It’s strange, having your feet planted so firmly on the ground, then looking around to find the earth you stand on isn’t what you remember it to be. And I feel strange, unlike I’ve ever felt before. Both more solid and lighter than I can ever remember being.
I think we build up ideas of who we are and who we want to be, and it’s only a dream but we confuse it with the real. We build up a personality, a character, an ego out of our ideas about we are and who we want others to think we are. We form opinions and beliefs and ambitions, and clinging to the coat tails of these come regret, pride, hope. And this ego is only a dream but it’s a dream that explains away our world and our life; a storyline we cling to to make sense of the chaos of it all.
I think that when that self is threatened we feel pain, and we cling to it like a branch in a flood; and as it begins to break apart we grasp and lash and howl, believing we are in danger, believing we are disintegrating. But it’s only our selves, only our ego. It was only ever a dream; and in the dawn it’s less substantial than ash on the wind.
I wanted this life to be so different. It was never meant to be like this, it was meant to be PhD and research science and living in London with all my mates, it was meant to be material sucess because that’s what everyone else I know from uni has got, in their £40k+ careers and winter breaks to Dubai and honeymoons in Thailand. I was meant to be one of those gays whos fallen in love with Iceland and goes every year, with a boyfriend and a dog and a pub quiz and maybe an ocassional well managed chemsex habit on every third weekend of the month.
Not this. Not late 30s and living in my mum and dad’s attic, no career, a mess of a CV, no savings and over £10,000 gambling debts from a brutal bipolar episode which nearly killed me. Twice. Not living so far from my friends, lonely, working as a temp and getting minimum wage. My trainers are scratty and need replacing and I only have one pair of jeans – I can only afford one pair of jeans! I’m 37 FFS.
Last year I was howling. I was fucking howling as everything I’d worked for and tried for, all my hopes and everything I pinned any sense of pride or confidence or achievement to, it all crumbled around me and inside me and screaming I grasped for it, tears stinging my eyes as I clutched my face every morning, weeping, weeping in grief and shame and guilt at the ruin that I was becoming, this landscape all ash and grease, and hate.
I grasped and lashed and howled, believing my soul was in danger, believing my life was disintegrating. But it was only my ego, it was only ever a dream; only ash on the wind.
Snow’s falling, in the cold freshwater light of dawn.
I’m thinking of moving; I’d rather live in Manchester or London. I’ve been in Sheffield three years now – three years! Three years life on hold, three years psychiatric convalesece, three years not moving, just in limbo! Time to move on. Get on with life.
But it’s strange, having my feet planted so firmly on the ground, to look around and find the earth I stand on isn’t what I remember it to be.
I’m thinking of moving, because I’d rather live in Manchester or London. But I caught my breath the other day when I realised there’s nothing much between living here and living there.
I’ve got amazing friends who have seen me through so much and put up with so much, a family I love more than I can ever hope to say, and almost all the people I’ve ever loved are still living. I’m late 30s and living in my mum and dad’s attic, no career, a mess of a CV, no savings and over £10,000 gambling debts. And I think I’m one of the most contented people on this sad old earth.
Wherever I live, I’ll be standing on this earth with this life. And that’s fine. It has to be fine, because whatever will be will be, and the world doesn’t care for my desires; the world goes its own way.
I’ve had three major psychiatric incidents from my haywire brain and it’s nearly killed me, my god the last one sunk into a sickness deep in my soul and it so nearly killed me.
But it didn’t.
It only burned away all the illusions I held about who I am and what life is, what makes us who we are and what makes life worth living.
The only thing real is this, see? Not tomorrow and not yesterday, not the career and not the retirement plan, not the holiday or the qualifications or the pride, or the guilt. Only this, not the regret, not the aspiration, not their opinions or our fears. We only have here, now, this; this breath, this heartbeat, this moment. And even then, the instant we have it, it’s gone. Because the world doesn’t belong to us; we’re only moments.
I wish I could explain this better.
Cold light of dawn.