Yesterday, I finally helped my mother start clearing out her bedroom. Currently, she’s sleeping in the spare room and has been for a couple of years now, because it’s been impossible to even open her bedroom door because of all the boxes, books, clothes and amassed items filling the whole room from floor to ceiling. We pulled out the bags full of my clothes which I haven’t seen since I left J and packed in a hurry, and I sorted them for charity. It felt a bit sad getting rid of a lot of my stuff, but I have far too many (I bought stuff I’d never even wear, in a crisis of confidence a few years ago) and some of it reminds me too much of that cold, broken-down house and the cold, broken-down relationship.
Whilst in her bedroom, I found a few things. A diary entry I’d written after O and I split up, a single Tramadol tablet, some Naproxen and, worryingly, a suicide/running away note I’d written years ago. I can only assume that my mother found it and, for some reason, kept it. It feels strange to think she’s read these things but for once I don’t think I can be angry for the invasion of privacy. I know I was acting strangely at the time, and perhaps they explained a few things.
I took the Tramadol and Naproxen and enjoyed the calm, slightly confused feeling as I slept for a few hours yesterday afternoon. I haven’t done so much physical activity for a long time, and every muscle ached, but it felt strangely liberating. Despite everything, I managed to help out a little.
I have no idea what date the diary entry is from, but it was written in 2009. Winter, by the sounds of it.
“I’d love to know how long I’ve been faking it. How long have I kept a strained smile painted on my face an hid the fact that my world is crashing around me? At exactly which point did I become the sort of person who has a cigarette to alleviate stress and considers drinking just to sleep a little easier? When did I stop talking?
I have no idea why I’m finding it so hard to just say, “you know what? I’m not coping. I’m depressed”. I fill my days with distractions, just so I don’t have to face up to knowing something inside me has broken and no amount of anything seems to fix it.
It’s become something of a routine now to hang out of the window and smoke at midnight. For a while, I avoided the window; it reminded me of too manyy sleepless night in the summer and early autumn, when everything went so wrong. When I avoided switching off the light so I wouldn’t have to face up to the inevitable nightmares and the morning anxiety when my phone calls to O went unanswered. I probably wrote my best poetry during that time, but that’s a very small positive gleaned from a massive negative.
And now, I’m back at the window. I haven’t written any poems for a few weeks; the inspiration has been there, but everything I try to write seems too forced, too much of a cliché. I suppose that’s all I am though; just a big cliché.
I’ve taken a sleeping pill. O and I napped together earlier (well, I crashed out next to him while he watched tv) and we held hands, which felt amazing. Chances are I’m not going to sleep easily tonight. I’ve been avoiding taking the sleeping pills, I’ve been getting more headaches and feel wiped out the next morning, but sometimes I can’t face the thought of being awake for hours, thinking things over until I’ve worked myself into a state. Need to put a prescription in tomorrow; I only have a few left.
I’ve been putting off going near the doctor. And the gym. And the bookshop. I’ve been having panic attacks, and I’m just not in the mood to face up to them.”
I’m regretting taking the Naproxen, especially because it was a double dose. Spent all night with a stomach ache and didn’t sleep. Silly idea. Very silly idea.