It’s 2018… I think. I’m sat on the hospital bed waiting for the mental health team following blood results. I was finally allowed to eat again. My pal who had trekked across the borough came armed with a giant bag of pickled onion space raiders. We begin the spreadsheet “reasons to stay alive”. ‘Try new crisp flavours’ was the first entry.
I haven’t written here in many months. I’ve wanted to but there hasn’t been much to say. My mind has been slowly dwindling away. Once again, I settled for dregs and tolerated unimaginable shit beyond what was reasonable. Martyring myself. Withstanding the undignified fucking decline of my sense of worth, my confidence and my hope for the future. I lost myself trying to assimilate into systems that are broken beyond repair, around people who thrive on the discontentment of others, and in spaces that bred toxicity all of which consumed my every being. I didn’t want to be here anymore.
When you think it couldn’t be get any worse, it does. Another redundancy. Another year+ long waiting list. A scalping. Trauma. Housebound for 6 weeks.
And when you think it couldn’t get better, it does. A new job. A new home. Kindness. Friendship. Love. Care. Acceptance.
I’ve recently returned from a 5 day trip in Sweden. A shock to the system after months of convalescence. In that short time I explored it all. From the creatures moving beneath my feet on the sea bed, to scrambling up rock faces to the vantage point. I surveyed the world from perspectives beyond the limitation of 4 walls and a bed. Beyond the grey town where all hope dies. I experienced new life in the starfish, crabs, jackdaws and butterflies. The sun. The sky. The sea.
I have this awful habit of living inside my head. I spend so much time in there, I rarely leave to experience reality. I suppose it’s a coping mechanism from within the comfort of a safe space. Blessed with an active imagination as protection against the brutality of life. Shielded from the disappointment and the pressure of tolerating shit beyond reasonable expectation. It’s exhausting and ultimately a product of the environment I’m in. But when I do venture out, I realise the restrictions of my mind and the reinforcement of negative environments I create for myself.
I’d forgotten starfish and crabs existed. I’d realised the feeling of sand wasn’t too unbearable. That seaweed was thermal. That if you speak politely to insects instead of telling them to fuck off, they tend to leave you alone. How morning coffee in the fresh air looking towards the horizon sets you up nicely. And that crisps and dips taste better after a full day of movement, exploration and laughter.
These are experiences you can’t imagine from within 4 walls and a bed. As lucid as the imagination can be, you cannot recreate the viscerality of life from within a chamber. You cannot intellectualise the sensation of cold water hitting your armpits, or the wind against your sweaty brow after a clumsy climb.
You also can’t replicate the novelty of natural chaos. Like being sat on the bus next to a man with a nosebleed and having the tissues to help him out. You can’t imagine strangers greeting you with smiling eyes as they approach your table for a spare chair in a language you don’t understand. Or overhearing the conversations you do understand that amuse you, because they are so mundane yet profoundly human.
“Bombay Sapphire is €9. Is that the same as pounds?”
The irony is that I’m writing this from the bed as I build up the strength post-travel malaise to tackle decluttering ahead of the house move. But the difference being is that I’m finally finishing something I started writing a few weeks ago. I suppose it’s not wasted time. I’m grateful to have been granted the clarity to articulate my human experience having existed within life limiting constraints for slightly too long again. To stretch out the writing muscles. To take stock and decompress. Every time I have these trips I vow to change things for the better in some hapless optimistic attempt having seen a glimpse of possibility. This usually doesn’t last long no matter how pure the intention.
However, I’ve finally realised that the environments I’m in aren’t conducive for change and possibility. It isn’t a question of discipline or intention. And it’s likely I’ve always known, but not without martyring myself into shameful assimilation. That these places are built to purposely hold us within chambers because they don’t and can’t tolerate expansion. Survival is no longer sustainable here. So I shrunk myself and lived inside my head because I had long outgrown the habitat. It’s no wonder I didn’t want to be here anymore. I’m happy to report that I haven’t had those thoughts in a small while.
So here’s to a new chapter and reasons to stay alive:
New home. New job. New people.
Skinny dips. Rock scrambles. Cold beers on the beach.
Sunrises. Sunsets. New crisp flavours.