is to be good to yourself. To heed your own advice.
I don’t care to count because it feels obsessive and will only make me upset – but I think it’s been ten or twelve weeks. The last few have passed quickly because I’ve been keeping busy. In truth, I’ve had a lot of amazing times in the two months since the end but – and this is no criticism of my friends – I’m still not happy. I’m very much unhappy.
When coming back from London one morning last week, I bought a copy of The Girl on the Train. It’s just getting good, but all the talk of exes with new flames, and a narrator thinking back to her old relationship and what she misses, is too much. So I’ve had to put it down. I honestly think my persistence with the book was a serious emotional error on my part, and has set me back. I’m not as over things as I’d like to believe I am. (I did yesterday pick up a novelisation of My Neighbor Totoro which I’m hoping will be a far lighter and easier read. The book itself is beautiful.)
A little under a month ago I wrote an open letter to two other bloggers, in which I discussed some things I had learnt throughout my break up; about understanding that some people are just nasty, and one has to do their best to recognise that and move on; about how one deserves and will have better. But I also confessed that I would probably somewhere along the line, disregard this myself and feel miserable and glum again. And that’s how I felt yesterday morning, after a fucking fantastic evening with close friends seeing my two favourite bands (for the second time in under a week, for what it’s worth). But yesterday I felt glum and miserable. And lonely.
I am so lonely. There are friends and fun and memorable times. I’ve seen old friends, made new ones, had nights I can’t remember and nights I will do for as long as my mind doesn’t succumb to old age. But I still feel alone. I feel like I am merely counting down the days until these individual occasions, and as such entire weeks are passing me by without me enjoying them for what they are or could be. I am not truly enjoying life; I’m simply kidding myself that I am.
I recently read a blog comprised of ‘30 Things I’ve Learnt by 30‘. Number 25:
Being single is great. You can do whatever and whoever you want without any guilt or ties. Everyone should try it for a while.
I find this blogger’s confidence, Vix Meldrew, admirable. And it’s true: not being responsible to anyone else, in the sense of enjoying your time solely for yourself, is a positive. But for me, presently, my life lacks passion. The most passion I’ve felt has been when I’m singing along with my favourite bands at these two gigs. And that’s no bad thing, in and of itself, of course. But it’s not enough.
On my way home from Bournemouth last night, I pulled over in a motorway service station and bawled my eyes out – for the first time in weeks. Whilst walking around Bournemouth during the day, I put on an old Bay Area album, Crimpshrine’s The Sound of New World Being Born, to take me back to years ago when I loved my scratchy-guitar-and-out-of-tune punk rock and it made me feel alive, to a time when everything seemed easier; the Christmas I got the album, and listened to it as I played SSX 3 on the PS2 – a gift from my grandparents, who have both since passed, who I wish were around now to hug me. As recently as this Monday just gone, I wrote two poems of positivity (‘The Shortest Fuse‘ and ‘The Kindness of Seasons‘) to mark World Mental Health Day. Well, I don’t feel so positive now. What is wrong with me?
I wrote a post a bit over a week ago about some of my favourite blogs/bloggers. One of them, Geek Magnifique – one of my best friends – yesterday published a piece about her struggles with OCD. It sounds like absolute hell. Another, Laura Cloughley, last week wrote about how her depression has recently made a her feel as far away from God as she has ever felt. I wish so badly that I could click my fingers and take away all the pain and hardship for everyone. I have it so easy. So why can’t I just be happy with my lot?
In the post, I mentioned three blog posts (by three separate bloggers*) which, together, I believed made ‘an unstoppable triad of hope‘. Truth be told, I’m reading them again and I wish they could sink in. One blogger, Sarah-Louise, in a line that really touched me, writes:
Stop trying to squeeze your huge, beautiful soul into small, stuffy spaces.
But what if no one wants my beautiful soul?
The hardest thing to do is to heed your own advice. The hardest thing is to just be happy.