That's probably the Number One reason why I stopped blogging; I couldn't handle the constant self-absorption. It all just felt a bit, y'know, needy. And that neediness, or rather my unwillingness to bang on about myself was, if you will, the pastry in my Awkward Pie. Then there's the filling...
Self deprecation is funny. Being at rock bottom, all hopeless and sad and desperate, is amusing, provided of course there's a sense that there's light at the end of that tunnel, a redemption of some kind somewhere.
Then my situation got better. I stopped living like I was in a sitcom, atrophying in a shitty rented flat above a chemists in Chiswick with a family of mice and a bald man from Nottingham who did no work for a living while I carried on temping at my dead end job. Instead I went mental, sort of, and ended up getting a flat deposit from Bank of Mum. Now the sit in my sitcom is decidedly better; living alone in my own home in Watford. Granted, it's Watford, but it is cosy. I have rugs and stuff, and I now buy things like pictures which I hang on walls. And those walls are mine (and 10% my mother's.) I even buy reed diffusers and pot pourri on the offchance that a woman might walk in and see it.
Thus that narrative kinda slowed to a crawl. I could no longer complain about my life when I own (90% of) my ceiling and it's not decorated with damp.
I went on to lose 2 and a half stone somehow. I'm not sure where I got my motivation. I think I started to realise, finally, that I had to take charge of myself and be the best damn Me there is. And that involved the fucking gym. And dressing better. And living life moderately, with fewer drunken orgies (non-sexual), a bit more salad, and a little less chocolate.
Blah blah blah, it's all a rich tapestry.
And now I'm 38, as I have been for the last month. And of course nothing has really changed. I'm still at my dead-end temp job where at the beginning of the year I got a pay rise so gratifying that it caused me to shut up and stay put. So that's where I've been. Limbo, and embarrassed about blogging the same old shit when I felt I no longer had a right to complain.
Basically, I'm trying to be positive. I'm trying to re-wire that old shit that makes me dwell upon life's negatives - because it's funny (if ultimately a little crippling) - and I'm trying to focus on the pluses instead. And it ain't easy. I try and remind myself to stop looking at the little things that go wrong, and there are always some every day, and notice for once the dozens of things that go right all the time; Not oversleeping. Catching the train. Not getting crushed. Arriving on schedule. Not getting rained on. And yes, that hot Mediterranean woman didn't make eye contact with me as I neared my office, but neither is she screaming about El Diablo and vomiting onto her shoes anymore.
I am trying, except just when I think I'm out, they pull me back in.
THIS BOOK is phenomenal. I only got a couple of chapters in, yet it spoke to me immediately. I still want to finish it, I really intend to, except it's been sullied, devoured like a chaste, innocent bunny in a den of stinking wolves. It is a beautiful irony that a self-help book, one of the most famous in its field in its treatment on depression through cognitive therapy, got personalised for me one evening, on a rare night out with some old friends.
I had gone to the toilet, so naturally Ali rummaged through my bag and found my book. And when I returned, I discovered this...
I think it's fair to say that if I do end up fat again, and a drunk, and maybe on crack with absoutely no chance of a meaningful, lifelong relationship with anyone ever again, I can blame Ali.
So feel free to blame him too. He reads this and would love the feedback.
That's it. I have nothing else.
Work in progress.