January

It is 3 am on a Monday morning, but it is still my Sunday night.

I have been more or less living in my bed for the last week or so, apart from leaving the house twice, I get up only to go to the bathroom or occasionally fetch something to eat or fetch a drink of water.

I have been sleeping; Lots. I feel jaded, overwhelmed by the simplest task, heavy.. of heart and mind.

I am questioning my own reality, how solid the world is, that existence is. I feel like I am morphing in and out of black holes. I am on the brink of a spiritual and mental revolution, or a personal tsunami where I am stripped of everything that I am certain of.

Politics are wearing me thin, the world is toxic and spiteful, there are too many disasters and recklessness from men who do not care for anything other than greed and their own pull of power, they are all tugging their corners of the carpet of the earth and they are not afraid to destroy it.

I am sedating myself with television programmes and movies, reading lightweight fiction and dosing myself with the occasional pain killer just to take the edge off, to create a fuzz, to confirm a physical illness exists instead of just a weakness of the brain.

I stink; really bad. I haven’t washed for over a week and I went to two exercise classes last week. They were obligatory, I am helping a friend launch her business and I attended and did my duty and upon my return I got back into bed, exhausted. There was no usual exercise high, no ‘better for seeing people’ or feeling any sense of achievement, just relief that it was over; and dread for having to attend again next week.

And he still loves me. He brings me food and cuddles and soothing words. He offers me a shoulder to cry on, an olive branch that can be relied upon, gentle reminders that I have someone to talk to, he is stronger than me, in all my love for him I know I could not be that same support that he is to me. He is consistent and patient. He strokes my hair and brings me silent affection and trickles of encouragement, just enough that I do not feel pressured or over whelmed. He is a hammock, thought I  entrusting the weight of my world  on something seemingly flimsy, he is there, bearing the weight of it; the trees, the mesh and the gentle breeze. He compliments me, not glibly, not out of kindness or duty but because he sees me.

Underneath it all, he still sees me. Even when I cannot find myself, towering above a stormy sea spliced with jagged rocks, he sees my beacon of light and rather than swerve to avoid the dangerous ground that I am stood upon, he boldly, gracefully, makes his way towards me, neither martyr nor mother, but the gentlest soul I know, ever loving, ever calming, ever here.

I am astonished, humbled. I have been told to be careful of too willing partners, of co-dependency, warned of placing all of my hopes in one place, metaphors of eggs in baskets and cliches of blinding love and white knight and helpless princess syndrome.

But here he is and here I am and he loves me.

I have tried, intoxicated with my own putrid self loathing, to push him away, to block him out, thought of schemes to test him, adorned a cloak of selfishness, but I cannot commit to these fully because I have worn this path down before with lesser partners and I know that it is the last act of a desperate soul on a sinking ship, trying to convince the one he loves to take the only lifebelt; sacrificing myself so I can crawl to the corner and die, so that I can spare them and prove to myself that I am not worth the trouble, that I am un-savable and unlovable.

I have convinced myself that I respect him less because he is some sort of push over, that he has not given up on me and is blinded with a need to be needed, that he wants to keep me here in this place so that he can kind find purpose and so I cannot rise to wellness lest I over shadow his own beauty.

But he looks at me and his eyes sparkle, he looks at me the same way as when I have dressed for an occasion, all make up and sparkle and jewellery and smiles. And I see truth in those eyes. I try to squeeze out an emotion, most of the time, and yet here I am, faced with the most beautiful man in the world and he is doting, asking nothing from me and leaving me enough space to work through this. He does not enable, but he reminds me that I am not alone in this world, or indeed this void, that my life is sometimes pulled into.

And I cannot say that I have ever pleaded for a hero or for a saviour and I share my weakness with no one but the four walls, but he lets me be this, I don’t have to pretend, I don’t have to be anything for him, but he will not let me become nothing at all.  He places value on me when I am fit for nothing and no one. He is my back bone, my organ donor if the organ is a wounded spirit or addled brain, he is a surrogate for my broken heart, he grows me new hope, plants a seed and nurtures it to full growth, even when I turn away from it and will it to shrivel up.  Plants like to be talked to, it gives them the air it needs to help them grow. So if I become rooted to the cesspit of my bed or I become part vegetable, he still talks to me, a breath of fresh air, his whispers ripple across my naked vulnerability and it tickles me gently, enough for my senses to be awakened and the tiny hairs reach up to reassure me that I am still alive. and where there is life, there is hope.

I assume that he is mad of course, that he is sucked in by false sense of who I am. At times I become suspicious, that maybe he needs me this way, that it helps him to thrive, that he feeds off my weakness and it somehow makes him stronger, but then I am reminded of his own vulnerability, that his empathy reaches every being that he comes into contact with, he is forever helping where he can, he does not seek it, he merely sees it where others would walk by or turn the other cheek. For him, the other cheek holds as many tears and it would be dishonest of him to pretend to be anything other than warm of heart, it is effortless, but not compulsive.

I feel apocalyptic waves lapping at humanities feet and I cannot save it, nor should I try. Perhaps I am giving in to that, perhaps I am a new kind of crazy, perhaps there is something dark waiting for me, perhaps I have carried it with me all along and it is revealing itself to me only now, at my weakest point, perhaps it is feeding off me, draining me before filling me up with something more toxic. Am I building walls as flood barriers, to keep something out, or to hold something in.

I am a control freak with no control and I am spiralling… the danger is that if I fold too tightly in on myself, before it snaps and I unwind like a fire cracker, in the limitless outside world where I can do some real damage. Am I normal? I am not questioning things on a philosophical level, I am realising that I am believing in things that I am not acting on in everyday life, that I have been trying to convince myself of this wisdom where they are not yet true for me. Am I losing it or finding it? Mentally purging to make way for more, is my brain so full because it is expanding, because I am waking up or is it shrinking, like the walls closing in on me, am I expanding my knowledge and finding myself or am I dying.

Is this killing me or am I killing myself. If I type kill yourself, is it me or is it a part of me that wants to actually kill myself, am I making choices here or a victim of circumstance, why is my brain firing on all cylinders, do I need to do more, use my mental energy more, am I am genius or a fool, an intellect or an imbecile, am I shockingly average and that is what is leaving me feeling empty, I am losing my dreams and grandiose hopes and fantasies. Am I losing hope or just hours of my life.

I dream every night, a side effect of medication and my overly imaginative brain, which has always plagued me, long before I had tv to kill my brain with. I dream similar dreams, always of breaking my sobriety, of having ruined my life and plaguing the life of others, with my chaotic, destructive drinking. I wake up, feeling some sense of relief, but always with The Thirst,the longing doesn’t last for long and it is far away, a fantasy of liquor being the answer to all of my dreams, some exotic mistress that I will never be able to obtain, let alone tame.

Last night I dreamt of heartbreak and a vicious jealousy and of disappointing my mother, always we have shared the same heart, and although I know there are no favourites among offspring, I am her spare organ, the one who took away a bigger piece of her than the others did. She has never been overly demanding, or lacking in caring, perhaps, in the dreams where I am losing her, to my drinking, she is a symbol, a sign that I am losing the biggest part of myself, my centre, my anchor.

And I dream of losing my partner, I cannot find him, he has just left or disappeared, sometimes I have cheated on him, he has given up on me. I wake up chasing him in the night, not metaphorically or in the dream realm, when he turns over in bed I follow him, I cling to him and his warm contours, his familiar soothing scent, his reassuring breath.  Perhaps the dreams are playing out my own fears, perhaps they are reminding me to stir in my sleep, to follow him, to cling to him as the last piece of driftwood before dry land.

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