[Hmm. This one is a touch different. The others I have tried to pull out because they have some kind of progressive value inside. This one is a touch different. For a start, it’s miserable as fuck. But I think it’s worth posting here for one main reason: in the hope that I actually remember it. A consistent, repeated peculiarity (or thing-I-imagine-is-a-peculiarity) is that I don’t remember emotive states other than the one I am in. Or I do, but only to a very limited extent. This is a fairly influential thing on my day-to-day being, but one that you (and I) wouldn’t even notice, unless we are having a specific kind of conversation – and that kind of conversation does not happen all that often. So it floats by as something that is rarely drawn attention to. Which, obviously, is part of the issue. Not only do I forget that I don’t remember past emotional states/events/anything at all, but I also forget that I forget. It’s pretty much half the shit that Orwell writes about in 1984.  One thing that has proved (more) effective is, essentially, having an external memory bank to draw on. In my case it’s a person, who I frequently use as a touchstone. If I’m unsure how reasonable I’m being, or if I suspect I might have forgotten an emotive event, I will check in to ask. In a similar manner, writing forms a part of that too. If I can read something I wrote at a certain time, I can get an element of my state at that time. It’s not very reliable, at all. But it feels like something that should be reinforced.

This entry then, is from 01/03/2016. Relevantly, that’s less than a month after I started my new job (which is now my previous) job. This becomes very important, because while I technically know that the last year has been fairly shit on a job level, I have very little insight as to why, without really really really thinking about it. Because I have forgotten. In fact, the main reason I know this year has been horrendously sucky (on a personal level) is that I have memories of getting annoyed that I was spending a lot of time being frustrated, in conversation with my touchstone. Let that sink in for a second. I have less of a memory for the bad-time itself, that I do for the fact that I have been annoyed by me spending/wasting a lot of someone’s time about that bad-time.

So it came as a genuine surprise to me to find this bit of writing. Because I have no recollection of writing it. And had I not come across it, I would have no personal recollection that this happened, and felt that bad. On reading it, I unarguably did.

It gives me some important context, because I know (in main thanks to the other people I have told, who have repeatedly reminded me) that I have felt in a similar state with regard my work for…almost 8 months? And self-pity aside, that feels important.]

Beat up beat down. It’s stunningly, overwhelmingly easy to lose your adventure, to lose your excitement. Fuck knows what it’s like if you have dependants. I mean, sleep, work, rest. I technically have about 5-6 hours of a day ‘free’. Which is quite a lot. Except shopping. Except chasing housing repairs. Except laundry. Except I need to rest, to just stop, because I am not nearly as solid as people who don’t know me think I am. This last step is also where I go wrong, because lethargy is addictive. Laying about for an hour will always mean you want to do it for another hour. And that’s bullshit.

On the switch, maybe I need to get over the idea of having ‘me time’, or alternatively, I need to change what ‘me time’ means. Currently, ‘me time’ means, basically, doing not a lot. Watching tv, or playing a game, or surfing the net. Maybe that needs to change to ‘me time’ still being something I do alone, but something productive. Like, for instance, writing.

Or quite possibly, I need to drastically loosen my grip on quantifying things. I honestly don’t know. But I do know I haven’t done much/any ‘real’ writing or singing or scripting or…anything, in the last month, since moving here. I have legitimate reasons for much of that (Caro being here for almost 3 weeks, no space, no quiet, things going wrong, no internet) but still.

Hmm. Something I do need to do is capitalise on my weekends a lot more. Last weekend was, pretty much in it’s entirety, a veg-out. I need to use that time better.

Sketchpad ideas:

  • set in sci-fi future (maybe 100 years in future) from the viewpoint of a writer, trying to write a book of alternate history set in the now (e.g. 2015). Full of small mistakes (as would be expected when a foreigner tries to inhabit another culture).


It’s hard to describe emotional tiredness, let alone emotional exhaustion. It’s closely tied to mental exhaustion as a whole, and in all probability to physical exhaustion to a reasonable extent. It’s possible that, really, I am just saying the same thing three times. But how do you describe [edit: clearly I meant to come back to something there here, but a new point grabbed my attention. This happens a lot.]

How do I? I am not, I don’t think, clinically depressed any more. It took around four years to get here, from admission (and subsequent diagnosis) to ‘cure’. But I still don’t feel…that different? This is unhelpful, because right now I’m feeling exhausted and a bit aimless and a bit lost, and quite trapped. In the last month I’ve gotten a lot better with mentally coping with the noise around here. For a week it drove me to serious anxiety. In the last two weeks it’s been frequently kind of annoying, but not really a problem. But, as has been well observed by Caroline, how much certain noises upset me is very closely linked to my mental state. A sound might go unnoticed on a good day, but if I am already feeling anxious and vulnerable, that same sound might drive me to crying and panic-behaviours.

So yes. It’s hard to describe feeling emotionally drained, without just listing exactly what is happening and what triggered it – which is a very different thing. Telling you that a sound is upsetting me doesn’t tell you how it makes me feel. And of course, if I’m anxious, I’m probably not totally exhausted.

I still have vague, piecemeal memories of the week I had about three years ago, where through (we think) a combination of illness (like a bug), longstanding suicidal depression/anxiety, and the fact that I’d desperately been trying to work in a job that pushed pretty much every stressor-button I have, there was a week that still makes me tremble when I think about it. There was a week (or at least several days, again I don’t remember very well) when I was so ill that I couldn’t speak. I literally couldn’t make sentences. I had the physical ability to do so – the parts were all still working, but by my brain was so, so exhausted that I quite truly didn’t have the resources to figure out how to translate base-trigger desires into words, translate those words into a sentence that would makes sense to someone else, and then operate all the machinery that would make that mental shape into a physically articulated sentence. I have a lot of fears. I have some that still make me recoil, or shake, or feel like I have to run. I don’t know if I have many fears that are greater than “be like that again”.

I hate this house. My room is attached to the main hall, and next to the kitchen. The walls are thin and made of plasterboard. So is the ceiling. There are no carpets in most of the house. I hear every door opening or closing, I hear every footstep, I hear it every time the fridge opens. The fridge is in the hall. And these sounds are loud. They are not at the edge of hearing. They are not faint. They are clear and defined. The person could well be in the room, it would sound the same.

I hate this house. I just want to have somewhere quiet. There are days where I quite seriously begin to consider just running away. Take a backpack, take my passport (which expires soon, don’t forget), and leaving.

But I can’t do it. For the same reason I couldn’t kill myself, and still can’t.

I can’t hurt the people I love. I can’t do that to them. I am trapped here. Held on the end of invisible ropes that are made only by me.

I get scared when I get like this. I don’t want to be depressed again. If this doesn’t pass in about a week, I might have to talk to someone about it.

I don’t even have the energy to be angry about this house. I want to rage and swear and be entertainingly dramatic. But I don’t have it in me.


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