…actually, when I say hello blog, I mean hello shadowy but friendly people who live in the internet and show up as numbers on my stats screen and as nice comments at the bottom of my posts…
What an odd way to start.
Apologies for the gap in posts. I am continuing to put one foot in front of the other, metaphorically speaking, but not a great deal more than that. I am ok, though. I seem to have rather lost my facility with words, though, don’t I? Which is odd, they were positively singing out of me last week, but seem to have slowed to a trickle. Anyway, enough rambling: how have I been?
Well, I’ve been going through stages. I’ve had an angry stage, where I wanted to spit blood at everyone and everything, but for the most part managed not to. I got fairly close, on a couple of occasions, to smearing some of my incoherent rage over this blog, but managed to persuade myself to follow the ‘wait 24 hours before posting anything you might regret’ rule, and thus realised that I was incoherently angry in general, rather than about anything in particular.
I have also managed to avoid doing any mad person in the street shouting, which is always a plus, although I have done some mad person muttering evilly under my breath instead. An especially low point came when I managed to heave my putrefying carcass out of the flat for a stroll in the park. I was hoping for a quiet, relaxing, maybe even inspiring time communing with trees and grass and suchlike, but instead found the place littered with humans. By and large I like people, but I’m afraid there are times when my patience for my species-mates runs a little thin.
One irritation was a lady out for a ‘power walk’ with her friend, and was one of those people who is simply incapable of silence, or even of a quietness, and thus spoke to her friend in a voice so loud it made the hypothetical life forms on Europa look up from their volcanic vents and ask her to keep the bloody noise down. She wasn’t even talking about anything important, or for that matter anything that made sense, but doing it so loudly that I and everyone else in earshot was forced to listen.
The park was also infested with joggers, who are always annoying. I always want to tell joggers to their face: ‘You’re still going to die, you know. No matter how many circuits a day you do, the moment is still going to come when your heart stops beating. And in those final heart-stopped moments, you’re going to look back over your entire life, and you’re going to think – I wish I’d spent less time running, and more time wrapping my face around a cream cake…’
Anyway, I made it through the angry stage (well, sort of…), and moved on to the delights of the listless stage, where I was irritable, and out of sorts, and possessed of energy, but not of the willpower to do anything with it, and so just sat in front of the TV endlessly circling though the same channels and wanting to scream when there was nothing even halfway watchable on the fucking thing.
And then the listless stage passed, and has left me washed up again on the shores of blank, bleak depression. Today (tonight), I am feeling supremely lacking in energy – picture an arthritic tortoise with ME, and you have a fair impression.
I will admit, this is being a bad go with the depression. Both in terms of depth and duration. Every day I allow myself a few minutes to sit quietly not doing anything, just to see what happens. Sometimes I have a panic attack, and I know I’m anxious. Other times I start to have random thoughts about this and that, and I know that I’m on the road back to a more normal state of mind. But then there are the times when I just sit, a stolid, unmoving, unthinking lump of flesh, and the only thing that stares back at me is my own sense of the utter futility of my existence, and I know I’m depressed. This is the state I find myself in all the time at the moment, and it is getting to be a severe drag.
I can feel myself being drawn to high-up places – not to jump off them, just to be above/ beyond myself. It’s as though depression is a pit, and I am compelled to climb, physically, to try and escape. I live in a hilly city, and so I find myself clambering up tarmac paths as though they were Everest, forcing my breathless, aching body to the top, so I can look out over rooftops to the free hills beyond, and look for a sense of release, of hope, of achievement – but it never comes.
Today (yesterday) I climbed to the top of such a hill, and sat on a bench at the top, and looked down over a wide expanse of fresh-cut grass. I saw silver birches, and horse chestnuts, and copper beeches, and lots of other trees I don’t know the name of, all of them rustling their leaves in the evening breeze. I saw magpies, and wood pigeons, and ducks, and some members of the crow family – probably jackdaws – and the inevitable, inescapable inland seagulls. I watched them fly, and land, and walk, and I waited for my country-boy instincts to kick in, for the part of me that thinks my world should be full of earth and streams instead of pavements and drains to take over and give me a sense of homecoming, a feeling of peace.
I waited until it was nearly dark, but the feeling never came. Nothing is working, this time, nothing. Nothing is working.