The things you try to forget, doesn't time fly?
It's been a lot, lately.
This Brexit keeps getting worse all the time. I'm not sure how much the rejection in my personal life is mirrored in my work life. My job's interesting, on good days, doesn't pay enough, and I may need to challenge myself more. I didn't get into university, in part because they don't know if I want it enough, probably in part because I don't know if I want it enough.
Getting told, "A leading Eating Disorder Unit doesn't know what to do with you", amid suggestions from NHS therapists I should try psychoanalysis, the year after I quit five years of psychoanalysis with essentially nothing, while dieticians try to give me therapy and therapists try to treat me with dietetics, is, I suppose, incredibly on brand for me.
Today I watched the team I love leave the World Cup, playing poorly enough to not break my heart. And ... I feel like I'm walking through a dream. A month ago, I helped my parents move house, emptying my teen bedroom. I am not that connected to my younger self, because ... that wasn't a happy person or in a good place to be. I walk around in shades, in great shape, unaccountably hot, and almost like myself. Much of the. time. That's good, right?
My flatmate spoke, while watching the football of when he "socially had to be interested in football". I didn't have that, but when I was someone very much isolated in myself, I found I could use an interest in football to bond. Which is part of why I like the World Cup. (Aside from the fact it's actually a very well formed event. With lots of trivia/info to be on top of.) I don't watch much outside of international tournaments, but it's at times like this where I maybe feel most in touch with my teenage self. Or most like that person.*
But I digress. I bring this up because I finally got around to changing my bank address from my parents' old place.
For the first time in 27 years I am not registered at a Scottish address.
On the political side of things, the world continues to end. I don't know if I belong in London -- or how I feel about the fact this seems my home. (That my friends are those who rejoice in being metropolitan elite.)
After nine years in a place, it feels a lot more densely populated with former friends, or the ghosts of those who've left. I don't get the tube that much, but when I do, I keep seeing people I half think I recognise.
Ten years here in October. I've known for a while. I should be working out how to leave by then, or ... having some sort of plan. It's hard. Work occupies a lot. It breaks a lot. "I'm reading good books" is a line that describes, gets around talking about how I am. Being evasive can be good. But I know it's too automatic for me.
Maybe not processing things is sometimes automatic. Keeping going is a good coping strategy, but sometimes it can all hit you. I feel like what I mostly ignore these days is that I'm thirty-one, haven't done much, and am way too alone.
I am in a spectacularly lucky situation, and should be able to do great things. But I don't. It's partially confidence. It's ... a number of things. It's a lack of self-belief, of belief in a direction.
Which is, I suppose, what life is. I need to not let it be what me is. I've had purpose, I've been good at things. I would like to get back there.
I have plans. Which, for the last month or five I've been going to get to next week.
I need a break, but don't really know how.
But, yeah. I am no longer registered in Scotland. A threshold. That makes me mature, right?
*At some point I should mention that I seem to be in a relationship with someone I was at school with. Who I got to know only after. And got with recently, despite her being (openly) married with a 5-year-old. And 500 miles away. There's a lot there I avoid processing, but it seems to be good.
This Brexit keeps getting worse all the time. I'm not sure how much the rejection in my personal life is mirrored in my work life. My job's interesting, on good days, doesn't pay enough, and I may need to challenge myself more. I didn't get into university, in part because they don't know if I want it enough, probably in part because I don't know if I want it enough.
Getting told, "A leading Eating Disorder Unit doesn't know what to do with you", amid suggestions from NHS therapists I should try psychoanalysis, the year after I quit five years of psychoanalysis with essentially nothing, while dieticians try to give me therapy and therapists try to treat me with dietetics, is, I suppose, incredibly on brand for me.
Today I watched the team I love leave the World Cup, playing poorly enough to not break my heart. And ... I feel like I'm walking through a dream. A month ago, I helped my parents move house, emptying my teen bedroom. I am not that connected to my younger self, because ... that wasn't a happy person or in a good place to be. I walk around in shades, in great shape, unaccountably hot, and almost like myself. Much of the. time. That's good, right?
My flatmate spoke, while watching the football of when he "socially had to be interested in football". I didn't have that, but when I was someone very much isolated in myself, I found I could use an interest in football to bond. Which is part of why I like the World Cup. (Aside from the fact it's actually a very well formed event. With lots of trivia/info to be on top of.) I don't watch much outside of international tournaments, but it's at times like this where I maybe feel most in touch with my teenage self. Or most like that person.*
But I digress. I bring this up because I finally got around to changing my bank address from my parents' old place.
For the first time in 27 years I am not registered at a Scottish address.
On the political side of things, the world continues to end. I don't know if I belong in London -- or how I feel about the fact this seems my home. (That my friends are those who rejoice in being metropolitan elite.)
After nine years in a place, it feels a lot more densely populated with former friends, or the ghosts of those who've left. I don't get the tube that much, but when I do, I keep seeing people I half think I recognise.
Ten years here in October. I've known for a while. I should be working out how to leave by then, or ... having some sort of plan. It's hard. Work occupies a lot. It breaks a lot. "I'm reading good books" is a line that describes, gets around talking about how I am. Being evasive can be good. But I know it's too automatic for me.
Maybe not processing things is sometimes automatic. Keeping going is a good coping strategy, but sometimes it can all hit you. I feel like what I mostly ignore these days is that I'm thirty-one, haven't done much, and am way too alone.
I am in a spectacularly lucky situation, and should be able to do great things. But I don't. It's partially confidence. It's ... a number of things. It's a lack of self-belief, of belief in a direction.
Which is, I suppose, what life is. I need to not let it be what me is. I've had purpose, I've been good at things. I would like to get back there.
I have plans. Which, for the last month or five I've been going to get to next week.
I need a break, but don't really know how.
But, yeah. I am no longer registered in Scotland. A threshold. That makes me mature, right?
*At some point I should mention that I seem to be in a relationship with someone I was at school with. Who I got to know only after. And got with recently, despite her being (openly) married with a 5-year-old. And 500 miles away. There's a lot there I avoid processing, but it seems to be good.