Loopy, Lonely and Lost

Posts Tagged ‘past

The past doesn’t seem real anymore. I think about events in my life and they strike me as things that happened to someone else.

I feel like I never went to uni. I talk about it, sometimes, about funny or interesting things that happened while I was there, about the people I knew, and it feels like a dream or a story someone once told me.

And really, I might as well have not gone, hadn’t I? I mean, I know that if I hadn’t, I would have regretted it. I would always be thinking, I could have done that – but I’d be wrong. I know that now. Four years of my life and I can hardly remember most of it, and I’m no longer in touch with the people I knew (what is it people say? The friends you make at university will last a lifetime), and I don’t even have a degree to show for it, letters I can put after my name as proof that I did something, proof that I was there. All I have is a gap in my employment history that to explain would mean to admit failure.

I feel like I’ve betrayed the person I used to be. I think of myself, all those years ago. All the aspirations I had. I was going to write books, or if that didn’t work out as quickly and as successfully as I hoped, I’d become a teacher. I was going to fall in love and be a mother. I was going to have a house of my own, and lots of friends. I was going to achieve something, even if I wasn’t quite sure what.

It’s stupid, isn’t it? Nothing in my life ever gave me any indication that I’d be able to do the things I dreamt of, and since dreaming them life has emphatically proven that I’m incapable.

In a way, I know that I’m being premature. Giving up too early. I’m 22 years old, and there’s still time for any or all of those things. But I can no longer see any of them happening, and I’m not even on the right path anymore. I know that, if this were a story, and I were the hero, I’d be more determined. I wouldn’t give up just because there were obstacles in my way. But it’s a long time since I’ve felt I’m the protagonist in this winding, plotless tale, and I’ve never felt like a hero.

I’ve never known how to try again. I’ve always been someone who tried once and then, on failing, quickly moved on, pretending the thing I’d tried for was worthless. If I fail once, I take it as a sign that I am neither capable nor deserving of success. And by that method I close every door, I cut off every path that’s available to me, and I stand in this same place, unable to move on.

I sit and wait, watching life trickle away, too quickly to change it but too slowly for comfort. I see my life as another thing I’ve tried to do, some task I’ve set myself to. And I failed, so all there is left to do is pretend it doesn’t matter and refuse to try again.

I’m not even sure any of that makes sense.

I don’t even really know how I feel, or what’s happening in my life.

I know that life at home is easy in all the ways that really matter – food on the table and a roof over my head, and I don’t have to worry about money. And I know that life at work is probably better than I had any right to hope for – not too taxing, relatively interesting, and surrounded by people I suppose I get on with.

But home is a struggle, always (and even back when I hoped to become a mother, I wonder if I’d ever be so selfish as to go through with it, knowing that there’s a chance I’d end up like my own, who sees her children as adversaries and inconveniences – lingering unpleasantnesses that she’d hoped to be free of long ago). And at work, there is too much time for chat, and it makes me uncomfortable. Already, I can see their puzzled glances. I’m never who I was the previous week. Everything I say and am seems to contradict everything they already know about me, and they have questions that I don’t know how to answer.

I sit in the dark and cry. I wake too early and fall asleep too late. The mask is in place permanently, and I have no time to be myself, to fall apart, without the fear of discovery. I’d call it a good thing, the enforced routine serving as a crude sketch of a life that maybe one day I will learn to live, but I feel myself becoming exhausted by pretense, and irritable with the people in whose presence I have to pretend.

I feel the weight that pushes down on my shoulders, and I see the walls that pen me in. I force a smile and carry on, and everything twists, and more parts of myself become irretrievable, and every day is another day I’ve lost forever, and another day I get to tick off in the excrutiatingly slow countdown to the end of my life.

It’s all I can do now, sit and wait, having neither the courage nor the energy to either end or change my life.

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Flux

Posted on: February 15, 2010

I can’t decide what to do.

One minute I’m thinking, best to do what people tell me to do. Go to the doctor. Go back to the mental health advisor. Talk, talk, talk. Leave uni. Go home. Be completely smothered. Keep trying to be okay.

The next I’m thinking, fuck that. I don’t need any help. Just shut up, get my head down. Quickly write a few essays, prove to everyone that I’m perfectly fine as I am.

The next I’m thinking, but I can’t. The only answer is to kill myself, because life is unbearable, and no amount of talking or pretending is going to stop that.

I’ve spent my whole life wishing I could turn back time. For as long as I can remember, I’ve been thinking, “if I could just rewind, I could do everything differently, and then life would be okay”. Thinking, “if I’d known this was how things would turn out, I wouldn’t have acted the way I did”, and desperately wishing there’d be some way to go back, to erase it all and start again.

Accepting that that’s not possible means dealing with the complete and utter mess that my life is now. It means dealing with the fact that I’m going to have to live with myself forever. And it’s fucking hard. I’m so excruciatingly embarrassed by everything I’ve ever said and done. I just want to scratch it all away, tear it all apart, screw it all up and throw it as far away from me as I can.

I look at my life and I can’t deal with it, and I don’t want it. I need to get away from it, I need to detach myself from it, but it’s not possible. I’m going to be carrying every humiliating word and action around with me for the rest of my life, and I’m going to be adding more and more to them and I hate it, I want everything to be erased, I want to start again, I want to be a blank page, a clean slate, a tabula rasa. But it’s just not fucking possible, and knowing that makes me want to tear myself to pieces and drown the past in blood.

The longer I live, the more I add to this ever-growing litany of humiliations.

I just want to cut myself free, but I don’t know how to without dying, and so much of the time I’m thinking it’s probably worth it. I can’t live, when living means being constantly suffocated by all the things I ever should, or even just could,  have done differently.

I can’t stop thinking about the person I used to be.

I know it’s stupid, and not particularly helpful. Maybe if I could forget what it was like to be happy then I could learn to accept that this is all there is now. But I hold on, so desperately, to these memories, because they are all I have left of my life. Read the rest of this entry »

A flash of history.

Look at then, look at now. Resist thinking in simple cause-and-effect. Resist wondering, regretting, blaming. What’s past is past, leave it alone. But it keeps coming back. In memory and in real life. History repeats itself. It’s the little things that linger. The everyday things.

It’s not a good story, but a true one. Read the rest of this entry »

It’s a beautiful day. Sunshine, light breeze, children playing in the street. The house is quiet, and almost empty. We have hedgehogs on our lawn.

I used to wish that all of my days were like this. Read the rest of this entry »


Hello

My name is Laura. I was once told that I have cyclothymia. This blog is mostly where I write about living as a person with extremes and instability of mood, and the history of a life that led to the development of those symptoms.

I complain a lot, I'm very repetitive, unreliable, and I tend to contradict myself.

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