because I was only telling things as they were. I suppose it’s the emotion that tires you out. I had spoken about my mum, dad, step dad, grandparents; all dead now and one of whom, my maternal-side grandfather, died three years before I was born. A wave or memories floating by in an instant, immediately to be replaced by more memories, not all good, some very bad. “Yes, I really did have to leave my first wife because she smashed the shit out of me one night and verbally wore me down on virtually every other night.” “And did I tell you how, for years, I blocked out everyone on my dad’s side of the family?” Christ, I am so fucked up tonight.
So writing about today’s parliamentary debates on first London airport and then abortion was never going to happen, no matter now many times I tried to write things.
My words have been coming out all wrong tonight concrete mixer. My head is, as my new therapist noted, became full of mush. And it’s still mushy now.
At least I have learned one thing that’s useful over the years: always have your therapy in the afternoon because the odds are if you have it in the morning you will be too wasted mentally to work effectively afterwards. I can’t even think effectively right now.