A Radiohead t-shirt. A Sword of Damocles. And an unwanted hat-trick
Dear Diary extract Number: 666
Dear Diary extract Number: 666
Over a decade has now passed since that fateful afternoon when someone I loved more than anyone in the entire world cried on my shoulder, smudging a favourite Radiohead t-shirt with their black mascara as they asked me an incredibly easy question to answer:
“when will somebody love me?”
Despite my love for this person, and someone who will have forgotten about this drop in the ocean of time long ago, I couldn’t answer her, and continued to be the same arsehole she’d fallen out of love with long before this late afternoon question I couldn’t bring myself to answer.
I got up late today, a sign of my apathetic inertia and inability to think straight on the unwanted hat-trick, that “hat-trick of shit” as I’m now calling it, and a trio of problems that I’m at the centre of whilst half recognising that they are all abstract and apart from me. But in reality they’re not. A combined Sword of Damocles wavers above me, seemingly hovering ever nearer me.
A problem shared is a problem halved they say, but whomever “they” are, they’re lying. I still have them all, that unwanted hat-trick weighing on me and tearing me to pieces long before any Roman myth of yore may descend upon me. I’ve long described the feeling to the greatest amongst us, those caring souls who listen without judgement or indeed payment, those human beings who give up their time just for the betterment of others and to aid them in their hours of most need, that this is nothing new for me, this has always been my life. Circles within ever decreasing circles. The patterns of life that keep recurring, a host of problems surrounding my three decades long depression, a loss of a relationship, work, a business, friends and friendships and all within the ever decreasing circles as the walls close in and that sword moves ever nearer its target.
I’ve explained recently to the current angel on my shoulder and kindly voice at the end of a telephone line that none of this is new, I’ve been a singular individual since a destroyed childhood, an unhappy soul waging war at a world that doesn’t care. But it’s all too exhausting now. No reason to get up in the morning. No reason to go to bed and bid farewell to another day tangled in the darkest of thoughts. My problems are shared with this kindly lady who listens to my woes and the tears of a clown. But I still retain that hat-trick, that abstract trio of doom.
I’ve written more articles here than I have followers.
I’ve lost more friends and family than I have remaining.
I miss the loving chastisement of a Mother I couldn’t say goodbye to.
I have an image in my mind I can’t shake.
I don’t know where to put the feelings and memories of kissing a dead man goodbye.
My only company is a black dog and he can’t stop howling.
I just wish I wasn’t around anymore.
It’ll be much quieter then.
I’m NOT a celebrity. Where’s the Midazolam?
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