I can't seem to write. Been having a few mild downs. Been trying to write myself out of them. Not working very well. Need a good kick up the hole. Warning, what follows needs a big self-pity and drivel alert. I know it's all a pile of shit, meaningless rubbish, and if I could break out of it I would, but I can't at the moment, or if so, only temporarily. At least I'm upright and moving. And I haven't cried like a big girl's blouse today. So, in lieu of substance and real fight in my belly, have a fortnight's worth of winge and too many uses of the word 'hell'.
Mon. Wales. Tidied, farewells, drove. Quiet evening. Must get my head straight.
Tue. I feel dead. It is not so much some form of anxiety but dread and foreboding. I am hoping it is just the post-holiday blues but it feels rather worse than that. Missing the boys. Later. Bleak. Wept. Feel like a corpse. Want to die so it doesn't hurt. Coward.
Wed. I've been locked out of my own head. I'm in a blank room. I can't see or hear my own thoughts. The walls are completely blank. My heart is in another room. I can sense it is there because it hurts but I don't know anymore than that. It is just a bland and broken-hearted emptiness today. I have no power to open a door, or a non-existent window, or to kick one of these blank walls down. All my thoughts and feelings are on the other side of the walls. The best I can do is write these words and hope they will act like a conduit or lightning conductor to short-circuit me or innundate me with the rest of me. I cannot find anything funny - my sense of humour exists somewhere because it hints to me I should grimace signals of amusement when appropriate. I list things to do and I do not do them. I try to think of good things, bad things, practical things, but all that sticks is the empty cloud of desolate things. Desolate. A strange word. I assumed it means 'of wastelands or deserts' but it may as well be a bad pun on 'without sun' - de - sol - ate: the light has been taken from me; and in fact it actually means to be abandoned - 'de-solus' - to make alone. Well, I feel separated from me let alone everything else, so the word fits well. It is no good. I hoped writing some words might cause enough friction to ignite some spark, kindle some warmth, burn down this blank room, at least put interesting charred-smoke patterns on the walls, but no, nothing, except, wait, at least my face is more mobile again, it has been frozen into a puppet face but now my eyes are roving the room in which I lie here scribbling. I have no urge to think or feel but there is the tiniest chink of light coming from somewhere - if I look harder I might find it is a keyhole, and if so, then it should be a simple matter to conjure a key from my ear or arsehole: if I sniff the air outside the door for long enough I'll gain enough sustanance for that feat. I must stop writing and find that keyhole before the walls crush me dead.
Later. I found the keyhole and produced a key. Once out in the light I could then pull my socks up and the day has gone from horrible to reasonable. What is it about writing or forcing the self to be, to expand, to multiply, to promulgate its tendrils in some chain reaction of bifurcation that can burst these bizarre and banal prisons of complete nullity? How does it work? It's like going for a run when all you want to do is face the wall in bed and simply expire on a released breath: it is impossible at first then gets easier. I suppose it would be impossible if past experience had never shown one it can work. Oh well, out of the vacuum again. I've been missing my boys, horribly. It is worse than having one's legs sawn off. The blank room is no answer nor escape.
Thur. The problem with history is that it only documents the horrible things.
Fri. What is the matter with me? I am horrible. My head is exploding and I need to stick it together. I can't stop thinking about suicide. It started driving back from Wales on Monday and is getting worse. It isn't an answer. But it would make it all go away. I could do anything instead. You could do anything instead. Coward. Fucking coward. They need me alive good strong and healthy. Alive I should be able to manage. The rest can take care of themselves. I am already dead. Keep shambling. Pretend. Mask. Keep being. Head will sort out glue.
NO WAY OUT. It is me who is hell. Not circumstances. Not people. Just me. Enough is enough.
Sun. All these visions of hell vouchsafed to so many so often are of only slight interest in their details: the grim chaos, the mocking juxtaposition of the homely and infernal, the accumulated detail of pain, despair, and black humour; no, all this is incidental: what is of interest is what all these visions have in common, why they work as palliative or solace, why despite their inherent clichedness they still insist on their depiction or description.
Mon. The wind blows hot, the wind blows cold. It takes a special talent to fuck up one's life so spectacularly at my age. Contributory factors? Escape from insanity? Lack of fortitude? Enough is enough? I don't know... Destitute, homeless, broken marriage, broken family... what's left to screw up? No, things aren't too bad if suicide seems like a false solace. What am I to do with my last years? Oh, listen to you, you self-pitying humourless maudlin turd. Where's your courage? Squashed by the side of the road. And it's a dead end. Boring.
Wed. How many thousand miles? About eight. And eight addresses. All in four months. What have I learned? How have I changed, if at all? How am I coping? What will become of me? Where will it all end? Will I create good, or be cast down into dissolute degradation and failure? Am I a corrupt fruit, rotting, fly-blown, fallen from the bough, stinking amid the dogshit and mouldering leaves? Boring.
Thur. How do these straightforward simple people do it? How do they switch from one path to another with comparative ease? How do they live as if they only have one self, one set of tracks, a unity, a consonance? All life and choice entails murdering aspects of the self. Sometimes events mean that a desirable and an undesirable asect of self get machine-gunned together. Perhaps the root of my problem is that I find even my nightmares fascinating to the point that I feel disappointed to wake up. A terminal vacillation. If the self is slow and loth to discard aspects of itself, then eventually it becomes a horrible knot of contradictions. I envy the coherent. Sometimes. Why do some people see their bad manifest as outside? Evil is inherent.
Fri. Why can't I accept sacrifices? Fear? I am like the farmer in the boat with the fox, hen and grain, but with no solution. Idealistic questing for a perfect impossible solution that cannot exist. Pompous prig, with a warm-heart that spreads bile and canker wherever it tries to do good. Having your cake and eating it, you selfish git. Fear of closing off potential fates. Stasis, for fear of praxis. But of course it is all an illusion - all our possible futures are closed off and have already always been so forever, just as all our possible pasts were not possible save the one we had.
Stand up straight, pull your socks up, square your shoulders, accept responsibility for your actions for good and ill, and face hell directly. But perhaps I may be permitted to squint it into vision in small doses, so it doesn't blast my reason.
Life is simultaneously wonderful and awful. Just accept it.
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