Today, I didn’t wake up till 9am and immediately groaned at the thought of the postman laughing/grimacing/raising his eyebrows at me for looking a state yet again.
And then I remembered. I’m not expecting any more parcels. And instead of feeling relieved that I wouldn’t face this daily, ritual humiliation, I felt a goose walk over my grave.
If you have no reason whatsoever, no matter how feeble, to get out of bed in the morning, that poses a big question. What is the fucking point of you? Even the cats weren’t keening for their breakfast or crapping in their tray. So not only was the world outside existing perfectly well without me, it could no longer be bothered to intercept my little world within these four walls for even a couple of minutes anymore.
How long can I keep going like this? As much as I hate my self imposed prison, I don’t want to leave it. Money is running out, the thought of re-entering the rat race fills me with horror and all of my dreams seem like fantasy, a stupid, nonsensical waste of time. Who is going to buy silly little fripperies in this financial climate? Who will trust me to heal them and tap into their hidden powers when I can’t even fix myself? Who will want to be taught yoga by someone who can barely be bothered to trundle from room to room, let alone go into the lotus position or downward dog? Who will love me if I can’t love myself? Who would choose to be counselled by someone whose life, in every aspect that counts, is a failure? Thou hypocrite.
I’m trapped by my own innate talent for abandoning anything I love, sabotaging any progress I make and allowing myself to sink into quicksand whilst simultaneously making excuses and refusing to grab at any branch poking across the abyss and pull myself ashore.
I don’t know whether it’s laziness, fear of failure, my condition or a total lack of interest in this world that makes me want to avoid, rubbish, scupper, ignore anything and everything that could help me evolve in any capacity whatsoever.
Aunty C is not impressed; she tells me that my child is running riot, and essentially, the bad parent has taken over from the good parent, tied her up, stuffed her in the airing cupboard, and is sat watching porn and smoking weed whilst my little shit gorges on Smarties, shaves the dog and stays up watching MTV and horror movies till her eyes bleed.
I know I’m being facetious here, and she’s right, I know that I am not exercising any discipline over myself (the child), and I’m treating my body, intellect and emotional needs with total indifference, but these ‘parents’ she refers to do not exist, and it’s hard morph into roles and do the things for myself that in real life, other real human beings might do or indeed, should have done a long, long time ago. Plus I’m so lethargic and indifferent, I can barely be bothered to feed and wash myself, let alone parent myself.
C thinks it’s my meds; she’s not a fan of sertraline or propranolol, she thinks they sap me and kill my creativity and passion. Yes, she has a point, but also kills or at least tamps down the very worst of my paranoia, panic attacks and aggression, but apparently she’d prefer me back to my fire breathing warrior-bitch self than this soggy shell of a…..thing.
In an effort to get me off them, she’s recommended St John’s Wort, blue/green algae, the fruit of the bingy bongy tree and something the name of which I can never remember, but it sounds like it comes from the periodic table, but they do NOTHING for me. Zilch. Nada.
I’ve been out of work for nearly a year now, and still don’t have a fucking clue what I’m going to do. And if I have to go back to the corporate world, apply for jobs that I don’t want to do, be put through interview after interview, pretending I’m great, braying about my successes, promising the world, and be made to bang on about where I’ll be in five years time, I will have myself committed, I really will.
I just wish something or someone who has the power would help me or let the quicksand hurry up and do its thing as I no longer have the energy to stay afloat any more. And a frickin’ weedy fucking branch won’t do, thank you very much; I need a big, brawny, hairy, tattooed arm to drag me to safety, wipe this stuff out of my eyes, encase me in a bear hug and shake me till my teeth rattle.
When the best part of your day is when you go to bed you realise things aren’t getting better. I stupidly thought that if I escaped the world of business, that I would recover, heal and thrive, but the truth of the matter is, I have yet to escape myself.
I’m tired of being afraid of something I can’t fight or conquer.