That is what I’m doing. I am knowingly fucking myself up. And others. After volunteering, in a burst of radical mania, rather than rest or even eat, I went in search of the past. My Father is visiting my Brother and his Brotherettes* tomorrow and wants to deliver unto him some of the crap from the house that is his. My Father doesn’t know my Mum hoarded my Brother’s teenage years. Kept them safe. Kept them safe in the bottom of my bed. My bed used to be my Cousin’s and when he moved out, and my Brother got married and moved out, Mum filled it with band T-shirts etc. My Brother never had space for these things, even in his 3 story 9 bedroom house. But when Mum died, he had room for some of her things. Now I am rendering to Caesar. Unfortunately my Mum, while an accomplished folder and storer and ironer, failed as a Moth Proofer. I’ve found the little buggers in my room, but none of my things were eaten. I had no idea of where they were coming from. They were coming from beneath my sleep. From within my bed. So routing out the Nirvana, Jane’s Addiction, Dinosaur Jnr., Happy Monday’s, Orb and Primal Scream T-shirts from the early 90’s and the Spurs football uniforms from the same time, I discovered this cache of nostalgia would need washing. And drying. So I’ve washed. 3 or 4 loads now. I’ve also broomed and hoovered my room**, washed and sprayed and mothballed the draws, washed my duvet, piled books up, bagged old VHS tapes*** and discovered a box of my past my Mum also kept.
I’m in mania and in pain. I was in pain all day anyway. But the mania was a mere buzzing fly**** but now it’s full on. I still have my massive ESA50 form to fill in because I’ve been too fucking scared to face it. After nearly 2 months. I have to call Maximus to re-arrange my WCA for a day my Advocate can make it. And I have to get myself ready to go on a holiday with my Very Good Friend. I’ve not been on holiday beyond these shores since 2009 and I’ve never been away without my parents. So you can see how it’s all a snowball of potential fuck up and let down. I over tax myself and I’m fucked for my holiday. I don’t get things done and I fuck up my ESA. Self-sabotage they call it. I did it during my BA and I’ve done it ever since. And I’m in the midst of its roaring tornado. Even sitting here writing this, I’m adding to my likely failure. Piling a cake onto the extant obesity.
May I now sleep, may I wake clear-headed and calm. May fear fuck off and may the pain that’s developed in my neck and shoulder respond to tea and pills, or at least drive me to fill in that form with a Bad Day to inform every word.
*My Brother’s 3 children. I call them other things too.
** I’ve not had a hoover in my room for a year. I had my own, but when Mum got sick and the builders moved in, it went downstairs. I’m now not able to bring it back up the 2 floors. I dragged the smaller, shitter hoover up the stairs (1 set rather than 2) to my room with literal gritted teeth, feeling the pull in my appendix and gallbladder scars, and in my uterus and anus. Mania will do that.
***I’m not ashamed of any of them – Hammer Horror, costume dramas. Now available on DVD when for years many were not.
**** Tim Buckley, Jeff Buckley’s Dad has this song: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=2hJzgLOSNrM – the whole album is good. I thank the first man I kissed for making me a copy – I didn’t realise it was a romantic gift. It only took me 6 months and a very cold night to get the picture.
Why was stuff stored in my bed? Well, I was the youngest. My divan is my Cousin’s, my mattress was my Brother’s. They’re both over 20 years old. I’ve never had my own wardrobe. Not a sob story – but a descriptive indicator. I’ve never asked. The fact that my things have been kept in boxes or bags or other people’s draws etc is just what I’m used to. Even now I can’t ask for stuff, or say ‘Yes’ when offered. The Holiday has been planned on and off for 10 years. This year My Very Good Friend organised it – bam. And I had no excuse. She has done everything. Everything in consideration of me. And I am shitting myself. Eugh.