The Shit that has Just Hit the Fan

(‘the Fan’ being a metaphor for my life, and ‘The Shit’ being the life that happens in and around said fan/life)

This year, if you follow the Gregorian calendar, which I am trying to distance myself from coz I’m so fucking hipster, I have made a rather large (but if you’re me, colossal) change to my life.

Actually two changes, the second of which I will mark thus; *BIG CHANGE NO.2*.

For the first time since I was 18, which was only 5/6 years ago but seems like aeons, I am going to move… home. Oh and btw you’re gonna have to put up with loads of long-winded, precarious and quite frankly pretentious sentences if you wish to read further, I mean hullo I’m going to be explaining myself and trying to poke fun at my own misery at every twist and turn- it’s grrrrrrrrr8.

Home is not the same home I left to go to uni and, spiritually, Manchester full-time. That home has been and gone like lots of homes I have inhabited (woe is me). This home, however, is my home, that has been my home since I was born, albeit mainly at weekends, and it has a certain gravity about it. It is my grandmother’s home, and it was my father’s and late uncle’s childhood home. I’m missing the point here. O nostalgia; longtemps longtemps, Oú va le temps.

That’s my pretentious goo oozed, right there ^

I feel terrible, and excited, and scared, a little confused, a touch mad, and I think hopeful. I think. If you’ve been reading these writings from my mind then you’ll know all about stuff. Also if you know me you’ll know because I am basically an open book, with a secret compartment that houses a smaller, darker, leather bound volume that NOBODY has access to except sometimes me and even then it only sees the light of my mind for about 5 seconds and I put it the fuck.back.

So this year I got hit by a car (lol) and I was soooooo pissed and then when I got better I just got pissed in a drinky way, and went to councelling and tried CBT (like with a person not a computer what even is that) and am on some sik meds. I’ve already wrote about my CBT experience if u wan kno bout it, it was bangin’. So I will write no more here. Even though I am without a doubt more enlightened about the experience now than I was even at the time, but I’ll be ridiculously more enlightened about it next year which makes me think there’s no point ever discussing anything with any relish because you’ll just feel embarrassed and oh so immature about it down the line.

We’ve got onto the motorway of this piece now, the big heavy carved heart, leading to some pretty slapdash junctions and those kind of roundabouts that don’t even have a garden or sculpture in the middle. *BIG CHANGE NO.2* I have, for the past three years, had a fantastic partner, a really compassionate and laid back individual who coped with my outbursts and could even calm me down. And I was calm. Until I realised that, hold the fucking phone, I’m STILL not happy. Turns out that life wasn’t about finding ‘the one’. ‘The one’ would turn up 10 years too early. For me anyway. I’m not fine. And what I’m doing isn’t fine; using a human being with his own life to sort out as a comfort blanket. Like a steady boat, anchored in a treacherous sea, I was stable. But then, off the boat, out there, past the waves and the whale shit and the seaspray, there’stuff. That I might like. Or detest. But I might SOMETHING. And that’s too much something for me to ignore.

And so, I made the extremely selfish* brave** realistic*** decision to end the relationship. It was and is difficult. I don’t want to let go, and it’s hard to bear the thought of my life without my Fox. I feel incredibly lonely much of the time, even when I’m in good company (except when I got some class As, which isn’t healthy really, is it?). But I felt lonely anyway, I felt lonely cuddling and watching *insert HBO series* in our cosy bed. I feel like an absolute bellend. And a user. Lest we forget a slag. At least I’m more aware now that the me that feels these unfriendly things must evolve into the me that thinks I’m bloody spectacular. At the very least I’d like to be the me that doesn’t hate itself.

*if you’re me

**if you’re some other people

***if you’re the better half of me

There’s that awful cliché, ‘it’s not you it’s me’. Surprisingly apt in this situation, and yet I still lose sleep over whether he really believes it. It’s not a belief it’s a fact, but facts differ from human to human to tree to root to pine marten to egg.

(I’m not sure how to link this so I’m not going to, you only need to know that it’s related and hopefully you’ll deal with it)

Bae2K15 Polly got me to make a list of goals, short term and long term. Here’s a little peek, maybe some of these apply to you:

1 month-

-better sleep pattern

-exercise regularly (shit son I got a titanium ankle)

-write to schools for experience

3-6 months-

-Feel motivated to do and learn again

-be more confident around roads

1 year plus-

-Pay off overdraft (sept 2016)

-Start PGCE or Go travelling

If I live at home, rent free, and have some alone time i’th’ills to contemplate what it is to be, and how it feels to be 23 and not have all the answers (My dad hit me with that zen bomb) then these goals are so much more achievable. This is what I thunk and I think I’m right in thunking still.

(Can we just hold up and think about how ‘thank’ is completely unrelated to ‘think’ and ‘thunk’? Unless ‘thank’ IS a colloquialism somewhere, a past tense, past participle of ‘think’…)

I wasn’t treating myself fairly. I’ve got to admit, getting married and having a family and a sturdy house, that is not me and it might never be, but it had some certain appeal because it looked like the shiny happy people that were doing that were shiny and happy. And they smelled nice. Alas, the deep pit of despair I had dug and filled for myself had to be addressed; I had a chat with some good friends and I was like, yep, time to get into that pit and splash around in the possibly toxic algae that had formed over what felt like aeons of suffocating neglect.

Some people are those people that want to be in love, and thrive from the intricate support network they weave around each other. And it works, and they feel successful and really bloody happy, thank you very much. I want to be in love. But for the first time since I was 16, I looked into myself and I was upset. It is clear to me that I sought out relationships to fill a void, and not addressing that gaping hole for over seven years had been destroying me (sounds a bit drastic I know but I live in my body and my head and it’s proper wank sometimes) I see no life for me without anxiety, no matter if I had one amazing human being who loved me or 20,395,000 people who hung onto my every action like a fucking goddess and kissed my toes as I sauntered through life.

I am mad, I’m actually crazy, I know it! Ask anyone, I’m a nutter. I can barely control my emotions and self-hatred with a nice concoction of drugs and therapy. The week before my period who knows what person animal or inanimate object will feel the vitriolic wrath of mybadself. Hmmm, I thought, not a great foundation for a dependable partner. And I realised then that I can’t have anyone depending on me. The decisions I make from now on need to be made for me, yes it’s selfish, I’m not alluding that I am any other way. But theres SELFISH and there’s selfish. I think I’m the latter. Feel free to correct me.

I cried whilst I wrote this, and I cried when I expressed my needs and regret to Robert, and I cried just before when I hoovered the flat. I cried because what I am feeling is true. Homer Simpson hit the nail on the head when he said ‘It’s funny cos it’s true’. And also when he said ‘hehe look at this country U.R.GAY’. Except in this case, it was sad because it was true. Just in case you got confused.

It needs to be said; people who don’t sympathise with mental illness can fuck right off. Depression makes people voluntarily take their own lives! Death is often a welcome release from the torture of living in one’s own mind. Have you ever seen Woody Allen’s ‘Stardust Memories’? The opening scene is hilarious and poignant as it perfectly demonstrates what it feels like to be in the head of a depressive…

It’s hard to admit because people often take it the wrong way, but much of my life is spent wishing I weren’t alive. Often I’m completely lacklustre. Having social anxiety disorder doesn’t help; all I want to do is mope or sleep or read or write and even though my socialising meter is depleted HEY GUESS WHAT make all the plans possible with everyone AFRICA because if you don’t talk to people + go somewhere + crack jokes + booze then you’re day is wasted Africa so what are you waiting for???!

Steering us wonkily back onto the course of whatever this piece of writing concerns, yeah- I had to get myself out of a relationship because it was soooo typical of me to have great people around me and still feel like shit. I like the people I try desperately to keep around me. However, I don’t like me and I can’t for the life of me understand why all these intelligent, charming, kind, beautiful people want to share little pieces of their lives with me. A dialogue with myself goes rather like this:

“You’re shit Africa. Remember that one time when you nearly achieved something? Ha but then you gave up, cos inevitably you would be a failure, remember that?”


“Good times.”

^true story. Admittedly I wrote much of this drunk but I was sober right now when I wrote this part. Perhaps this piece screams WHITE FERRERO ROCHER-EATING FEMALE SEEKS PITY AND VALIDATION FOR POOR CHOICES MADE IN LIFE I don’t know I’m not you.

So there we have it. I have explained myself, to myself (and you) for myself (not you, although I hope it might help or at least make you feel like you’re not the only mad person who’s ever lived). I feel much better now, ta-ra!