There are two pieces of graffiti in Stroud Library. One says, “We are not our brokenness.” The other reads, in one hand, “Your life is
in God’s hands,” and in a second hand right below, “I wish he’d leave me alone,
my life is horrible.” - I may have the wording of the second wrong. I looked at the first again today, prompting
this revisit to the Marmite moment.
I had plans for today.
I had plans for the whole week, actually. Back in the saddle after Christmas, it was
time to start work again and pick up where we left off in December. I hadn’t banked on my head getting in the
way. It has chosen to do so.
Today: I had chores to complete; I then had a plan to go to
the cinema and to go shopping – I have a birthday to buy for. The day began on track: up and at the
chores. Chore number one, tick; chore
number two, ticked as much as it could be.
Positive. Chore three, a snag and
immediately the mood lowered. The cloud
started to descend. It was a travel
snag, so I resolved to go and speak to a travel specialist and resolve it.
Approaching town I could hear music and the betraying tinkle
of the Morris Dancer bell. The Wassail
Festival was in full flow. Town was full. That meant people, specifically, people
enjoying themselves. The mood sank
further. The travel agents was full. And
so I found myself on a loop, walking around and around. The cinema part of the day fell away, just
completely evaporated from my thinking.
Robotically, I ended up at the train station paying for a day return and
then realising I was forty-five minutes away from the train departing the
station. Back out into the loop. Back around to the agents – fuller. And, hence to the library and the graffiti
and actually debating with myself that I am indeed my own brokenness.
I sat on the train. I
went on auto-pilot and found myself in the Cathedral and I sat and listened to
the pipe-organ and swam in the embrace that the history of this building
offers. The religiosity is poppycock, the
thousand-year steadiness of the structure is something to try and centre
yourself in – certainly somewhere I find helpful to centre myself. I could have sat there all afternoon. The wistful whisper of conversation a
susurrous balm to match the hive of noise inside my head.
Home and then just sitting, after wandering and buying
stuff, just because some stuff was there to buy. Browsing in shops, heading into places for no
reason other than to eat up time. And
then home. Annoyed at the empty carriage
being filled immediately around me by people speaking and having conversation
whilst the remainder of the carriage remained empty and quiet and inviting
their noise to go there instead.
Different to the whispered hum of the Cathedral. Sharp consonants.
And just sitting.
Time moving past me. All plans
gone. Brain not engaged. All passive consumption. Until, of course, I decide to do this.
I have a very difficult relationship with my own mental
health. For a time, my doctor considered
me to be depressed – not to the point where she prescribed anything except
counselling, but on the way there. I
don’t know. Counselling did not work. I could not engage – perhaps then was a time
and place thing and perhaps now might be different. See, I know that I have done this to
myself. I am entirely responsible for
the situation I am in and so my increasing isolation and trepidation at being
around or being with people, at even trying to form friendships, has its roots
in the worthlessness that is me. I am
negative impact: selfish but now self-aware enough to realise this and absent
myself from social. It is, though, still
a massive struggle to then face a day.
Today dissolved.
Tomorrow is another day that sees fine intent at its start. Only history will tell if I can deliver on
intention. I’ve known for a while that I
am my brokenness. The graffiti today
cemented that thought for me nicely.
