(Edit; Not writing about world events right now as it would sound trite, but I hope Japanese readers out there are okay).
I think, anyway. I’m not entirely sure but I wrote about confessional blogging for them, and to my knowledge it’s being published on Sunday. So if you want to read it, there you go! It’s about the pros (and pitfalls) of being a non-anonymous blogger. I haven’t read the final edit of it so it’ll be a surprise to me, too!
So much for not blogging anymore, eh? I sneakily lost about 70% of my readers in the process, which I don’t mind, and I’m a lot more comfortable here now I have privated a lot of my posts. I let the domain lapse, too, which I regret a bit, but I didn’t know how to sort it out. I had started to become freaked out by it all, which I’ve explained before (see above post). This is a quieter place now, come to my lounge, let us drink tea and talk of times past!
If this is going to be a pluggy self obsessed post, I may as well get it all out the way now…
I wrote an article for lovely One in Four, too, about recovery. Their current issue is now out. It’s over here:
I also have a backlog of emails to respond to- I’ve been on a shitty mobile connection for two months and I haven’t been keeping up. I was doing blog posts on Word then emailing them and copying and pasting. I’m aware it’s self important to say such things, but I feel like an arse for not replying to emails when I know the balls it takes people to write them.
I finally have Internet Proper, which means streaming Robocop and fantasising about making tiny armour for the cat. Aside from wasting my time doing that, I am inundated with school work, which is pretty much sapping my life. The knockback from KCL somewhat dented my momentum on my course, but I’m shaking it off and trotting on. I missed my ICT class tonight due to needing to do a presentation on Tuesday. About polycystic ovarian syndrome. Anything you need to know and be delivered nervously on endocrine disorders, I’m yer girl.
Aside from that, I really have almost nothing to say for myself! I have inadvertently become someone who tidies up the kitchen without being asked. I have more than two clean dishes on the go at a time. I’ve taken up fucking BAKING. Life is quiet and mostly happy. Except…I am struck often by the feeling I am wasting my life and that I have wasted the past five years. I had all this time, and what did I do with it but bitch and moan? I haven’t done much, haven’t written much that I wanted to (still haven’t written a bloody book, but that’s due to fighting discomfort about being that open to boots in the balls), few jobs, no qualifications. Starting again, in a way, twenty five and potless for pissing, screwing my eyes up at Harvard referencing and dreaming of being a nurse-writer, or a writer-nurse, depending on how infuriating I am finding the formally mentioned Harvard referencing. But then I find myself on the toilet downloading PDFs about mental health nursing and psychology and reading them in bed or at the bus stop.
It’s something I’m finding hard to face and reconcile- I know, rationally, I haven’t wasted my life, I’ve done Stuff, some interesting, awesome, fun and unusual stuff. (Radio 4 is still surreal when I think about, working with Rethink has always been brilliant and fun things are as fun as running over the, “This is a fucking deathtrap” bridge in the Dog Kennel Hill Adventure Playground on Wednesday, and smiling, fondly, like a mum, at the football table I’d gotten for Robert two Christmasses ago, residing happily between the warring arms of two teenagers in the youth portacabin). I know this, but part of my surprise at enjoying baking and doing the dishes, being domestic, is because I don’t feel 25, as my life- the 9-5 working life, the saving-up-for-the-future-life (impossible on benefits) stopped when I was 21. I might have had a 15 month old baby by now. When I hear upstairs’ baby bawling its balls off at 1am I’m relieved, and then I hear it laughing at 8am, and I feel, briefly, wistful.
It’s ordinary, it’s a normal feeling to have. Everyone goes through phases of thinking, “My life is a waste!” and wishing they were more windswept, more interesting. They’ll write that novel and travel the world and they don’t, few do. Some try, have a kind of spasmodic crisis. But it’s not a waste. Not really. I know this, too.
I’m still doing fine. Bit hermitty and lonesome, as my social life is dead these days. I’m too busy doing school work anyway. I continue to look as though I am storing food in my cheeks. My writing ability has somewhat deserted me, and it takes a lot more effort to write than I’m used to. I keep missing out words. I know this, I was aware of this before. But it’s irritating, especially as I have essays. They’re supposed to sound dull and dry. But duller and drier still. Ah well. I am mostly happy, though. Having small adventures.
There’s a tank in Bermondsey.
Go and visit it if you’re in London, it’s here! It’s just there, at the corner of a street on one of the busiest roads in the city, near the monolithic Elephant and Castle. It’s like walking into an animation.
Anyway, I’m tired, sick of looking at Powerpoint and bibbling! Goodnight!
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