I’ve been having a reoccurring dream where I’m sitting on a hard plastic chair opposite Tim Booth, passing a joint back and forth. The air thick with sweet smelling smoke and overwhelming sense that Tim is a Really Nice Guy, the carpet prickling the bare soles of my feet and dust motes floating across the shafts of sunlight streaming through the window…
I don’t like documenting all of this.
Not the dream thing, I don’t know why I told you that, I think I just needed a jumping off point. It’s been a while, I’ve forgotten what I’m doing…where does this go? Do I put this here or…? A little to the left…oh god don’t stop…
I don’t like sending words out into the world of whatever this is before I’ve even worked it out for myself. I have no idea what is going on. I don’t understand it and I can’t keep track of it and sometimes it’s scary and sometimes it exhausting but it mostly just is.
I live a heightened version of good days and bad days; I think I’m supposed to be careful with the good days, to keep a handle on them, make sure they’re not too good because that’s not healthy. I know I’m probably not supposed to do what I sometimes do and give in to the nagging urge to play some loud music and do all of the things while thinking all of the thoughts and having all of the ideas all at once.
Fuck it feels good but it’s actually bad because then…Well. Then there are the bad days and the really, really bad days and the bad days that are so bad I have no recollection of each hour as it painfully drags its way through my bones.
The crux is, I can’t believe the bad days. That’s the important thing. Never, ever believe the bad days. Allowing myself to give into that stuff would be some dangerous shit, if those thoughts permeate I’m fucked. I have to believe it’s all fleeting and as agonising and soul destroying as it is, this will end. I have to try to ignore the bad and maintain a louder narrative that it will all be okay and I will be okay and I don’t really want to die, not really. (I do. No. I do, I really do. NO…and so on.)
After a few months, the bad things go away and normal comes back. Or maybe good. Who knows that’s all part of the fun you guys! No really, ignore my raised in sarcasm eyebrow and the crazed look in my eyes.
Okay, it’s shit. Utter shit.
The good and the normal and the bad chop and change and ebb and flow and I’m so fucking exhausted it’s my instinctive reflex to believe none of it and just exist as best as I can during whatever I have to. Sometimes that means I get to laugh and do things. Sometimes I just have to survive. But fucking hell, it’s so rare that I feel.
If the bad’s not real and I expend so much energy trying to believe as much, how can the good be real?
I’m a weird emotionless robot, robotting around, achingly desperate for feelings that I won’t allow myself to keep hold of.
I know, I know…
I think I’ve got over the realignment of personal perception. I think. At least, I’ve slipped back into the mind-set of not really caring in a big brassy I AM WHAT I AAAAAAM jazz hands kind of way. I live it, I live all the internal and external stuff and I’ve realised, again, that all I can do is get on with it. It’s as simple and as impossible as that. I can’t fight it so I may as well throw one arm around it and carry on my (not always so) merry way.
I’m still really struggling with how Everyone Else sees me. I think that’s part of the reason I’ve been a bit absent.
Other reasons for absence include but are not limited to: sleeplessness, sleeping, apathy, enjoyment of other things, self deprecation, self care…and so on.
It’s a massive, massive battle for me to own my feelings. It’s a bloody big battle to just accept them in a I feel really, really good/bad/happy/sad but that’s alright kind of way.
Fuck you people who make me think I have to excuse or explain something that is so intrinsic it’s impossible.
All of the battling whirrs into white noise and I’m bloody terrified of saying anything at all because I can tweet something flippant and inane or a feeble attempt at humour or a cat GIF when I’m actually in a really bad place in my head. But that doesn’t detract from how I feel or make the cat GIF a lie (cat GIFs are never a lie you take that back). I can be angry or upset but actually feeling fine. My outward words and movements and tweets and blogs and smirks have little to no bearing on how I feel inside. None.
I’m tired of not being brave enough to believe and I don’t like not being in control. I’m scared of saying that I feel good or bad or somewhere in the middle because I don’t want to look like a total flake, of having to admit it wasn’t lasting, of flitting from one thing to the other and freaking everyone out because OMG stay in one mood for five minutes for the love of god.
In amongst all of this I’m just frightened. I’ve a limited number of words in this lifetime, there’s so, so many that I can’t say but I’m scared to say the ones that I can because I don’t know how.