31 03 2012

You know when you wake up in the morning and there’s something troubling you, but you can’t quite work out what it is? Like you had an argument with someone but can’t remember who or why?

That happened last night and it’s left me feeling disorientated all day. I did my usual getting up with the kids. I didn’t want to, I felt tired as hell and lazy to the point of exhaustion.

At this point you do whatever you can to get through the day, get towards bedtime and then there’s clear space and quiet to think without constantly tending or telling off. And then it hits you. You are so tired that you don’t want to think and the evening is wasted sitting in front of the idiot box watching crap.

Halfway through watching this crap, I realise that Bruce Springsteen was in my dream. He didn’t do much except for sit there occasionally picking at chords on his guitar. Now, I know this wasn’t a construct of my mind, I know that it was identical to that film High Fidelity where Springsteen cameos in exactly the same way. Trouble is, I can’t remember what was said or why my subconscious would try to offer up that bit of Springsteen film cameo??

I am not much of a Springsteen fan, in fact I find the whole big stadium working man anthem stuff a bit too much for me. So why Springsteen?

I think I ended up calling him by his nom de plume The Boss. It’s all getting a bit weird up here.

Maybe tonight we’ll get an encore performance and a bit of explanation.

Battling the nothingness

3 03 2012

The funniest thing about all of this is that normally, I’d be having this conversation with my therapist. Only he’s dead.

It’s unfortunate but the mighty Malcolm Omar, whom I foolishly regarded as a friend passed away a couple of years ago and there’s no one that’s filled that gap for me yet. I say foolishly because I doubt he ever regarded our interaction as friendship, rather simply a client therapist relationship. Despite this, I would still rather count him amongst my friends as he can’t answer back now to deny this. If he could I am sure he would remind me that I owe him forty quid.

My wife, who has similar ambitions to become a therapist, has told me that in her professional opinion, I have not inherited my mother’s bipolarism. That’s as may be, but I have more than my fair share of depressive bouts and times where I feel I am unable to produce anything of worth, where it counts.

At the moment it is one of those times. A real low point where everything seems bleak.

I was sat in a restaurant listening to a character assassination the other evening. Every word was deserved. My reflex reaction was to blame my parents. But that’s all too easy and a cowardly side step away from confronting the truth.

The family at the moment and by family I mean my wider family, outside of my home unit, is fragmented. I haven’t seen my sisters in ages, my mother too. My father, despite the sporadic contact, is an entirely different person nowadays to the father I grew up with. It’s like I’ve lost a family and have had to start again.

Work is hard and constant. Fulfilling in some respects and but never fills my pockets enough and those pockets seem to be getting ever deeper. I’m immensely proud of what we’ve achieved, I’m just not sure if it will ever make me a rich man.

Today I woke up after having slept almost 12 hours, for the first time in a long time. I woke up feeling empty, like the tiredness had left nothingness in its place.

I’m battling, I can’t articulate my thoughts very well at the moment. There are things I want to say but every time I open my mouth nothingness falls out.