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It wasn’t long after I’d turned eighteen I think that I felt a need to keep a space alive in the back of my mind to the chaotic and heartless nature of the universe.
Not that I wasn’t have a good time. Away from home, alive is na´ve to my sexuality much of many of my days seemed to sparkle with fresh discoveries. Being young it was also often bleak but that is part of the territory.
I’d hoped that by trying to remember that at any point life my pore molten lava over me that if I kept myself from being surprised I’d be more able to handle it.
Did that do me a whit of good? Looking back I can’t say. I’m more resigned to suffering than many people. I never acquired the vice of blaming others. I can see how they may have injured me but accept responsibility for my emotional health.
Have you ever met anyone whose life was made better by bitching?
My greatest weakness would prove to be that I’m in love with the idea of being in love. I like to think the times of heady happiness have made the days of woe worth it. Really: no. Perhaps conditioned by my mother’s unconditional love I’ve never been quite ready for love’s withdrawal or betrayal.
Thrown away too many years in various ways to the vice of romance.
I can’t remember when it hit.
I was at work early. I didn’t want to get up from the chair. Do anything. I did want to go home and lie down. Nothing else.
I just sat there. I didn’t want to die. But if I fell asleep and never woke up that seemed to be as much as I dared ask from life.
Heart and body became as one. It as if my very flesh was consumed with despair.
It was misery but a strangely neutral misery. I couldn’t think of a reason to do anything. Only my sense of responsibility kept me at the shop.
Noticing my partner had bought some sex books I laughed and the mood receded.
For a few hours I was OK. Then my mood started to darken again. I almost talked to Gordon about it. But to what point? I long ago learned how to wear the mask of impassivity, to feign serenity.
Thankfully the time came when I could leave.
It has hit my very briefly a couple of times since. But not engulfed me or remained sustained.
Why? I don’t know why?
The years of coping with Charles’ craziness hurt me. His death did. I may not have recovered from the latter. I form attachments rarely. The loss of someone I care for is an awful wound. Money is a serious problem. My lover can’t live in my country.
Any, all may be eating away at me in ways I don’t perceive.
Or a fear of which I’m oblivious.
I’m a little scared.
And angry. I demand more of this from myself.
It isn’t as if some fool of a therapist could help me. I’d as soon shoot myself as take a psychiatric drug to ‘protect’ me from the effects of my own mind.
I’m not sure what I’ll do.
Fight for my sanity I guess. Fight with myself.
But it will be a temperate combat.
Somehow intelligence and self-awareness has to win. My life is premised on that.