I’ve got post healthcare visitor fatigue. Talking about myself for 40 minutes completely wears me out. But I’ve still managed to go for a walk and put my name down for some volunteer work in the community bookshop on the high street. This was a suggestion from my Care Co-Ordinator. I guess listening to my gloom made her come up with solutions. I didn’t like the sound of it when it was mooted, but when I went outside into the sunshine after the appointment, I decided that it wasn’t a bad suggestion.
I do feel gloomy, like life is pointless and unlikely to change. I can’t imagine ever feeling happy again. Even so, when I look back at times when I was happy, I think my elation was just based on illusions and denial. Everything feels hopeless. Partly, I think this is due to my age. When life is feel of promise of better times to come it is easier to live in hope. To live in the future, even if things never do change, there is always the hope one day it will be better.
I’ve been reading Matt Haig’s very good and optimistic book: The Comfort Book. Each chapter is very short and contains a story or meditation on hope. Still, I find it hard to suspend disbelief. Even as it is a good read. For one thing he has become so amazingly successful, it’s easy to think: Well it’s alright for you. He has a partner and his own family. His extended family sound supportive. I know depression makes everything bleak, but with all of that in place, and his talent, it’s hard to believe that I will ever find the relief he has.
Sorry that this is so gloomy, but I can’t lie. It’s a choice of write what’s going on — not a lot — or don’t write.
I miss my ex, even though the whole thing was a disaster. He says he can’t meet because he too is depressed. So I was texting him, but then he was unfriendly, and we had a disagreement. Since then, although he apologised, I haven’t contacted him. It seems obvious he doesn’t care if we are still friends. It’s always me that reaches out to him. I’m tired of that. We aren’t involved but he still manages to reject me all the time. So I’ve decided not to contact him any more.
I used to see him often, wandering about in our small town, but he’s moved to a village a couple of miles away, and so I don’t really see him out and about any more. I miss even that small amount of sociability of stopping for a minute or so and passing the time of day. Just to be recognised and greeted by someone. Not to say that never happens otherwise, but there are few people around here that know me who I still talk to. I don’t mean it, but I seem to be someone that falls out with people quite easily.
Being a Londoner, it’s a big change to live in a small town. There are always a million things you can do in a big city. Tons of AA meetings. Galleries. Bookshop. Swimming pools. I don’t wish I was back there at all, but I do miss the ability to be able to distract myself so easily.
Luckily, there are books. I’m now reading The End, by Karl Ove Knausgaard, which is a real door stopper. I do like his books, although I have put off this one because I really didn’t fancy the 200 page exposition on Hitler. I’m not there yet, but I’m not looking forward to it. So far it’s pretty good. Amazing the way he manages to make domestic life seems so interesting. Probably because it’s interspersed with stuff about his life as a writer and his relationships.
Other than that the highlight of my day appears to be getting my coffee in the morning and the AA meeting I attend once a week. Yesterday, I waited all day for a phone call that never arrived, then watched a Walter Present Scandi Noir detective drama on Channel Four.
I’ve watched so my television in the past year or so, it shocks even me. I’m only now, having watched near on every watchable series available on all the channels, starting to get a bit fed up. It’s the only time I really get to switch off my brain and relax. Thank god for television. I love a good detective drama.
I like writing this blog, it may not be much cop, but at least I’m able to get the days business off my chest. I used to have such ambition for my writing. It’s hard to imagine it now. I’ve done tons of writing classes. I’m glad I did that, excruciating as it was at times. I think I did learn quite a bit about writing.
I used to absolutely love writing a diary. This is a bit like a dairy, but not. I should say, as I’ve just remembered my topic — Bipolar and medication issues — that my Care Co-Ordinator thought stopping my meds was a very bad idea. She wasn’t best pleased about the lack of an anti-psychotic. But in the end I had to agree that she was right. I need the meds I take. Things might be great, but do I really fancy another hospital admission? No.