There are moments when I have a flash of inspiration, and I feel that now would be the time to write, or to pick up the guitar. I get distracted too easily, whether it’s celebrating not feeling shit by drinking so much I feel shit the next day, or something trivial like falling in love. Bit rubbish, really.
So, I am currently without the spark that would drive me to writing a decent update.
I have lots to say, there’s certainly a lot going on up top at the moment (points to brain). Not really able to put it into words at the moment.
Perhaps I will soon.
Well, yesterday’s post was a bit heavy, wasn’t it?
I apologise for that, sometimes I just need to blurt things out. It is a blog, after all. Yes, I also know that my grammar is not perfect.
Today will be a test, as I am about to embark on a period of drink and drugs abstinence. Wish me luck!
The first two nights are always the worst… Restless leg syndrome. Ugh.
So, two reasons why I haven’t decided to see what’s on the other side yet.
The first one? Kids. Dammit. Having had members of my own family and close friends decide that this life is not for them I’m currently of the opinion it’d be an awful thing to put other people through. I’m sure not everyone thinks I’m a cunt. Chortle, etc.
Secondly I’m absolutely terrified of the moment just before you die, and I’d quite like to avoid that for as long as possible.
Avoiding confrontation has been an art I’ve been steadfastly mastering over the years, you see.
I should have had kids earlier… Spent too much time in my early married years drinking and doing the other stuff one associates with that sort of lifestyle. There’s a good 15 out of the previous 20 years that I don’t really remember much of. By time I’m 70 (assuming I actually get there) my eldest will be only 31. Fucking hell. I’m an “old Dad”. I used to be the youngest of my peer group, ffs.
I think the drink-and-pills-in-a-car-with-the-hosepipe-from-exhaust would be the preferred method, for those of you who were going to ask. Falling asleep whilst off your mash has always been something I enjoyed, and still do to this day when I can convince my doctor to give me more tramadol. Damn that rugby injury.
Someone who I listen to on the radio a lot said something that rings true, at least with me. Being suicidal, thinking about suicide doesn’t always mean that you’re going to do it. You can have suicidal thoughts without necessarily being a danger to yourself OR THOSE AROUND YOU.
Something important… If you are on that train and pulling into FUCKIT town, speak to these people. They’ve helped me, a lot.
I promise that my next blog post will either be hilariously funny or rock n roll.
The journey began began somewhere between 1972 and 1974, I think.
I was in the middle of pretending that I was telling a secret. I’m not sure why, I can’t remember, as it happened when I was at primary school and I was very young.
How do you pretend to tell a secret? Well, I pretended to whisper into a friend’s ear, making a pretend whispering in the ear sound effect.
I recognised then that it was odd behaviour. The friend who I was pretending to whisper to apparently thought the same.
So there you go. My first memory of embarrassment. I distinctly remember not understanding why I wasn’t being understood, and that, dear reader, was the beginning of my journey.
It wasn’t my first memory, though.
My first memory was when I was still in a push-chair and my father had pushed me in to the middle of a frozen lake in winter.
My mum was not best pleased.
My next earliest memory was dangling upside-down and being whacked in the small of my back by my father because I bit a glass of Coke in a beer garden and it shattered in my mouth.
I’ll share more memories and thoughts of my journey, when I feel like it.