screaming

I've always fought against fear, fear of failure and pain. Fighting to try and overcome the knowledge that failure is inevitable and that any success or happiness is just putting off the time when things will come crashing down, and make the crash all the worse.


I try. I try to be positive and try to work hard and try, most importantly, to be a good person but that just ends up throwing into starker relief that I can't do these things. I thought it was getting easier - or, at least, less phenomenally, impossibly difficult. There was always the fear hanging over my of slipping back to the time when surviving each day didn't feel like any sort of victory, but just left me with the crushing weight that I'd have to try to do it again and again, pushing the rock up the hill only to have it roll to the bottom again,knowing that one day I'd not be strong enough and the rock would squash me.


Perhaps it should be relief of sorts to be back there. one less thing to be afraid of. But it isn't.

It's become a pattern

How do I do this? I keep falling in love - or think I've fallen in love. I make promises, overt or implied and, even though I say "don't get too close, I'm damaged, I can't do this, I'll hurt you", I let her get close and then I fuck it up and hurt her.


It's become a pattern. I need to stop, but how? I tell myself loneliness is easier, safer for everybody, but I am so afraid of being alone - and so afraid of being with someone. I was with someone for so long, for half my life, and when it ended it tore me apart. I don't know if I can survive that again, but why can't I just stay away from the risk? Stay safe. Stop hurting other people and opening my own wounds.

The closed door

I’m currently in a state where I think about suicide most days. There are many days wherein I actively consider it (and I know many of the people reading this will recognise the difference); days where I hold the concept of ending my life in my hand to view it, more or less dispassionately, considering how viable an option it is.


I am not afraid of death. While many things will happen after I die, I am pretty certain that none of them will involve me. There are, of course, downsides to this course of action; it negates the possibility of improvement. The worry of the transition - the pain of the razor biting into my wrists, the panic and evacuation as the cord tightens around my neck, perhaps the few seconds of acceleration from the high roof will be stretched to an eternity by adrenaline - but these would be fleeting. The main concern is the effect on those who care for me. My friends, my sister. My son. A man now, almost 24, what effect would it have on him? A child should bury their parents, that is the natural order of things, but it hurts so much - and how much more so should that loss be at their own hand? (My mother was taken by lung cancer and, while that was caused by her habituation to cigarettes, I never blamed her for it). My father; no parent should have to bury their child, though I know millions do.


In a way this is encouraging, the fact that these things are of concern to me; there have been times in the past when they have attenuated to the thinnest thread of connection, when that particular mix of pain and numbness has meant that I have considered that any pain of losing me would be outweighed by the pain my continued existence would cause. Times when I have held that concept of ending in my hand and nodded, have stood on the brink of accepting it, seeing it as a gift (fortunately I live in a country that disallows access to firearms, or the simplicity of placing that steel barrel in my mouth or under my chin, angling it upward toward the seat of my consciousness and having to only argue against or distract my survival instinct for that brief moment to allow me to squeeze the trigger; had I not, I doubt very much I would be here, now, writing these words).


So I will continue. The spectre will be kept at bay by distraction, by company and the solitude of reading, by the endorphin rush of running, by the distraction of TV, by the regularity of the day-to-day, of work and shopping and cleaning. And, hopefully, I will rise from this dip to a point where I can forget awhile that door that I know how to open, that I can step through and end all worry and speculation. Although I think that, once you are aware of that door, and have acknowledged that it is unlocked, its possibility, its promise, can never be forgotten.

Reports of my demise, etc

So, I’m still here. Obviously.

Still a struggle, of course. I’ve not felt this low in years. I just realised that this morning, I’m back to the time when I genuinely feel lucky to have made it through the day. The hardest part is that, while that should feel like an achievement, feel like a victory, it doesn’t, because I know I’ll have to do it all again, day after day, and I don’t think I’m strong enough. I know I’m not strong enough, or I wouldn’t be in this mess. So maybe I should just bow to the inevitable and give in. Take that easy way out. I know it’s there, I’ve opened that door before and stood on the threshold looking through into the inviting, terrifying darkness beyond and, once you’ve opened that door you can’t forget that it’s there.

Things are slightly simpler now. I’ve broken up with my girlfriend so I only have myself to worry about. Selfish, I know. That was making it so difficult, though, like it has before. The worry that I’ll be dragging someone else down with me making the spiral worse. That tendency to isolation that I’ve mentioned before; drive people away to make things simpler, hurt them now so they don’t get hurt later, because if they want to be around me their judgement obviously can’t be trusted anyway.

I’ve thought I was better for so long, but I guess I’m just not able to cope with stress. The stress of a relationship, of work when it gets difficult - and my job is relentless at the moment. At least I don’t have the immediate stress of poverty as I did before, although there is the worry of what will happen if I become completely unable to cope with work. I’ve almost had to walk out - or run out, screaming - several times in recent weeks, and the sickness benefits of this job are a lot less generous than those I’ve had before and, should it go beyond that, the benefits system a hell of a lot less forgiving.

So I guess I’ll continue on as best I can.

I tell her that I love her but I don't know if I'm lying.

I tell her that I love her but I don't know if I'm lying.

I just don't know. I look at myself in the mirror and vaguely recognise the face, but have no insight to the workings inside the head. How crazy is that? I guess being able to look in a mirror without wanting to smash it is an improvement.

When my mind broke it was like a whirlwind inside my head. I knew that I was millimetres away from it tearing me apart so stayed in the calm centre. I could feel the maelstrom swirling, barely outside the border of my skin and that I had to stay as still as possible to avoid being caught up in it. That storm was also inside my head; its violence was the tumult of thoughts I couldn't deal with so I blocked them off and refused to acknowledge them. So I shut off so much of myself to survive.

I've felt like a more-or-less functioning human being for a couple of years now - I rebuilt relationships, managed to get a job - but I don't know if that part of me I shut off is still there or, if it is, if I can still access it. I feel like I'm going through the motions. I don't know if I can cope with the stress of work, the demands and complexity of being with someone. The desire to let go is welcoming and terrifying.

In January I've run just over 260 km. This astonishes me. I first started running about three years ago in the gym in an attempt to get some measure of fitness back. On deciding I quite enjoyed the treadmill I thought I'd give proper running a go - and found it much harder. A km left me knackered, but before too long I was doing a few k once or twice a week. I set myself the goal of running three time a week, then four. I ran my first 10K, the Age UK Wrap Up and Run, in March 2013 and my first Half Marathon a year later. It isn’t too long since I couldn't imagine being able to run on two consecutive days but in the last month I've run to work and back and then run in the evening. I’ve signed up for the Yorkshire Marathon this year. Goals that I wouldn't even have considered aiming for are behind me without me even realising it. Somehow, I've become a runner.

Sleeplessness and shift work

Late shift today followed by a 9 AM start tomorrow, purely because the call centre closes at 5.30 on New Year's Eve. Which is a good thing, but getting home only to head back to work 11 hours later is something I've not done for a while. And, as I broke my bike chain heading into work today i shall be relying on public transport. Added to that, been awake since before 2 this morning, horrible night of insomnia. If only that guaranteed I would sleep tonight.

Moan, moan, moan.

29/12/2014

Almost missed posting today.

Late shifts today and tomorrow, really does make my day feel like nothing but work. I keep meaning to rise early so I can get stuff done before heading in, but it's hard to get my head down too soon after getting home. I should get my arse in gear to look for another job; this one isn't terrible, but it doesn't have a lot in the way of job satisfaction and the shiftwork is starting to get to me. If I could get something 9-5, and/or something that I could get my teeth into - and that paid even close to what this does - I'd jump ship so fast. Or I could knuckle down and write. Even if that doesn't pay it would give me some sort of satisfaction, and I know I used to be able to write, at least to write half decent prose, but feeling that I have something worth saying is another matter.

It was going so well

Today wasn't what it was meant to be. The plan was to spend the day with Becky. I haven't seen nearly enough of her recently, partly due to my awkward shift pattern at work. Tough over the Christmas period. And her being married doesn't help.


Today we had planned to meet up quite early, spend the day together and then take my son out for a meal this evening. The heavy snow that hit last night put the kibosh on that, though; while the tram is running fine it doesn't go anywhere near her and the buses seem to have been cancelled, on top of which she is quite timid about getting stuck out. So I hiked up to hers and we went for a lunch at a local pub instead. Had a lovely afternoon, but toward the end she started getting a bit upset. She asked me to go home with her, for a drink with her and her husband and I said I would if she wanted. He knows and has asked her to invite me over before, but I've quailed at the potential awkwardness. Or I'm a coward, one or the other.


But at her door Becky said, No, it's okay, you get home, it's not a good idea. I said I'd come in if she wanted but maybe didn't press hard enough. So twenty minutes walk down the snowy road she sends me a text saying she feels she's been abandoned. I try to call but she doesn't keep her phone on her. I text saying I'm heading back, and I start back up the steep, snowy hill, trying to call again and again. No answer by the time I get to the end of her road. I don't want to barge in but how can I take her saying I've abandoned her a walk away? So I call the housephone and he answers. Can I speak to Becky. She seems shocked I've called. It's alright. Yes. Everything's OK. Hangs up.


So I walk home. Already tipsy from the wine we'd had at the pub I think I need to drink more. Four hours later and not heard a peep. I've texted, asked if everything is OK. I hate this.