I decided to pass the time by watching Planet of the Apes (the Marky Mark remake), but about an hour in I was interrupted by a phonecall. Now I can’t bring myself to continue watching. Does it get better later? Marky Mark is nice to watch, so I may still try to carry on for his sake. I find myself being irritated by Helena Bonham Carter’s character, though I can’t explain why. When I saw Kris Kristofferson with his unkempt locks I immediately thought of him as Whistler in Blade… (wasn’t he a country singer back in the day? Kris, not Whistler - though that’d be a cool name for a country singer…).

I should probably go to bed. Or eat some porridge (AKA oatmeal). I’ve been feeling very unsettled today. I woke up early (10:30am) then went back to bed for a few hours at 2pm, then I went to Croydon. Then I came home.

More thoughts in the morning.

Mariah Carey: Outside

It’s hard to explain
Inherently it’s just always been strange
Neither here nor there
Always somewhat out of place everywhere
Ambiguous
Without a sense of belonging to touch
Somewhere halfway
Feeling there’s no one completely the same

Standing alone
Eager to just
Believe it’s good enough to be what
You really are
But in your heart
Uncertainty forever lies
And you’ll always be
Somewhere on the
Outside

Outside by Mariah Carey

(more…)

Sorry about the weekend blip. I was going through an existential crisis, but I’m feeling slighter saner now. Let’s blame it on the Prozac, that’s what I tend to do.

Talking about my mental health, I still haven’t told you about that support group (which I bunked off today - with my doctor’s approval).

Well, you might be aware that I was diagnosed with depression in early-mid 2006. After trying to manage the condition through natural means (exercise, self-help, etc) I succumbed to my doctor’s suggestion of Prozac in June 2006. At the time I was going through a lot of aggravation at work, and the Prozac really took the edge of my frustration and unhappiness. It was like nothing could bother me. I felt like myself, but with a thick layer of bubblewrap around my sensitive emotions. It’s not such a dramatic sensation now, as my body has become accustomed to the extra dopamine or seratonin or whatever feel-good chemicals it boosts in my brain.

Anyway, my GP also referred me for counselling. Almost a year later I get contacted by the Primary Care Trust, who decide that I would be suitable for an 8 week depression support group. I was intrigued by the idea of the group, remembering those scenes from television:

“Hello, my name is PJ and I’m an alcoholic/overeater/sex addict…”

But it wasn’t quite like that. I won’t go into specifics, as I can’t break the confidentiality of the group, but the whole thing just drove me crazy. There were 10 people there, all with very different experiences of depression and ways of coping with it. Some people seemed to love the group format and talked endlessly about their experiences, while others (like me) seethed with quiet rage and wondered how this could possibly help. The group was run by two psychotherapists, who seemed nice enough, but were not adept enough to resolve a conflict which arose between a few members during the first session. It did not feel safe enough for me to discuss my issues there. I did attend a couple more times, but each time I experienced the same feeling of anxiety, rage and frustration. I guess the Urban Recluse really should stay away from group therapy…

Apart from that sorry experience, I’ve been feeling all mixed-up. Not knowing what to do next. With hindsight, I can pinpoint certain turning points in my life. I don’t think I’ve been really happy since 2001 (my trip to Japan). I haven’t felt like an adult since March 2003 (when I moved back in with my parents). I haven’t been content in my job since I returned from Jamaica last May (and it shows - I’m like a robot there now). I long for adventure, but I don’t have the means to pursue it right now.

My books reflect my current state of mind, look at them scattered everywhere! They attacked me this evening, perhaps in bookish retaliation at my neglect. Or as a literary wake-up call.

A couple of these shelving units would probably help to maintain order, but not for $450. I could probably ask my dad to make me one.

I’ve been going through a tumult of emotion during the past few days. (What’s so special about that? ask my long-suffering readers.)

So many extreme thoughts have gone through my mind today. I’ll probably unburden myself in another post, but for now know that I’m okay.

I happened upon this acoustic cover of Rihanna’s hit song Umbrella, and it helped to soothe my savage beast.

This guy is talented. I love his voice and his guitar skills.

When the sun shines, we’ll shine together
Told you I’ll be here forever
Said I’ll always be a friend
Took an oath, I’ma stick it out till the end
Now that it’s raining more than ever
Know that we’ll still have each other
You can stand under my umbrella
You can stand under my umbrella

Poor Britney, did you know that she turned the chance to record the song before Rihanna was offered it? The poor lass is definitely down on her luck right now.

I blogged about the original video a while ago, watch it again if you wanna see Rihanna in her golden birthday suit.

I had 3 days annual leave from work last week, which gave me about a week and a half off work in total due to my part-time regime. As I had no money and the time off was a last-minute decision I didn’t go anywhere exciting. Most days I just dossed around the house, watching telly, blogging and eating crap (as usual). The days just merged into one long solo slumber party. I did leave the house a few times, though I can’t remember why now.

And I bet that you guys didn’t notice much of a difference. I’m still a damn lazy blogger. I don’t know why you even bother to read this blog: it’s not as funny as Dr M or ES, as aesthetic as BV, as inspiring as SW or AV or AW or LS, as informed as AGD, as sexy as NoS, nor as dismal as that spineless JMC (thank godness). I’m not even a superhero like CI. For a so-called “aspiring writer” I’m not writing much, even my blog posts are rarely more than 100 words.

Oh I know, you just come here for the Sunday soft-porn show - you filthy perverts.

Sorry, I wasn’t supposed to write all of that. Last Thursday I was in such a massive rage, it was bubbling in my stomach like a fizzy lake of acid at the base of a volcano. I swallowed it and gave you all a chance to be rude instead, but as usual the bile which I kept inside still leaked out in tiny puddles of mean (like now, in case you didn’t realise - and I have NOT wet myself!).

You really don’t want me to let it all out at once. I’ve never actually completely lost my temper or released my rage. I think the free world would probably end at that moment. I would turn into some kind of mythological beast and terrorise you all with my two heads and razor-sharp fangs. I would demand daily sacrifices of the young and firm of every land, starting with Paris Hilton and Britney J-Lo. I would vanquish my enemies with fireballs (you first J.D.).

I’d probably look a bit like this, though not as pretty:

So you had all better keep me sweet. Agreed?

And by the way, I hate you all.

I’m feeling like crap again. I seem to have picked up a bug at work, which has manifested itself as fatigue, blinding headaches and a sore throat since Friday evening.

You’re probably sick of all the memes and quizzes on this blog; I know I am.

I haven’t written much in the last week or so on here, nothing of any consequence anyway.

I have a love/hate relationship with this blog. Tonight I hate it. In the morning maybe things will be different.

Today was a good/average day overall, which does not explain my sudden downward spiralling.

I saw a fat bloke knitting with bright pink wool on the train. He’d just started his “piece” so I couldn’t tell what it was going to become.

At lunchtime a guy stopped me in the street and exclaimed, “If you were my girl, I’d…” He didn’t finish his sentence (thankfully). I walked on.

Later on, a cute guy said hi to me. I was on a mission so I hurried on.

I’ve almost finished this book I’m reading, it’s a nice romance about a photographer and a scientist by Michelle M. Pillow.

My neck aches. Going to go. I hate this blog. Does that mean I hate me? Probably.

Good night.

Maybe some of you have wondered why I call myself the Urban Recluse. Well, here’s some evidence of my self-imposed social isolation. Right now I should be at my friend Ahmed’s birthday party, but instead I’m at home feeling rather guilty for not going out.

He invited me to his party last year, and I didn’t go. My excuse was that I was on my period. I wasn’t lying, but I could have gone if I’d really wanted to. So I felt obliged to go when I heard about this year’s party, but also reluctant to go as I’m an anti-social freak. I felt sure that I would be judged unfairly by his friends, and as I wouldn’t know any of them (except for maybe 2 people that I hadn’t seen in nearly 10 years) I felt rather reluctant to go.

Although Ahmed’s invitation was apparently marked RVSP, I didn’t confirm my attendance as I wanted to think it over. He sent a reminder text last week, then called me on Thursday to check whether I was going. I said yes, as there was no polite way to decline without sounding like a bitch.

Today I started preparing to go. I had a shower and started to sort out my hair. I had some dinner, and as is my custom when I’m eating alone, I read the thriller that I am currently reading. When I finished dinner I realised that I preferred the option of continuing my book rather than going out to a party to partake in small talk with strangers. Oh, and I forgot to mention the karaoke portion of the party!

A lot of people will wonder if I’m sane. Sometimes I wonder that too. Most people on the planet seem to enjoy getting together, meeting strangers, talking about whatever - I’d rather stay in with a book. I’m 26, not 96.

Now, if the party had been at a nightclub, I probably would have gone. I like to shake my booty.

Most people I know have one. The Ex. Not just any old ex-lover, but the one whom we loved most intensely, and who broke our hearts when he/she left.

I saw that ex last Friday morning on the train. I’d missed my usual train to work and had to take a different route. I sat down at a window seat and listened to mid-tempo RnB while I looked out the window.

I don’t why, but he crossed my mind when the train arrived at his old stop. I wondered whether he still lived around there. Then as if I’d caused him to appear I saw him preparing to get on the train. He walked past me and sat in the next row, facing away from me. All I could see was the back of his head. He had cut his hair, but I was 99% sure it was him.

I felt strangely numb, like I was prodding at a scar, expecting to feel pain but instead feeling nothing but a healed wound. I couldn’t help but look at the back of his head, thinking about the strangeness of being so near to someone for whom I had cared so much and with whom I’d shared so much intimacy.

I could not talk to him. I was afraid of confronting the past. I was afraid that he’d turn around and see me. That he’d see that I had not changed in the last five years. I felt awkward. I remembered the scene in Sex and The City when Miranda ran away from Steve after their breakup. I wouldn’t have done that if he’d seen me, but I could appreciate her embarrassment.

I’d had boyfriends before him, but I hadn’t fallen for any of them. I fell for him, but in my heart I knew that he didn’t feel the same way. He liked my personality primarily, not my looks. I  thought that he was so cute and funny, and I didn’t think that I was pretty enough for him. I guess I was waiting for him to figure that out, and he did, eventually.

I’d felt so inadequate that I gave him things to show my affection - a hat, a t-shirt, a watch. I gave him a neck chain for Christmas which he lost in a fight.

I wondered how his child was. He had had a girl with his previous girlfriend, and had been going through a lot of drama with her.

He was a few years older than me, so he must be about 30 now. He’s probably in some high-powered computing job - he was training in that field when we were together.

All of those things were running through my mind.

I forced myself to look away from him and look out of the window at the unfolding scenery. I was rewarded by the sight of a rainbow. Although I could still see him out of the corner of my eye, I focused on the rainbow and the message that I could take from nature’s lesson.

At my stop I rose to my feet. I took one last look at him then left the train in a melancholy mood.