Pathetic but true.

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Earlier this week…
I’ve been a bit quiet lately. Sunk into a mood that I prefer to try to keep to myself. How often can I write about these things, until even I am bored to hear about it, over and over again. Although maybe the words are just tumbling about in the small window of my mind, and I need to get it out. It. I cannot really even define it.

When I was a teenager, one of my favourite books was The Wizard of Earthsea by Ursula Le Guin. About the young Sparrowhawk, who, with so much promise, in a moment of pride unleashes a darkness upon the world, which he then spends the rest of his life chasing, trying to control it again. Even at 12 or 13 I understood my potential for darkness. Although I think my darkness threatens only myself, turned inwards. And here I am, broaching 37, and I still haven’t managed to wrestle my darkness. In the dark of night, it sits on my chest and teases the soft of my neck with its razor-sharp talons.

Even saying the words in my head makes me feel that I need to hide them away. That they’re shameful. "I am unhappy" What’s the matter with you? What’s wrong with you? You must be faulty. You must be damaged. You must be responsible for your own unhappiness. Just be happy!

And yet happiness seems as unnatural to me as… I can slip it on as a temporary mask for a phone call or a drink with an acquaintance. But I make sure I hide away ‘it’ from those around me (and make sure I don’t see them too often) because noone wants to be around a miserable person. My misery is my responsibility.

Tonight…

I haven’t had the notebook out all week. It’s been as though my whole concentration has been on surviving at work, not stuffing up, keeping up a cheerful disposition, not getting caught up in my own irritation.

Last week wasn’t an easy week. The anniversary that would have celebrated my 9th year, if the marriage had survived. A phone call out of the blue from the ex, not to acknowledge the above, but to ask about ABNs (Australian Business Numbers, tax stuff). After five months of no contact. Initially it was a message on the machine. It was unexpected and I admit I was irritated. I’d resigned myself to not hearing from him and was comfortable with it. Another message flashed the following day, and I knew I had to call him back. It was a harmless conversation. Pleasantries were exchanged. A token interest is each other’s welfare. But I find it so unsettling. It simply brings home to me how far I haven’t moved, how boring and static my life is. I wish I could find a new life and get on with it. But I seem to be stuck with this one. The feeling was simply compounded by going back to work in the studio. In six months I haven’t done anything, met anyone, or in anyway improved my lot in life. In fact, I’ve simply slipped back. And being back in the studio reminded me of my friend Amy. A while ago I wrote how frustrated I was getting that she was arranging to meet me and then not following through. Three weekends in a row she cancelled at the last moment. Or simply was out of contact so meeting times couldn’t be confirmed. And when we finally did arrange a get together with some other mutual friends, I travelled two hours to get into to town to see her, only to hear that she had a dentist appointment and wouldn’t be there. Except that she told me the following night (online) that she hadn’t gone because she knew I’d be there and she thought I was cross with her. Well, yes, I was frustrated, but I thought it was obvious I wanted to see her by the effort I was making to get into town. Anyway, she didn’t think I had any right to be upset, as she was going through ‘stuff’ (yes she is going through a difficult time, and had been for the last six months, and I acknowledge that.) Anyway, at the time I was going through a bit of ‘stuff’ of my own, so I just decided to stop putting in the effort to see her. And she didn’t bother contacting me.

Last week she came into town and had lunch and drinks on different days with our mutual friends, and I wasn’t invited ono either occasion, so I guess I’m officially wiped. I’m in good company. I put in a lot of effort to get her talking to some of our other friends in the past, after she had misunderstood something and taken it as a slight. Oh, the irony. It all makes me sad. But there you go. I’m obviously completely retarded at personal relationships, and that’s why I’m alone and lonely and becoming increasingly depressed and bitter, which of course is terribly unpleasant to be around, making me more isolated, making me more depressed and bitter.

To the world I joke and smile and get on just fine on my pat malone. But to you, I’ll rant and scream and cry out the unsaid words.

I am sad. And I am lonely.