Sometimes I almost see the point...

like love, maybe

Almost happy.
Almost smiling.
Almost got it.
Almost there.
Almost happened.
Almost didn't.
Almost worried.
Almost care.
Almost lovers.
Almost friendly.
Almost angry.
Almost cried.
Almost honest.
Almost painful.
Almost told you.
Almost lied.

("Ceci n'est pas une poeme," as Magritte would put it. It's almost one, though...)

I apologise for this post: my head is in a very strange place at the moment. Either I'm getting some static interference from the fillings in my teeth and need to get a thicker tin-foil hat, or I need to get more sleep. I've been fairly wrecked with insomnia for about a week or so (since the big row, really...) and I am starting to feel the effects.

Yesterday, while doing my "outreach work" teaching, I observed random blue blobs floating around the room (and they weren't the students dressed as Smurfs either, although I wouldn't put it past them...) Today, I have random words and images zipping through my head: flower-filled gardens; tall trees; my childhood bedroom; allotments; walls covered in spaghetti; the sea in a storm; the sky and stars on a clear winter's night... If I start hearing voices I'll let you know. Actually, if I start hearing voices I'll panic and get to a doctor as soon as I can manage.

When I do sleep I am having dreams and nightmares about my childhood home (What's this with the home stuff again? What's going on?). Recently, I've been thinking a little too much about who and what and why I am: unlike Popeye, I'm not quite at the, " I yams what I yams" point of self-acceptance (if you'll excuse the psycho-babbley-wank terminology) - I'm just not drawn that way.... Naturally, reflecting upon my childhood has formed a significant part of my reflections and because it was perhaps not the most happy or functional of upbringings, it stirs up a muddy mess of long dormant emotions which threatens to cover everyone with whom I come into contact in a slimy coat of my anxiety slurry.

Although occasional introspection is healthy, I think I've been indulging myself in it somewhat morbidly. I know I've been difficult to be around, difficult to communicate with (although I have been listening, honest!) and unpredictable in my reaction to things. I am trying to change this wretched, anguished self-obsessed pisspoor excuse for a psyche, but it takes time, dammit! I also have a fantastic ability for self-delusion and can avoid facing obvious problems, so I manage to sabotage myself very easily indeed... This really could take some time.

I'll let you know how I get on (and normal service will be resumed-as soon as the psychologists redefine "normal" in a way that accurately incorporates all my neuroses!).


Anonymous said...

Hey a little advice from someone who worships the blog you write on. F**K these no good piss wank all feeling well rounded people. Ain't anything wrong with being self obsessed sometimes.

and anyway it makes for some fantastic tortured soul writing. So put down you little silver hammer Maxwell and be happy that your fabulously individual and one amazingly cool English dyke lost in Edinburgh. You will always be a very bright star in my sky x

missfee said...

oh i wish i could see smurfs floating whenever i close my eyes!

C'lam said...

who wants to be normal? freaky and proud is the way to go.

and self obsession is definitely a good thing in small doses - how else would all these blogs get written?

hope things not too bad for you.

creepylesbo said...

Ms Gripes, I've only just found you. Are you a guestbooker on Ms Kennedy's site? Drop me a line.

Anonymous said...

I agree. Normalcy? Fuck it.
One of us! One of us! sorry. Tired.