So – I’ve tried to
write something about how I’m doing mentally at the moment. I have scrapped two draughts because they
were edging close to maudlin woe is me…this is heading that way too but I think
I’m going to stick with this one because it is capturing how my head is not
working at the moment…please be patient, I appreciate it’s a bit shit but it’s
also a bit honest too.
*
I walked out of my
house, today, with book in hand and a destination in mind where I could sit and
eat and read for a while. I didn’t quite
know where I was going; I just knew that I was going somewhere.
I walked into town. I
walked around town. I walked passed all
the cafés, restaurants and bars. I
walked home and sat on the sofa, book by my side, and did not read a single
word all afternoon.
I surfed. Mindless
absorption: videos, articles, social feeds, videos, podcasts, the sofa warming
underneath me. My back out of shape,
slumped down on the seat and sliding further and further. My shoulders are cramped and feel
tender. My eyes hurt. The white light pouring into them is doing
them no good. I have mildly chastised
myself, though entirely subconsciously, and have done nothing as a result of
this chastisement.
The thought of going into a café and sitting and being in a
place with other people was too much.
The notion of spending time outside the house was too much. Being back on the sofa and in front of the
screen is the comfort blanket. My study
is suffering. My writing is near
non-existent. Everything is a
struggle. A barrier sits before every
action and today was a day I could not get over or around. And it’s pathetic. I feel pathetic.
I can’t function at the moment. Yes, I can “routine” – all smoke and mirrors
and just being present physically. But I
am not functioning. I constantly look
for the path of least resistance and I know that that is the wrong way to go
about things. I am failing in my work,
my writing, my living. It is easier to
come and sit home. This bubble is
comforting. It is controlled and
solitary. I don’t have to speak with
people and I don’t have to answer for the absence of noise in the rooms, the
absence of life. I tread the path from
seat to kettle and back again. And then
the day ticks over and another one is done.
I can sigh and sign off on it.
I read but I can’t remember what I’ve read. I’ve ploughed through books all year and have
a small bundle sat waiting for their turn to sit in front of my eyes. I don’t think I could tell you what any of
them were about. I am trying to read a
sequel to a book I only recently finished.
I have no idea how the stories link and there is mass exposition at the
start of the second to try and fill in the picture. It’s ridiculous. It feels like my brain has tuned-in to the
fact that I don’t care anymore and so it is not taking the time to register and
store information. I make tea and it
sits, forgotten, on the side and goes cold.
I put washing in the machine and it sits in the drum and hours can go by
with me lost to passivity and I get a jolt and remember and curse myself but it
feels like my subconscious giving up because my conscious has.
Part of this, I think, is because of geography. I am in the wrong place. Around me sit unpacked boxes from the move
from New Zealand. They have sat there
since they arrived last March. Now, I
know this is massively unhealthy and a contributing factor, I am sure. But, I also know that in these boxes is a
foreign life and one I don’t want corrupted by the one I have now. What’s in the boxes does not belong to this
place, this country. I don’t think I
do. That isn’t the all of it,
though. I was running on automatic way
before the move back to the UK. I was
busy though, positive; it was still smoke and mirrors but it was at least
affirmative busyness, affecting busyness and bringing smiles busyness. I feel locked out of being able to do that
here. Perhaps, a better way of saying
that is: I haven’t found my way into that here, yet. I hope I do.
