Good days, bad night

Moaning again. That’s not what I’m supposed to be doing on here. I’m supposed to be upbeat and singing songs about the glories of schizoidery. Bringing a little joy into our humdrum lives (to quote the glorious Lina Lamont).

I had to look up humdrum just then. It was first noted in 1553, that word. I like it. Don’t you? Here are Webster’s list of words that rhyme with it:

alum, aplomb, bass drum, bay rum, beach plum, become,benumb, degum, dim sum, dumdum, dum-dum, eardrum,far from, green thumb, hail from, ho-hum, how come,income, in sum, outcome, pond scum, side drum, snare drum, sour gum, steel drum, subgum, succumb, sweet gum, therefrom, to come, Tom Thumb, tom-tom,wherefrom, yum-yum

Do Americans really say ‘from’ to rhyme with ‘hum’?

I digress. It’s 3.20am and my brain’s scrambled. Bisran.

I can’t sleep. Hence all the blancmange falling out of my brain onto the blogpost in the form of asinine garbage (pronounced a la française).

There was a blurting to my host after the last confession of utter uselessness, and I felt better for a few days and was quite productive for two. But now the weekend has slipped away and I’m facing the same problem but exaggerated.

Can’t see a way out of it at the moment. If six weeks in California hasn’t cleared my head and made a breakthrough, what the hell will?

Fucked if I know.

Bad day, better day

Yesterday was a bad day. I’ve been having a few recently, when thoughts about death – or rather, my being dead as an alternative to my being alive – were obscuring anything more positive.

I’m in a fix of my own making, but not entirely my own fault. I can’t seem to break out of this bubble that’s keeping me from getting back out into the world of work and people and income. It seems pretty nice, this not doing much, but it’s just denial. The truth of it is seen in my sky-high blood pressure and broken sleep. Every day is bringing me closer to a crisis point at the end of this month, and if I let myself think about it, I’d be scared witless. As it is, my ability to suppress my emotions and deny reality breaks down some days, and yesterday was one of them.

This is my intention when I wake up.

Today I got up again (got up at 4am and looked at Facebook for an hour before I could sleep again) and the sun was shining, and I had the determination to do something specific to change my situation. I know what I have to do, I know how to do it. But it’s now 11.30am and I’ve wasted the morning with necessary but not urgent displacement activity.

That’s how it goes. I’m always busy, but nothing productive gets done. So tonight I am at risk of the Black Dog returning, If I can stop this post now (ish) and focus on the task in hand, I’ll feel much better. Wish me luck.

I wish you a joyful day.

Disgraceful, cowardly behaviour

Mine, that is. I appalled myself last week with a sustained example of cowardice and meanness to my kind next-door neighbour Joan.

Her mother died, peacefully, at home and surrounded by family. I didn’t know her, don’t really know the family that well, but they’re neighbours, and I know how much Joan loved her mum and how much she’d have been affected by the death.

I know all this, but a) I didn’t know what to do, when or how (the family observes a religion I don’t know); b) the schizoid thing kicked in big style and the dread of her weeping on my shoulder was huge; c) I’d had enough of funerals and grief and responsibility to last a lifetime.

So… I stayed away. I didn’t go over when I heard the news; I didn’t send flowers or take a casserole, or any of the things you’re supposed to do for grieving families.

I didn’t try to find out what the religion expects, demands or forbids.

I didn’t go to the funeral. I didn’t even go to the funeral, where I’d have been one of dozens of mourners, even though I knew I’d be missed by Joan and my absence clocked and remarked on by others.

It took me two days to get myself to go next door. I took flowers and food and was met with great kindness and gratitude. She asked why I didn’t go and see the body, or come to the funeral. I lied through my teeth and said in my church (NB I don’t go to any church) death and funerals are private, for the family and close friends only. She said hadn’t I seen all the mourners coming to the house? No, I said, I was in my study at the back of the house (that was true) and saw and heard nothing (almost true).

She accepted the lie.

Maybe other schizoids will understand. I justify it to myself, but I still feel like a shitty louse.

Have you avoided situations that you find difficult? Please say you have…

I’ve scared off my niece

Having discovered my self-in-exile Schizoid personality, I thought it was only fair to tell my close family. It might foster a bit of understanding, I thought.

I had a good response from one sibling, and kind, thoughtful responses from two in-laws. Nothing from my nieces – which is fine. I said they didn’t need to respond. But when I tried to get in touch with a niece she rejected my call and didn’t respond to two emails.

So I reckon that’s probably that, with her. She has two kids. Maybe she thinks I’m turning into a mad axe murderer, or scared that my schizoidery is catching. Who knows. She’s unlikely ever to tell me now…

Shame, but there you go.

[See how the schizoid thing works there? Emotional detachment in response to rejection. Ker-ching.]