Monday update:
*WARNING!*
I've just realised I sound like a fucking miserable cow in this entry so apologies. But I am at the moment and I can't help it.
Tuesday, 6.00am. The alarm goes off. And so my day begins
I drag myself out of bed after 10 minutes of mental coercion, repeating to myself that it is only four days left till the weekend. And eventually after forcing down the dread of the day ahead I get washed and switch on the news, to try and get ideas for the forthcoming morning, to be spent news writing.
No ideas appear.
Blinking back impending doom and the knowledge that my news editor will demand ideas and my chief reporter will scowl, I put on my uniform. It is not really a uniform but it feels like one because today I shall be wearing clothes that do nothing to express my personality, or even my self-worth. Today I am wearing a white blouse and plain black skirt with plain black tights and unfussy shoes. In these clothes I feel three feet high. My assertion and free will dissipate into the cool autumn air.
I go downstairs and make a coffee, strong and black, with one sugar to take away the bitter edge. It is not an enjoyable drink, but an essential one because I will need the energy and strength that only caffeine can provide at 6:45am. I gulp it down and attempt to eat two slices of toast. Feeling the sickness of anxiety brewing, I force down half a slice. This is an achievement. Normally I manage nothing, and remain empty until 12:00pm, where I am faint and even more anxious but still physically alive.
I leave my house at 7:20am and get in my car. I glance to check the door is shut, but it would make no difference in Hoole. The locals are too apathetic. Their snobbery would make them too proud to consider entering my house, which has an unappealing door and no parking space for any silver metallic 4 x 4.
I switch on the radio and listen to Chris Moyles. I would listen to a CD but the CD player has never worked properly and I have no time to have it fixed. I try not to let the inane chatter remove what few ideas are lodged in my brain, but to no avail. Anything good or happy has long gone, vanished into the ether like my days in Stoke. Those days were neither carefree or perfect but in my mind they appear so. At least I had someone to come home to or talk to there, even if it was just a housemate and not a lover, who could warm my bed and sooth my troubled early morning mind.
But it is no good to think these thoughts because I must now drive 16 miles to another day of walking on a knife-edge, of asking questions and receiving no answer but one that I cannot respond to in the way that I am required to. Knowing this I edge my car out of my street, down another hellishly narrow street where I fear I shall clip the wing mirror of an indignant residents car, and onto the main roundabout that shall take me to the place I dont want to go. Work. Third exit, take the A41 followed by the A55.
Except I dont take the third exit.
Instead I take the second exit, the one that leads to the A51 to Nantwich, which takes me onto the A500. To Staffordshire, to Stoke-on-Trent.
To escape.
On the A500 I check my dashboard clock and note that it is 8:05am. I should have been at work five minutes ago. My mobile phone starts ringing. The number is a familiar one, it is a work number. I ignore it and tell the caller to go and fuck themself. I turn up the volume of the radio. Mr Brightside by The Killers is playing, the song that reminds me of the person I am driving to meet. My heart lightens a lot as I sing along, and the song is quickly followed by another that I like at the moment, Rebellion (Lies) by the Arcade Fire. That song is so beautiful and delicately sad; the violins break my heart if Im not in a good mood when I listen to it. At the moment it is uplifting, because it reminds me of what Im leaving behind, and good riddance to it all, I say.
An hour after I made my decision I arrive in Stoke on Trent. I drive down a main road, until I reach a terrace house much like any other terrace house. I leave my car and knock on the door of the house. A man, taller than most other men youd see on an everyday basis, opens the door. He looks a little shocked at first, but then he breaks out into a smile as I fall into his arms. Any last lingering doubts tumble out of my mind as I find myself enveloped in his warmth. In my bag, the phone rings for the tenth time, and for the tenth time I ignore it. Halfway through, it stops ringing.
And I stop caring.
Monday 6:00am. The goes off. And so my day begins. It turns out Tuesday has been a dream.
In other news
*Im feeling a lot better about the whole me and Dave situation- were getting on really well as friends and I like it that way- no pressure on either of us and were laughing and talking about stuff like we used to
*Ive decided to see how it goes with Mark (my friend). So far weve been going out 2 weeks, and it appears to be going well. Hes supporting me through my current depressive state and Im doing my best to support him in finding a job.
*Im starting counselling on Tuesday in regards to my depression. Its a messy thing to do. I went through a course in 2001 but it did help in a cathartic way, so Im hoping it will again.
*The job? Im not sure. Some days its OK, others it isnt. All I know is Im not cut out to be a news reporter. A journalist, yes, (I love features writing, and work have started to notice Im good with human interest stuff), but not a reporter. The only thing currently getting me through it all is the fact that I will probably fuck off after my housing lease ends, which should be in February.
Hope everything is better for everyone else. And all the thanks in the world to everyone who gave me advice on my last entry- youre all stars! Its given me faith that there are a lot of good people in the world amongst the bad.
Laters.
*WARNING!*
I've just realised I sound like a fucking miserable cow in this entry so apologies. But I am at the moment and I can't help it.
Tuesday, 6.00am. The alarm goes off. And so my day begins
I drag myself out of bed after 10 minutes of mental coercion, repeating to myself that it is only four days left till the weekend. And eventually after forcing down the dread of the day ahead I get washed and switch on the news, to try and get ideas for the forthcoming morning, to be spent news writing.
No ideas appear.
Blinking back impending doom and the knowledge that my news editor will demand ideas and my chief reporter will scowl, I put on my uniform. It is not really a uniform but it feels like one because today I shall be wearing clothes that do nothing to express my personality, or even my self-worth. Today I am wearing a white blouse and plain black skirt with plain black tights and unfussy shoes. In these clothes I feel three feet high. My assertion and free will dissipate into the cool autumn air.
I go downstairs and make a coffee, strong and black, with one sugar to take away the bitter edge. It is not an enjoyable drink, but an essential one because I will need the energy and strength that only caffeine can provide at 6:45am. I gulp it down and attempt to eat two slices of toast. Feeling the sickness of anxiety brewing, I force down half a slice. This is an achievement. Normally I manage nothing, and remain empty until 12:00pm, where I am faint and even more anxious but still physically alive.
I leave my house at 7:20am and get in my car. I glance to check the door is shut, but it would make no difference in Hoole. The locals are too apathetic. Their snobbery would make them too proud to consider entering my house, which has an unappealing door and no parking space for any silver metallic 4 x 4.
I switch on the radio and listen to Chris Moyles. I would listen to a CD but the CD player has never worked properly and I have no time to have it fixed. I try not to let the inane chatter remove what few ideas are lodged in my brain, but to no avail. Anything good or happy has long gone, vanished into the ether like my days in Stoke. Those days were neither carefree or perfect but in my mind they appear so. At least I had someone to come home to or talk to there, even if it was just a housemate and not a lover, who could warm my bed and sooth my troubled early morning mind.
But it is no good to think these thoughts because I must now drive 16 miles to another day of walking on a knife-edge, of asking questions and receiving no answer but one that I cannot respond to in the way that I am required to. Knowing this I edge my car out of my street, down another hellishly narrow street where I fear I shall clip the wing mirror of an indignant residents car, and onto the main roundabout that shall take me to the place I dont want to go. Work. Third exit, take the A41 followed by the A55.
Except I dont take the third exit.
Instead I take the second exit, the one that leads to the A51 to Nantwich, which takes me onto the A500. To Staffordshire, to Stoke-on-Trent.
To escape.
On the A500 I check my dashboard clock and note that it is 8:05am. I should have been at work five minutes ago. My mobile phone starts ringing. The number is a familiar one, it is a work number. I ignore it and tell the caller to go and fuck themself. I turn up the volume of the radio. Mr Brightside by The Killers is playing, the song that reminds me of the person I am driving to meet. My heart lightens a lot as I sing along, and the song is quickly followed by another that I like at the moment, Rebellion (Lies) by the Arcade Fire. That song is so beautiful and delicately sad; the violins break my heart if Im not in a good mood when I listen to it. At the moment it is uplifting, because it reminds me of what Im leaving behind, and good riddance to it all, I say.
An hour after I made my decision I arrive in Stoke on Trent. I drive down a main road, until I reach a terrace house much like any other terrace house. I leave my car and knock on the door of the house. A man, taller than most other men youd see on an everyday basis, opens the door. He looks a little shocked at first, but then he breaks out into a smile as I fall into his arms. Any last lingering doubts tumble out of my mind as I find myself enveloped in his warmth. In my bag, the phone rings for the tenth time, and for the tenth time I ignore it. Halfway through, it stops ringing.
And I stop caring.
Monday 6:00am. The goes off. And so my day begins. It turns out Tuesday has been a dream.
In other news
*Im feeling a lot better about the whole me and Dave situation- were getting on really well as friends and I like it that way- no pressure on either of us and were laughing and talking about stuff like we used to
*Ive decided to see how it goes with Mark (my friend). So far weve been going out 2 weeks, and it appears to be going well. Hes supporting me through my current depressive state and Im doing my best to support him in finding a job.
*Im starting counselling on Tuesday in regards to my depression. Its a messy thing to do. I went through a course in 2001 but it did help in a cathartic way, so Im hoping it will again.
*The job? Im not sure. Some days its OK, others it isnt. All I know is Im not cut out to be a news reporter. A journalist, yes, (I love features writing, and work have started to notice Im good with human interest stuff), but not a reporter. The only thing currently getting me through it all is the fact that I will probably fuck off after my housing lease ends, which should be in February.
Hope everything is better for everyone else. And all the thanks in the world to everyone who gave me advice on my last entry- youre all stars! Its given me faith that there are a lot of good people in the world amongst the bad.
Laters.
VIEW 6 of 6 COMMENTS
the dream sounds like wishfull thinking, chris moyles never plays 2 good songs consecutivly
as for teh cd player, i can install you a new one for the price of the new player (i.e. you buy the head unit and i installe it for free)
hope work improves for you though and everything with your friends goes well
chin up hunny
*hug*!
AFA the council meeting goes - it balances out the fun stuff - if it was ALL fun then it wouldn't be - fun
And it's STILL a way-cool job
[Edited on Sep 28, 2005 12:59AM]