Concentrate

It’s been a while, either too down to write or too woolly of brain and strangely averse to sitting in front of computer screen. I sometimes feel “what is the point?” when it all seems so self-indulgent and I am conscious of having spent God-only-knows how long boring the pants off various friends and therapists with my insular ramblings. It is so much easier to stay quiet.  To sleep. I am constantly tired and sleep so much these days that I can only schedule things to do on alternate days, in order that I can sleep inbetween or risk falling into the most exquisite exhaustion which renders me incapable of any meaningful functionality. I am not young anymore but not especially old either, certainly not old enough to be this shattered.

Have joked for a while that I’m going prematurely senile, but too often can really believe that, cannot concentrate, cannot think clearly,  cannot remember things that happened days ago. My mind dances off in a hundred different directions simultaneously, thoughts frolicking around and jumping off at tangents, refusing to be ordered and checked.  Insomnia equals a veritable tumble drier of leaping thoughts, falling over one another in their haste to be heard, yet never managing to form any useful conclusions about anything and leaving me ever more wakeful and horribly frustrated.

Taking too high a dose of happy pills to be really depressed. Something is still missing.  Maybe it always will be. Perhaps people see me smile and think that all is well in my world. Can even fool myself for a while if head buried deep enough in sand. Doesn’t last. Never lasts.

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Creativity

I can’t remember the last time I actually worked on a photograph, produced a finished item, too scared to actually try it right now as it seems as if all creativity has atrophied. It will be like seeing the blank page of a sketchbook demanding work to be inscribed upon it, as I remember from my art school days when it all started to go wrong for the first time in my life and I found I couldn’t work anymore.

Edge

Two nights of raging insomnia, waking late with sore eyes that water painful tears, still exhausted despite many hours of sleep stolen from the morning, half a day squandered in guilty catch up, yet another stick with which to beat myself. I’m scared, close to the edge, such a fine line between sanity whatever-that-is and losing it completely, assailed by that sensation that something is deeply wrong, that I am all wrong, that I could completely unravel at any given moment and that all I can do is wait to see what that trigger is going to be.

My outward face when I show it to the world is reasonably competent and coping, bantered small talk abounds and an expression of pleasure that has become as rigid as the countenance of a shop window dummy, a mask that slips as soon as I am away from it all, relieved to be alone once more.

Talking tires me. You cannot begin to imagine how much. After all, it is only words, it is hardly strenuous exercise: climbing a mountain, running a marathon, swimming the channel – and yet all these analogies have come to mind as easily as ice cream falling off a hot spoon, because to me having a conversation requires the same amount of energy.  How feeble, how pathetic, and how sad, avoiding the people that I love and that love me back, not phoning anyone, avoiding social engagements, hiding in the house day in and day out, my weakness is an affront to the part of me that I once considered caring, unselfish and generous. A good friend. A good girlfriend. A good daughter.

None of this applies in this Black Hell, where the rules of good social engagement are smashed against the walls and lie in crumpled heaps, folorn shadows of their former selves. I am alone and unreachable in the far away place, glad of that solitude yet at the same time yearning for some warmth in the darkness, the touch of a human hand, even though I know this will offer no comfort to my deep frozen core. No one else can make me feel better. Even the pills don’t appear to be making me feel better anymore. I am the only one who can do that.

Hollow

I am empty, hollow, carved out on the inside like a Hallow’een pumpkin, whilst everything around me feels strange and edgy, seen through eyes that are not my own and are coloured with grey fur. The sense of unease, of something being very wrong, persists and will not go away, dogging my every move with lingering doubts and anxieties. I was doing well – now this is all dissipating and hurrying away like water down a plughole, gurgling with spiteful laughter at my naivety in daring to think that I was over the worst, that I was the master of this and not the other way around.

A hollow victory indeed.

How?

It’s come back and I feel all wrong, like I don’t fit. How can this be? A daily dose of Citalopram should keep the dog from barking at the door, yet recently I have been assailed by that strange pressure in the air, the nagging sensation of someone behind me, heavy, weighing upon my shoulder, greyness clouding my vision and a sag in my step that makes each one feel as if I am dragging boulders on the end of my legs.

I am stupidly, tediously tired the whole time, sleeping shameful amounts every day that I cannot bear to confess here, feeling useless and pointless and non-functioning and so exhausted I want to cry but I can’t, it takes too much effort.

Letting everyone down again, being like this. Tired of it and tired of myself. Too tired.

Fraud

There are days when I’m not sure that I know my own mind anymore, or can even comprehend what is going on inside my head. Which begs the question, if I can’t, how can anybody else be expected to? If I won’t say what the matter is because I am too scared of the feelings that I am experiencing, then where do they go, those feelings, the mental anguish which is so inexpressible that I can only stare blankly at the wall and try to let all sensation drain away, or to attempt to displace pain with other activities which bring no peace or satisfaction? I spend so much time alone because it is easier for me to just ‘be’, to not have to wear a mask of interest in life, knowing I have some good days yet equally understanding that some are still too bad and I cannot bear to be in the company of others, infecting them with my gloom and apathy, spreading poison amongst the innocent who don’t need this shit in their lives.

Smile, talk, laugh, socialise, empathise, banter, grin, chat, giggle, interact, joke – yes, I can do all of these things, sometimes to the degree where no one would guess that I am out of whack, off kilter, veering towards oblivion, dropping off the edge, teetering on the brink of darkness and marauding bad thoughts that suddenly swirl unbidden into the deepest recess of my mind and sabotage my efforts whenever I start to do well. I am a fraud of the highest order, and con artist, a trickster – am I happy or sad, up or down, light or dark?  I don’t know anymore. How can anyone else ever understand?