It was that laborious ritual that had plagued me for the past few months, waking at some ungodly hour of the morning and lying there contemplating life. As I lay in bed a few nights ago with my hands playing around with my……pyjama top trying to get comfortable, I began to realise that I hadn’t written anything for a while. Now those of you who have taken the time to read my last few posts and there hasn’t been many, will realise I say that all the time, and I am about as reliable as a New Zealand Politian promising tax cuts. I have all the good intentions swilling around in my mind and none of the good intentions to sit down and make it happen.
I cant put my finger on why…perhaps its just because I’m lazy or maybe there was some truth in what my wife said to me. She told me, I seemed in a better space. Was I, you would tend to think that if you’re in a better place then things would come easily, but they don’t. Its weird because when I was down and struggling the writing came easy. It got me thinking about why, why at my lowest ebb was I at my most thoughtful. I’ll tell you why, because I was thinking about nothing else except myself and my depression and as a result I could put it into words, easily. Selfishly, the rest of my life was being dealt with by the people in my life who supported me and I was happy to leave them to it. It suited me and I could concentrate on my posts because thats all that was important.
So whats happened, well, I think I’m too busy, and I must be honest that sometimes when I get home from work I am mind fucked. I mean that nicely, but its true, and as a result I can’t get motivated. Now I know everyone gets mind fucked when they get home but I tend to rely on crushed grapes squeezed into a bottle. Its a flaw that sent me over the edge four years ago and despite some of the lessons I have learnt I tend to rely on the odd bottle of “Barry”.
For the last few years I have done a bit of writing in various forms. Travel blogs, Facebook snippets and the odd entry into a journal. If I think about when I was at my most productive it was when I was down in the dumps or as high as a junkie on methamphetamine….whatever that’s like. The key has always been to do it in shorts blasts and not to exhaust all the material, and so I begin, several months later.
On this occasion I took to visiting the Birkenhead Library as at home there were too many distractions, namely the fridge and Sky TV. Its unproductive, a bit like a Jacinda Adhern speech, so I thought I would go somewhere quiet and write about depression in the police. Now for those of you who have not visited a library recently I can tell you it isn’t quiet, in fact its full of people who are too tight to buy a book and people who can’t afford to send their children to day-care. It was like sitting in a creche, but, I boxed on in the hope that some sexy blonde librarian in metal rimmed glasses was going to approach the mothers and tell them to shut their fucken kids up. Alas the fantasy did not happen, and I had to sit there and wish I had bought my noise cancelling headphones.
It was a start and I have put pen to paper and about to embark on a journey to get down and dirty and be honest. I’m nearing the end of my career, so I’ve got nothing to lose. Until next time.
Categories: My Story 2016
Nice to have you back blogging Mike, I do find then very interesting.
“Now for those of you who have not visited a library recently I can tell you it isn’t quiet, in fact its full of people who are too tight to buy a book and people who can’t afford to send their children to day-care.”
On Wed., 24 Feb. 2021, 4:27 pm One Flew Over the Policeman’s Nest, wrote:
> Mike C posted: ” It was that laborious ritual that had plagued me for the > past few months, waking at some ungodly hour of the morning and lying there > contemplating life. As I lay in bed a few nights ago with my hands playing > around with my……pyjama top trying to get co” >