Edge

It's very easy to fall into the habit of just whinging about whatever's in my mind and washing around in my emotions, as it tends to be self obsessed, but I guess this happens when you go for days on end without speaking to anyone. Maybe I should get myself a basket ball.

So why do I write this? I came up with a concept ages ago of 'emotional memory', the key here is that I don't have one, or at least, it's very weak. What I mean by 'emotional memory' (let's just call it EM) is remembering how I felt about different things, as opposed to facts and figures, languages, things to do and so on. My problem is that I can't remember how I felt in the past, for example why it was important for me to go out and meet people, so I don't do it, then when I do go out, all the memories come flooding back and I kick myself for not going out more. It's usually at this point that I forget what it's like to not want to step outside, to not 'get' what human contact is all about. As I write I realise that although my emotions tend to exist only in the present tense, my mind, my thoughts, my intellect are often racing ahead to worry about some potential future catastrophe, meaning that I find it hard to fully relax and enjoy my 'now'. Aside from being cruelly ironic, I'm sure there's a psychologist somewhere that can explain what's going on.

So, coming back, I write this as a record of my emotional state. Unfortunately because of my poor EM, when I'm feeling good I don't feel the need to write; can't remember why, and when I'm feeling down I don't see the point, or am paralysed with indecision and a failure of courage. Occasionally when I flip the coin and it lands on the edge I actually get something down. Is this where the phrase 'on edge' comes from? So today I am on edge. No, that doesn't feel accurate.

I think I'm just really, really bored.

Dear Diary

My word, yesterday I went out! I went shopping in town, to get stuff I've been meaning to get for ages. So I finally have a new pair of shoes (last pair bought in October), shirt, a couple of books, some fabric and part of my Godson's birthday present. I got home about 8pm, feeling tired. I was in bed by 10 and asleep by half past. A friend phoned up at midday today and woke me up. By 1pm I was feeling tired, so went back to bed and slept until 6. I'm quite good at sleeping. It's now quarter to eight and I'm beginning to flag.

I think I'll be able to get more done this week - my anger shackles seem to be a little looser, so let us see what happens.

Limbo

I'm caught between continuing my routine of sleeping and sleeping, and doing something constructive. Caught, as in stuck, paralysed. And I end up getting stressed and making no decision, which means I sleep. Everyone has their own reaction to stressful thoughts, feelings and situations; some redouble their efforts, some get violent, some turn to drink. I get tired. It's an unconscious reaction. Of course, it's down to me as to how I respond to the tiredness, whether I bat it away, or let it take hold and wash over me, let myself slip into a blissful doze, free of physicality, only limited by my imagination. The most healthy and useful reaction for me naturally, is to fight and come out the other side, get on with my life, but the one time when my moral compass is off, the one time when I make really poor decisions is when I'm tired. And when I wake up (I don't just mean being awake here) I always, without exception, regret having slept so long. Why didn't I just get up? Life would have been so much easier if I'd only got out of bed and say, gone to work, or failing that, called work to say I couldn't make it. But each time I fail to do the thing that is best for me. I'm stuck in a loop.

And I like it.

Courage, Merry

I think that's what's failing me. No courage, or the tiny amount of courage I have feels so brittle that I daren't test it or use it. Every task fills me with fear and anxiety. There are calls I have to make, letters I have to post and bills I have to pay. I have a working phone, envelopes and stamps and the funds to pay the bills, but... I... just... can't. I don't want to. So angry. Why am I still on my own after all this time?

Something from Lawrence Durrell's Justine, about a man who has lost his love:

"As soon as my work was finished I locked myself in my own room and crawled into bed... ...I was afflicted by a gradually increasing numbness, a mental apathy which made me shrink from contact. Once or twice I accompanied him for a walk along the river (he was a botanist) and heard him talk lightly and brilliantly on his own subject. But for my taste the landscape, its flatness, its unresponsiveness to the seasons had gone stale. The sun seemed to have scorched up my appetite for everything - food, company and even speech. I preferred to lie in bed staring at the ceiling and listening to the noises around me."

For me it's not a lost love, but the endless, thankless, soul crushing search that is withering me.