19.08.14 (Day 240)
I’m tired. Fucking exhausted in fact.
I’m tired of having to deal with the rumor mill and all that it produces: Chinese whispers, twisted truths, misunderstandings and downright lies. It defies logic and redefines science: it is a fact that matter can be neither created nor destroyed, although it can change form. Within the walls of the rumor mill is a rumor machine which creates mountains from molehills . The workers in the mill are clearly a different breed as they’ve achieved something else thought scientifically impossible: perpetual motion. The fucking thing never stops.
The people who work at the mill are called He, She, They, You, Him, Her, Them, Me and Us. A typical conversation on the factory floor or around the water cooler involves what He, She, They and You said about Him, Her, Them, Me and Us. It’s a noisy environment, so some things get misheard.
I wish they could manufacture sleep as I’d pay almost any price to get some more. Last night I got four hours, which is a slight increase on my recent batting average. Over the last four days I’ve had a total of 13 hours sleep: 13 hours in 96; that’s about 12.5% of available hours spent sleeping. There have been people who famously survived – and indeed thrived – on that amount but I can’t. And I don’t run a country; just my independent state. If eight hours in 24 is the recommended amount of sleep an average person should get (33% of their day), then I’m running at about one third capacity.And it feels like it too. I never was average though.
I just can’t shut down my brain. I’m tired but simply can’t sleep, or when I do sleep it’s for very short periods. It’s partly down to the environments in which I have slept (or tried to) but the latest suspicion from medical quarters is that I have the classic combination of insomnia, anxiety and depression. No single one of those is a particularly nice thing to have, two in tandem conspire together against the sufferer and all three are mutually perpetuating. Sleep deprivation alone can be a killer and depression – with the attached anxiety – is a large contributor to suicide statistics, particularly among men (See the article from the previous entry, posted Here), so all three in a bed do not a good combination make. Then of course there’s the Alcohol Dependency, as opposed to alcoholism, which I do not suffer from, despite what some who think they know more than they or I do, think. Is one the root cause of the others, or vice versa? Various medical practitioners (who do know more than me and others) have attempted full diagnoses to arrive at the correct cocktail of drugs to prescribe but the way I’ve had to move around, changing addresses and medical practices has meant that no consultation has been completed to date.
Re-engaging with CRI and their on-site doctors and nurses is a means to an end. The planned move to Colebrook House (a hostel) will also help as on-site help is provided there as well. I was interviewed at the latter yesterday and have been provisionally approved to move in. Security and medical checks are complete, so it’s just a case of waiting for a space to become available; any day soon. The stay there could be anything up to six months and if I behave, it will serve as the stepping stone I need to a more permanent base and rebuilding the life I fucked up. Or did I? Maybe I should have done what I’m doing now six months ago but in the last six months I’ve met some of the nicest, most helpful and understanding people who are continuing to assist me now. On a day-to-day basis, that’s the host family whom I’m staying with.
As well as the hosts, there’s The Wife, who visits almost daily. Well, she might as well be my wife, given the amount of time we spend together, how close we are as friends, how we have a mutual understanding of one another, help and support each other. We laugh and cry together and both are always there for the other. We’re kindred spirits, birds of a feather and care for one another in what is a marriage of two people in everything but the legal sense. The relationship is just like a marriage in other respects: no sex and I don’t particularly like the in-laws. To clarify, that’s my wife, my partner in the life I’m living and not the host wife, who’s also director and guardian. Her and the head of the house are not the in-laws I refer to; that’s my wife’s family.
As well as being a regular visitor to my current safe haven while I’m in self-imposed exile, my wife will stick with me if (when) I move to Colebrook House and beyond: we’ll remain close.
Everyone has a story to tell but they don’t all have someone to tell it to.
Everybody’s got to have someone.