Cross Country

Another month goes by unwritten and unrecorded.  Maybe I should start one of those writing schedules that I see other people apologising for when they miss them - something that always amuses me greatly.  I should really keep to more schedules, a little order in the maelstrom wouldn't go amiss after all.

Although leaving it a good fortnight has allowed all sorts of dust to settle, both literally on the untidied corners of my room and metaphysically, in the untidied corners of my mind.  Things are definitely moving though, in more ways than one; somehow I've managed to keep up my weight after the incredible gain of the last few weeks, the novelty sensation of my suits now fitting may not wear off for a good while yet. 

Things are moving though, and I suppose the most important move will be my holiday (hah) in a northern direction back to the Fine City of Norwich itself, for a rest and some much needed recuperation.  Having not made it home this summer was probably a major cause of my depression over the vac, along with various other issues that are all too apparent.  It will be a welcome break indeed!  Basically, this is about as close to a true holiday I'll get since February, and ought to cost me almost as much, although alcohol will be cheaper... Hmmm...

The week is split in two, basically (although I'm not the only one with major bipolarity issues round here).  I'll be staying with my flatmates and very dear friends from Thursday once I arrive.  I'm starting to feel very old these days, and it's not because of the youth of some of my fellow scholars, not even the thought of being 23 in the new year, no, but the fact that my old flatmates are graduating this year.  I remember almost not going back to University, the sensation that really this was an unrescueable prospect...and then the following year proving myself completely wrong, not only academically but socially as well.  I am exceedingly thankful for having some of the best flatmates in my first and third year halls that ever could have been asked for.  Cheesy I know, but the multi-coloured pancakes, the tu-tus, climbing the kitchen shaft (not a euphemism) and Barack Snowbama from my Freshman days to the Ultimate Jagerbombs, Mackerel Packets, the final Dissertation rush, Thanksgiving meal and of course, the appearance of an E flat alto Trombone in both years make for nothing short of two definitively hilarious experiences that ensured success - While my academic results ended up being far from perfect due to my second year, critically my professional efforts have got me where I want to be, and that is what it's all about. 

The second half of the week though, I lodge with a man known exclusively here as The Chief, for the mightiest celebrations known to man.  I can't say any more just yet why... but getting back to Spamcroft and the monster pinned to the western arch will be nothing short of a treat and a joy.  Obviously my technique has nosedived through lack of practice, but I can always pull something out the bag!  Slotty Vallotti temperament might well be for girls, but thinking of my personal registration for the Pachelbel G Minor Fantasia, the grit of the reed chorus topped with the quint and tierce mutations makes for a spinetingling turn at the E flat minor moment.  That terz-zimbel effect is something I miss the most really... Oh.  And a Pedal Chorus.


Sat here as I am, merrily typing away, I wonder why I haven't written more and more often recently.  Perhaps apathy is the greatest cause behind a lack, although various other difficulties have taken their toll as well.  Professional concerns have been high on my agenda, slightly more improtant than my usual moaning on here anyway.  Watch this space though, and I don't mean read between the lines this time (I know a few people do, so don't bother), this week will prove quite important to me, as the weeks often are, as they stretch on into eternity.  I still haven't decided whether I'm really taking my Banjo or not yet!  It'll be a pig to have going through London, after all, but why be without something that makes me so happy?  The effort will surely be worth it.  After all, the Back in Black tour starts here.

Tenth Draft

It's been a tough old life recently.  Basically, this is the journal of a man who has immense diffuculty managing his shoelaces, let alone his depression, published onto the internet, where I invite you to read it.  Feast on my misery and solitude, and share in my passion and victory.  

After the desolation of last week I have been trying to find myself again, to reinstate what matters, my processes and practices.  One of my biggest problems when I get depressed is recognition, or in fact, the lack of it.  One of my go to phrases this fortnight, especially in a follow up to some obvious mistake or lask of answer is "I don't even know who I am, let alone anything else!", and comically exagerrated bewilderment aside, I actually haven't been hugely sure.  Looking in the mirror, I have met with an unfamiliar face, ravaged by massive weight loss, too much drink  and lack of regular sleep.  I don't even see any trace of the monster who used to look back at me, so I suppose that's a good thing at least... Members of my family have been greeted on the phone by one Travis Bell, and those of you who know who he is will appreciate my fugue to the ghost of a Japanese assassin who gives exactly no shits at all for the precious bullshit that gets thrown around.

I said that I was at loss, and I sure am still now.  Where and to who do I turn?  Really that's what it comes down to, loss.  The loss of someone precious and cherished.  The sudden loss of an accepted routine; not only one that I was simply used to but had become pleased with, which is of course a concession my life must make to my autism.

I am also very guilty of losing the recognition of my supporting players - the people who are there for me all the time even and especially when I don't remember.  To you all, thank you.  It's more than enough having the Big Man who would come down at a moments' notice, but friends old and new, family close and extended have reminded me that it isn't always going to be this hard, even though it feels like that right now. 

It was extremely refreshing this last week, however, to hear somebody else tell me how difficult things must be because of the effort I expend in managing my autism every day.  No, really!  Completely unprovoked and unprompted, and really very kindly meant.  It has been a struggle recently.  I haven't wanted to move for days on end, and the prospect of leaving my room to face everything literally everything else in the world so draining and, well, even frightening.  How shameful!  Not really.  There are plenty of other people out there who are just as frightened, just as anxious and just as depressed as I am, have been and probably will be again who give in.  Some days that door handle can be a powerful deterent just on it's own, regardless of what may be (or probably isn't) on the other side.

A few things have been coming back though.  And little things at that.  I've managed to put a little bit of weight back on, which means my waistline is back up to a healthy 29 inches, but my waistcoats are still a little loose, so I still have far to go.  I've upped my Bach on Banjo schedule too, adding the Sarabandes from the D minor, C major and C Minor suites to my programme of the G major suite.  The Sarabandes are the emotional centres of the suites; C major's triumphal majesty is balanced by D minor's lyricism in sorrow... but the C minor suite's essay in solitude and emptiness is a cold mirror for my self right now.  The delicate placing of the second beat almost matches my slowly worsening gait...

I'm cooking again though, and even treated myself to some new cookery books, courtesy of Nigel Slater and Jamie Oliver, the latter of whose latest opi, 15 Minute Meals, will be of some use in the Scholary where time is limited and appetites large.

What else can I say though?  There's still a lot trapped in my head that I just don't know how to express, should it even be expressed at all...but I have to get it all out somehow or the noise will just become too much and I shall go mad.  I often describe myself as mad; Insanity truly is doing the same thing over and over and expecting different results, and there's noone guiltier of that than me.

Postscriptum

This post in particular caused me some problem, maybe more so than last week's.  Here I am, in the early hours of the morning performing last minute changes and edits to make sure I have used as unequivocal language as possible.  This isn't about guilt, or blame, or fault.  I only ever blame myself for things anyway, which really is a pattern I must get out of, but I have other things weighting heavily on my mind right now.  This is about me feeling so cut up that I don't really know how to cope, and nothing more.  

I told my brother that trying to put myself back together to the confident, outgoing, witty and well dressed man I know I have been was like building an Empire on a Grain of Sand.  His immediate response?

"I'll fetch the scaffolding."