Life feels completely empty at the moment. Flat. Redundant. Meaningless.
I have to think of things to fill up my day. Walk to Tesco. Get a coffee. Today I splashed out and bought the Guardian just to give myself something to do.
Four or so months ago I didn’t turn up for my therapy session because I was in hospital. I could have let my therapist know a bit earlier, but I left her in the dark not knowing where I was. Eventually I texted her to say I’d been in hospital. As a result of this I lost my space in her practice. When I asked about returning she said she would put me on a waiting list. Four months have passed since that admission to hospital, and I still haven’t heard from her.
For a while now I’ve been waking up with this therapist in my head, feeling angry that she has just left me dangling. My feeling is that she was pissed off, but didn’t want to reject me outright. So instead of being honest about that she decided to just leave me on this ‘waiting list’. This morning I finally emailed her to ask what’s going on. At least I can come off the waiting list if she doesn’t want to be my therapist anymore. I don’t like the feeling of waiting to hear from her, of being in limbo.
I haven’t felt desperate to have someone to talk to, but it probably would help me. I have few people in my life I can talk to. This isn’t killing me, as I would have thought it might, had I known how isolated I would become, but it’s not exactly great either.
I’m still waiting for the swimming pool to open again so that I will have something else to do. It does feel a bit shocking to me that my life would turn out this way. It feels like drudgery, and I can’t see that it will change anytime soon. The meds flatten me out. I feel nothing apart from completely flat. No joy, no pain, no nothing.
But it is good not to have that constant swinging in all directions and drama. No great dreams or missions to accomplish. Small projects: saving money, loosing weight, getting some voluntary work. Reading the newspaper, a book, eating something.
Perhaps I should just be grateful for all the things I don’t have. The pain of a relationship that’s not working. Hangovers. Mania. Maybe being seriously flat is the best I can hope for. It isn’t what I would have planned for myself, but then I didn’t know how my life was going to pan out.
I’m disappointed in the mistakes I’ve made. Principally, putting so much weight on finding true love. Wasting money on stuff to wear. The stuff I chose to study at university. I would have been better off just working. I did feel that actually when I was about twenty and first stopped drinking, but then I had my place at Chelsea art college and I couldn’t let it go. For a while I had a job as a runner for a post production company in Soho. I wish I’d stuck with that, or got an apprenticeship in film or TV. But back then I never knew how things would turn out, or who I really was. I was too influenced by my parents choices and seeking my mother’s approval. I didn’t realise this at the time, but I can see it now.
When I went to City Lit in Covent Garden a few years back, I took a screenwriting course. I got on well with the students and really enjoyed the class. Much more so than Writing Fiction. But I got scared and thought: I can’t do this subject. I don’t have the capacity. I’m not quick witted enough. So I dropped out. Looking back, this seems like a mistake, but I couldn’t see it at the time.
I’ve always loved television. At the moment, there’s no doubt that watching dramas is the highlight of my day. Nothing makes me happier. But I can’t really see how that could equate to being good at writing drama. And now it feels like I’m too old anyway, especially for such a competitive profession. Nevertheless, I’ve signed up for a screenwriting class. It’s at the City Lit again, but online this time. It’s not like I think this is something realistic that I can do, but more that it’s just something to do. Who knows, I might enjoy it. It’s only for two days, but if I can managed it, I might sign up for a longer course. It’s something at least, I suppose.
I can have these thoughts about alternative paths I could have taken, but even had I known that TV, say, was a good option, I would probably have messed up any breaks or good fortune that came my way. I did try and make something of my life by stopping drinking when I was twenty and going to college, but even so I still seem to have managed to completely screw up my life. To not make a success of things. To piss people off and reject them, if they happened to not be rejecting me. I never seemed to feel comfortable unless things were going wrong. There was a certain sense of rightness when I had nothing and everything was falling apart. Or being engaged in stuff that never made me happy. I think the only time I am happy is when the day is done and I can switch the television on. It must be great to be a part of making films. Just to be a part of it, in however small a way.
I once fell really really hard for a TV director. I don’t think I’ve ever wanted someone so much. I knew him through AA, not his business in TV, but I’m sure that his profession was part of the reason I liked him so much. It was a part of him. It obviously wasn’t meant to be. He was a real high flyer, and would probably never have considered going out with someone like me. A failure.
Being a failure is hard work. It’s like walking everywhere in a very heavy coat. It drags you down. Nevertheless, it’s been good to write this today and at least realise a few things about myself. Even if it is too late to do anything about it now. I won’t ever achieve the heights of someone like A: the TV director, but perhaps I’ll manage, if I continue to take my meds, to avoid one more round in the nut ward. Maybe that’s the best I can hope for now.