Sep 23

 It's early. Or late. Depending on your point of view. I can't sleep. Again. My sleep is all kinds of fucked up at the moment. Often I can't sleep, my brain ticks over, full of haunting thoughts. And then when I do sleep. I don't wake up. Don't want to wake up. And I'm incredibly slow to warm up. 

So I've got up. Rather than lie there head filled up with thoughts. The feel of Athena's last nibble on my fingers as she took a treat. The bits of her that are fading away from me. She is slipping away. Fragment by fragment. Appalling.

My thoughts turn to when I moved into this house. The better part of 25 years ago. I was anxious moving into this house. Alone. I felt out of place and not at all confident like I thought an adult should be moving into a new home. It was weird and jarring. But I just got on with it. As you do. With so much in life. Grit your teeth. Push down the anxiety. Stick a smile on your face.

My parents helped me move. One of the few times they actually unrestrictedly helped me. A supreme rarity. Of course it was tricky. My old man in particular was an ass. He was getting older and less capable. And his frustration at not being able to do shit ended up being aimed at me. I sat and took it. What else can you do.

I think the few days they were here we all slept on the floor. But maybe I am misremembering it. I cannot imagine my infirm parents sleeping on the floor. But I suspect we did. And the house was freezing. Huddled into a single back room - the only one with carpet.

I think at most they stayed a couple of days. A weekend perhaps. It wasn't long. And then I was on my own.

I can remember the house giving me serious anxiety. Particularly at night. I felt very ill at ease. Unsafe.

During that early period, no bed, no nothing, I took to sleeping in the smallest room in the house - the box room - holing up with a computer and shutting the door out of anxiety. Literally squeezing myself into the smallest space and then bolting the door against the rest of the house. It felt a bit safer like that. The rest of the house felt too large, too empty and too full of shadows. And I would warily look at the closed box room door. Alert for it opening, the house come to eat me.

The kitchen in particular spooked me at night. I always had the feeling that something was watching me when I was in the kitchen. Through the inky dark blank windows that had no blinds or curtains. It was creepy.

That persisted for quite some time. I got to be comfortable in the box room, hilariously a whole house to move around in, but choosing just to spend all my time holed up in the smallest space. It was warm in there once the door was closed and the computer was on. And in the glow of the monitor everything outside faded away. Lost in the ether. Even back then reality, outside of the ether, was a harder ask for me. Harsher. Scarier. Less comfortable. I didn't really realise it at the time. But this was proper anxiety stalking me. Now in hindsight, I can see it for what it was.

Things moved on, slowly I got furniture for the house. A bed. A sofa. Stuff. I figured out the right heating in all the rooms. And I moved out of the box room. And turned it into an office proper.

But I think. I probably felt safest of all in that box room. That hole. But I adulted. And moved out. As you do. Because that's what's expected of you. But it was never me. It was like a skin I wore. A fake me. Another bit of masking. Really. All I wanted to do was jump in a small hole. And hide. That will be the anxiety again.

After sometime a new girlfriend moved in. And the house lost its creepiness. It was instead filled with life. And then I got my dogs. The girlfriend left. As they all do. And the dogs throughly eliminated any sense of dread in the house, any anxiety, any weird vibes. They inhabited the place thoroughly. Always alert. Always guarding.

Peace. Reassurance.

Perhaps that is what it is at the end of the day. One of the things they did for me. Completely eliminate anxiety. I trusted them. They trusted me. The house was no longer scary.

All of that happened what feels like an age ago. It is an age ago in many respects.

Time has come full circle. The house has emptied. The sense of life has gone with it. Poppy is here with me. And she is nice. But she is no Athena. No Ares. I miss them so much.

There are things I have learned in the last few months.

I cannot replace Ares or Athena, even if I wanted to. They have a unique spot in my heart that cannot be filled. Their personalities were above and beyond. I think it's something to do with boxers. They have big hearts. Dogs are great. But they are not all the same. They are all unique.

I am not well enough to properly look after a dog, even if I wanted to. I would have to at the very least get dog walkers in every day or so. But it is more than that. I am no good company for a dog. I spend most of my days in bed, unwell. Or in pain and not fit company when I am up. No life for a happy doggo. The are infinitely adaptable and easy going. And it wouldn't be a problem per se. But they could have a better life somewhere else.

The house I am in was not planned. It was necessity. A split from a girlfriend. I didn't suss it out from a bunch of different ones that seemed ideal, or something I would like, or whatever that shit is. I don't know what that shit is. I have never really done it of free will. But it seemed available. And there. And good enough. And as a proper adult, I could move, take my time, and move again if necessary. No big deal.

Except. In many ways I am not that much of an adult. So in this house I remain. Not because of any great love of the space. Or the house. But just because I am here. Which is not to say if you now forced me to change I wouldn't probably miss it. I probably would. Hardcore. In all the horrible ways that my memory likes to trail a shit ton of baggage behind me. In technicolor detail. Moving from this house would also sever more ties with my mutts. Arguably, probably, a good thing in a way. Draw a line under it. Horrible in another way. It would all fade to some dream like quality. Did it ever truly happen. Did I just imagine it all. What is the meaning of anything if it all just fades to fucking grey.

I am sad.

When am I not sad.

This is my life.

Perpetually fucking sad. It is no life. I am no human. I am no adult. I am of no use to myself nor anyone else. Just a walking spot of misery.

I keep thinking that I should have died in that winter of 2020/2021 when I was severely ill. I should not have made it out of that. Little good has come out of it. If I had died back then, I would never have lost Ares, never have lost Athena, never have lost my mom. I would not know what it is to live permanently exhausted and suffering. It would. Have been a better end for me all round. What would I have missed ? More time with my lovely mutts. But not much. I would have been spared the heartbreak.

There is a very deep and still calm in me. Not a happy one. Just one of utter resignation. I am done. I find I have no curiousity anymore about anything. I do not want to figure any answers out. The answers just lead you to stupidity and cruelty and an increasing knowledge of how fucked things are. The same circles. Whether its about the world or people. The same shit. Round and round. People stuck. Idiocy in the world. Just a bunch of bumbling idiotic monkeys with gold watches taking selfies. I no longer want to talk to people. Or meet people. Or help. Or make things. Or do anything. I watch things online as a numbing effect to turn reality off and make me disappear into whatever is on. It is harder and harder to do so. I know all the tropes. The familiar stories. The awful modern political unsubtle messaging that pretends it is no such thing.

Depressed mate. Innit. A shrink would say. Hardcore depressed.

Sure. But. I think it's more than that. Deeper than that.

But eh. Maybe if my brain soup was a better flavour, things would seem a little less bleak.

So I'm just waiting. One day after another. Crossing the days off until I stop.

The thought has crossed my mind many times over the last few weeks of just ending it all.

Can't. Have Poppy to look after.

I get a shiver of annoyance. Pinning me down to this shitty existence.

When my watch is ended, I will be free I tell myself.

Then you can kill yourself. Ok ?

I imagine a knife in my hand. In the bath ? Clothed ? What would create the least mess ? Leave the shower running to make the blood run out ? How long would the shower be running before anyone figured out I wasn't around anymore ? I think it would be quite some time. I doubt people would notice for quite a while. Days. Weeks. If it were up to my family, it would be months if not years. Sad but true.

I somehow doubt I will do anything. It's just me daydreaming about escape. But I also know it's a very dangerous game. That normalisation and increasing obsession with it. It goes from a twinkle. To a scenario. To a full on story. To an all encompassing horizon that is inevitable. Right. Now.

If I had more courage I would do it, no problem. And as of yet. I am not that unhinged to just do it despite being a coward. I have been that unhinged a few times. But not now. Yet. Ish. But I do dip. The wind changes direction and I dip, and. Uh huh. I think that's probably the biggest risk.

Anyway.

Doesn't matter. I am sure I have absolute years of suffering ahead of me. Because of course. I don't get it that easy to tap out yet.

I might get lucky. I might die peacefully in my sleep. Ho, fucking, ho. Life, is not that good to me.