7th Feb

 Small improvements.

Not an entire write off, but still, alarmingly low down the spiral.

I've had a succession of days where my sleep is plagued by the most awful dreams. Deeply sad. I inevitably end up crying in them. Bah ha. Don't need a shrink to tell you what's going on there.

You seem sad.

Uh huh.

I have retreated into my core. Less inclined to talk. To chat. To air a thought. Just. Silence. What. Is the point.

This blog suffers the same fate. And this, to all intents and purposes, is mirror to my inner dialogue. Quiet. What's the point.

Hmm.

I had a moment of clarity a couple of days ago. The theory of everything. Everywhere. All at once. At least in terms of being human. A condensed simplified framework of why you are why you are, and who you are, and what life does to you. No great shakes, just, standing on the shoulders of giants. A dose of buddhism. A pinch of theology in general. Science. Evolution. Psych. And you arrive at the confused fearful ape that is us.

I don't have the energy to write it down at the moment. But it springs from the root truth that Life is Pain. No quibbling, no ifs buts or maybes. It is. And that a lot of what else then happens, springs from that. Or rather us dealing with that. Or rather. Us being incapable of dealing with that without trickery. It is, I am pretty damn sure, universal in the human condition. The curse side of the coin to the gift of our abstract self regarding consciousness.

Perhaps I will just let it fall through my fingers. Don't bother writing it down. Let it evaporate.

I spoke with my dad a whiles ago. I didn't record it in the blog. Ran out of energy. I spoke to him to say thanks for the birthday card he sent. I was surprised he did. But he did.

And the card was of someone actually living. Dealing with stuff. Getting in touch with themselves. A side of my dad I have not seen... well.. hardly ever.

He wrote something about being 50 on the outside of the envelope. And the card itself inside was wall to wall scraggly handwritten text. About how he was doing. The cold. This and that.

It was touching.

Not a description that you'd apply to my dad.

You could see who he was in that text. Just finding his way through stuff. He had taken the time to write it down and send it to me.

You'll get a very long way with me by doing such stuff. Be honest. Be open. Talk to me.

So I phoned him up. And we had a nice chat. Well. He talked at me. I nodded along. He sounded good. Old. Scatter brained. But good. His eyes were up looking to the horizon, not down at his feet. He wasn't in denial. Mom got mentioned a few times. In a good way. We talked about his plans. What he had done. What he had got up to. Of course I wasn't mentioned. A grazing pass at how are you doing, before we quickly moved back to talking about him. He cannot deal at all with other people and the bad things that happen. He shuts down. Talks about himself. It's fine. ( but also, if you want to see the history of the epic gulf of no support, then, you can start right there - no help, no relief, no advice, just an emptiness where a parent should be ). In any event. I was just kinda happy he seemed to be doing better.

It was nice. The most well balanced I have heard him in a long time. A bit more human. A bit less of an ass.

Ho hum.

I was glad I talked to him. I felt sorry for him. He was in good spirits. But still. I felt sorry for him.

He has had an entire change of heart about money.

He said it made him feel good to give it away. Help people out.

This is 100% the opposite of my dad throughout his life.

I said he should make sure he looked after himself. Build himself a sauna. A pool. Tongue in cheek. But the point was, don't worry about the money, just look after yourself. But he said it made him feel better.

And I know. The anxiety of too much money fucks him up nowadays. He lives in - very reasonable - fear of being scammed for it. The less money he has, the better he feels anxiety wise. He has all he needs, wants for nothing. Beyond that. It gives him anxiety.

Funny isn't it, how life works out.

Spent all his life hoarding money. Being selfish about it. Using it to prove himself. Fighting about it.

Even when mom was alive, still scared of losing it, hoarding it.

And now, when all is said and done.

He finds it doesn't give him any joy. Just anxiety.

And he feels better giving it away.

He has been on a very long journey with that one. His experiences and upbringing put that demon on his back and it rode him for all his life. At the very end, he learns a lesson about it all. What was wrong.

I think in no small part if comes down to the last few year, the stresses and strains. That everyone helped to see mom be ok. That no one was after his money. And when he acted like an ass, everyone distanced themselves. And no one took his money. In the end. No doubt helped along by solitude and plenty of time to reflect. You realise, these people are not out to hurt me. They have helped.

Still. Always a prickly bugger. And prone to the most destructive behaviour if he thinks he was sleighted. So. Who knows.

But nevertheless.

The old man has softened somewhat. Lost one of the demons on his back. And feels better for it.

Who knew.

No man is an island after all, apparently. The prospect of being an island, exiled, is perhaps uniquely sobering.