As January trundles toward its inevitable conclusion, I continue to slip further into the abyss. My days have taken on a heart-crushing routine of monotonous tedium (wake up-housework-kill time-cry-go to bed) whilst my nights have – once again – become feeding grounds for heart-stopping nightmares and the ghosts of lives long past.
In fact, more and more over the last few days my mind has become drawn to a piece of research that was conducted by the Young and Well Cooperative Research Centre last year. Their national survey found that almost 20 percent of young men thought that life was not worth living; which, even though I’m no longer the youthful Adonis I once was, is something I can completely relate to.
For nearly seven years, ever since I became homeless, my life has been about one thing; survival, and even though I’ve been housed for nearly two years, this continues to be the only thing that defines my existence. I survived Christmas. I survived my various anniversaries. I survived a particularly difficult weekend. I survived the trip to the overcrowded supermarket. In fact, my life seems to have become a series of ordeals for me to struggle through, rather than a cascade of experiences for me to relish.
Despite my best laid plans, the only thing I can foresee in my future is more of the same; more survival, more monotony, more misery.
Perhaps I’m just in a dark place at the moment. Perhaps it’s all just a byproduct of my current bipolar induced malaise. Perhaps in a few weeks I’ll have lifted myself from the darkness and once again see something about ‘life’ that makes it worth living. But right now, I see nothing but sadness and melancholy in my future.
For weeks now I’ve been acutely aware of my continued isolation. I miss having people to talk to, to bounce ideas off, to seek inspiration and joy from. I miss larking around in parks on warm summer’s days and curling up in front of a movie with a shared bowl of popcorn.
Even though its therapeutic effects are often downplayed, especially when it comes to mental health, I miss the intimacy of being with someone. I miss caressing my hands over backs, breasts and buttocks. I miss long, tender kisses and even longer, sometimes athletic, intercourse.
Life is nothing but bitter emptiness when you are by yourself. Humans are, by nature, social creatures. We don’t just crave the company and closeness of others; we need it to sustain ourselves.
I’ve also noticed a growing sense of homesickness creeping into my ‘life’ over the last several weeks. At first I thought it was merely a side-effect of the Christmas period; the annual yearning for cold winter days, fresh snowfalls and that glorious, endless night. But it’s more than that. I’m not just craving the winter, but the cultural, geographical and social aspects of my once home-country.
I miss meandering around London, losing myself to the many backstreets and galleries of the city before catching a West End play to while away the evening. I miss chilling with my family; challenging ourselves with a television quiz show as we sip on cups of tea and nibble on Digestive biscuits. I miss the British Press, television stations and music industry. Hell, I’m even missing Bill Oddie and Paul Schofield!
Although I love this sun-burnt country, I can’t shake the fact that it feels like something is missing. Not a place or a person but a part of me that I can’t define. This is home, but at the same time, it’s not home.
I don’t know.
With everything that’s going on at the moment. With all the flashbacks, internet chaos, homesickness, nightmares and the always present, always destructive loneliness, it’s no wonder I’m feeling crap at the moment. But like I said before, perhaps it is something that will correct itself in time, perhaps it is just a product of the endless mood cycles that bipolar throws at me.
Either way, I’m sorry I haven’t been around much and I’m sorry this is yet another self-obsessed whinge.
Hopefully normal service will resume shortly…for I really don’t like feeling the way I do at the moment.