22nd December 2012 2:15 a.m.
Here we are again. Another day over and I hardly remember any of it. My stomach is distended, I’m dehydrated and although its past 2am I know sleep won’t come easy.
I had to look to check the time, because really, a lot of the time I can hardly tell what day it is, let alone the hour. Hour follows hour, day follows day, week follows week, month follows month and nothing seems to change. It’s a few days after the Sandy Hook shootings, and the ragged bloodied remains of innocent children are being laid to rest in the ground, yet I piss my life away hiding, huddled in front of the TV by the fire, screening calls, turning down invitations, letting people down, abusing my body, ignoring its needs and doing the very worst for myself that I can possible do. Really, it’s an art form. And I am so ashamed. Of everything really.
Christmas is just days away, but to be honest it could be any time of the year really. Not working means it’s easier than usual to avoid the inevitable Christmas time activities, office parties, boozy lunches, carol services, and if it wasn’t for the random cards scattered round the room, you’d think it was October or February or something. Ho, ho ho.
The second dose is starting to kick in, so I take a swig of red wine to help it along. I had always planned to drink tonight but at the Christmas party of someone I really liked, but at the last minute, as usual I bailed. It was the perfect opportunity to face my peers, to show them that I’d survived the sheer hell I’d been put through during the last 18 months and that everything had worked out well for me, but in the end, I couldn’t face it. I know he’ll be hurt and let down, as would my friends, but when it comes to depressives, that well worn adage ‘It’s not you, it’s me’ always applies. Those old business contacts with their houses in the shires, kids in private school, six figure jobs and fat bonuses, I couldn’t bear for them to look at me and glimpse the rawness behind my eyes or for me to see the complete lack of respect, interest or engagement in theirs. I don’t want to give them anything to use against me, spread around the industry about me, snigger about me behind my back. I don’t want to imagine their voices, whispering in faux concern about how much I’ve aged, how I’ve become something of a recluse and how maybe it was for the best that I left W*nker B*stards, as the pressure was probably a little too much for me. Yes, hmm, nod, nod, nod, tsk, tsk, brows puckered with mock concern, gleeful that no matter how tough things were for them under the corporate cosh, at least they weren’t on the scrap heap, a failure, a nutter.
The rolling credits herald the end of the crap movie I was watching, the heating has gone off and try as I might to delay it, it’s time for bed.
I feel paws on my chest and the world comes momentarily back into focus as Charlie peers anxiously into my face, eyes wide with anxiety and confusion. Somehow my hand connects with his head and I pet him clumsily, as reassuringly as I can. I think it freaks him out when I disappear into myself like this, my spirit abandoning my body, but it’s the only way I can deal with the loneliness, self loathing and molten anger festering away inside.
They say that the most common time for people to die is in the wee small hours, plus according to the Mayan prophecies, the world is going to end tomorrow. Well let me tell you, it can’t come fucking soon enough for me. In the meantime I’ve got the night to deal with. Let’s hope it never ends.