I wrote this on the train, and also in a flat in Islington (here in a basement).
I've been doing this all wrong for too long.
As some of you may or may not know, I've been on holiday to England. Yes, yes... Laugh it up, Cornwall technically is part of England. But it also isn't. Favoured holiday destination of seemingly most people on this island, be it from middle class families, beach hut owners, post A-level and pre-university students or just people from Birmingham, Cornwall is very much its own place. I don't really need to wax on too long about this; I'm sure you have all the TripAdvisor recommendations and have seen enough of the new Poldark to be able to form your own, unquestionably valid conclusions. My own recent adventures out to Gurnard's Head and getting sunburnt from just sitting at the desk in the office are part of the good things about living here. What's most telling about life on this 80 mile spit into the Atlantic is the sheer scale of things – or the lack of it.
Five days in Derby have given me a lot of perspective back, actually. As sad as it is to walk about and see parts of the city dirtier than memory would have me believe, at least... At least it's there. You know? Okay, okay... The ineffable value of a place being the place is difficult to get down on paper (this is paper? What is truth then?) but not lost on the author. No trip to Derby is complete without a bag of dinky donuts, or indeed, kneeling on St. Mary's Gate to get in the entire height of the Cathedral tower in frame. I sometimes wonder about going back... But then I remember that nothing can ever be the same, and that the hope that it could be is an even more vain and time wasting hope than usual, even for me. But much as suffering builds endurance and endurance builds character, distance allows for breathing room and breathing room allows for perspective. A little distance is what I've needed for a long time, actually; I've been remarkably hard on myself (even for me, a noted self torturer) recently in sort of not going anywhere. I've become stuck somewhat in Truro for what I could only describe as no good reason. I haven't even been to the sea on my own, for saying it's £2.70 and a half hour away, let alone somewhere luxurious such as Exeter...
In getting stuck though, I've almost given up. In moments of self awareness, I've noticed that I've stopped playing music (excuses here are legion, the best being that my keyboard plug is bust), stopped listening to music (the headphone jack on my phone doesn't work oh dear), almost given up writing, reading, cooking... It's worrying. It could be worse though! I could have stopped all of these things and started handing my books out to other people! Tragic. It's as if I have let the fight just...run out of me. I suppose that this is all part of the process I started about a year ago, of resetting my head. I said it was a rewiring job at the time, before moving on to a more apt metaphor, that my head is more like an Asylum, a colossal house of madness full of rooms and whole wings that make up the most of my memory, bad as it is already, that can be shut off, doors locked and barred. I have recalled things I had rather not have over the past twelve months, things that I have chosen to discuss either publicly or on here, in order to help myself get past them; while the jokes might not exactly be pouring forth, but at least I can talk about my own history of suicidal tendencies rationally now. Last week was more about straws and my own dromedary spine, but as sure as you break me with reed I shall purge you by hyssop. I'm sure there's worse to come as well.
It's not so much that I have been totally beset by tragedy or misfortune, perhaps just as much as anybody else, but that I wear my heart on my sleeve, until both it and the sleeve wear out. It makes sense though – I have no real fine control over my sensory input or emotional state which is extremely tiring and difficult to manage, notwithstanding my propensity for panic attacks and more recently, nightmares (not something I'd recommend). Also I've been struggling with interpersonal skills again, in differentiating means and ends, recognising the two (and who sees me as which and vice versa) – there's been plenty of unrest actually and I'm glad to have taken a step of several hundred miles away from things. Something else I've been pondering is that in getting older and becoming more settled am I simply becoming... Boring? Being outspoken and opinionated doesn't really seem to have helped terribly, but what's the alternative? Sycophancy? Alright, that's the extreme sure, but really? All of us, all of our lives struggle, in different degrees with things, people, situations and relationships that we don't like and for what? Usually so other people are happy, more often than not. I think we're done here.
There's actually a lot of unrest at the moment, all bubbling away under the surface. I'm sufficiently convinced that this isn't the time and place to discuss the hard and fast reasons behind it, but I'm certainly not the only person who isn't entirely happy – and it isn't difficult to tell either. Sometimes syntax isn't just about how you put a sentence together, it's about how you are as well. It's something that I suppose that people aren't aware of, but it's all a giveaway. Things like, oh I dunno... How often you go to the pub, or more tellingly, what time you start drinking. I have to watch this kind of thing all the time, I spend an awful amount of effort trying (and often failing) to decode social meaning and hierarchy and all (who has a problem with authority anyway?). You never really realise yourself, but when you have to watch things... it's all a dead giveaway when something's the matter. As I've already mentioned, I am of course my own worst case in point – since my keyboard power adapter has broken I have all but given up and resorted to well... Drink instead of practice really. I still resolutely claim that things are “alright” and that I'm “okay”, but really? It doesn't take a behavioural scientist to work out I'm secretly in misery and denying it.
Something about being back has reminded me that the moment I feel like giving up is in fact the moment to start fighting back again. It always was, and I have no idea why I let it go? Maybe it's something in the water – or more accurately, the lack of it down south (mmmm, limestone hills). It's always like this, and I usually stay pretty fired up for about two or three days after getting back and then... Poof! Back to normal, or what passes for anyway. Now is the most selfish time I have, as I have been reminded. I will never be as young as I am now, and if I keep rolling over and giving up just for the sake of what I don't even know, then I will have wasted all the effort that brought me here, and waste what potential I have left for my future.
NEXT TIME ON ASW... Le Grand Depart, in detail!
NEXT TIME ON ASW... Le Grand Depart, in detail!
