Thursday, 29 December 2011

The Plan

Sounds a lot more dramatic than it is, calling it "The Plan", as I'm planning some kind of Frankenstein experiment or a bank heist or something. The truth is, in case you don't remember or couldn't follow my 11-post explanation, the plan is this:

1 - Acquire money.
2 - Fuck bitches. Purchase open return coach ticket from London to Paris.
3 - Pack bag with one set of casual clothes, one suit, a laptop and any remaining money.
4 - Arrive at destination as early as possible, try to meet people who will let me crash for the night.
5 - Hitchhike somewhere else.
6 - Repeat 4 & 5 while working from my laptop and attempting to use my suit to open doors to fancy parties and cool jobs.
7 - Attempt to continue until I have enough money to actually rent a room.
7a - Come home
8 - Live the life I dream of rather than the one I've been dealt. Ideally be happy, but probably be marginally less unhappy.
8a - Be unhappy, try again some other time.

Ok, so step one is FINALLY out the way. I have around £100, which is enough for the ticket I want and about £10 spending money. In case you aren't familiar with our currency, £10 is not a lot of money. I currently spend £15 a week on food and that's considered pretty frugal by my friends.
The suit thing is optimistic at best, I'm not really expecting to get anywhere just because I look smart, but I do have faith in my ability to talk my way into and out of sitiuations (albeit in my native tongue, English) and so I'm hoping the suit will just make me feel good about myself while I do so. Shallow, I know, but why should I hide my shallow side? It's no great flaw to have flaws, and I shan't be kidding myself about mine.
Nor will I say "shan't" again.

I'm scared, terrified even, that this will become another failed adventure. Another desperate swipe at happiness that leaves me reeling when it fails. Even scarier though, is that I might succeed and become the novelist and journalist I want to become, living in the cities I want to live in with the people I love, and still be desperately unhappy.

I don't write about Depression much anymore, but only because I've run out of superlatives for how awful I feel.
Many of you will have experienced reactive depression, it's incredibly common considering how little it's spoken of, and it can be a crippling mess of a condition. It's the punch-in-the-gut strife that surrounds you like a hot bleach shower as you get your mind around some bad news, and it's the completely apathetic, empty, hollow zero-ness that comes with a terrible realisation or anti-epiphany. The events that cause reactive depression don't have to be typically "depressing" like a failed relationship or losing your job. It's the perceived scale of the problem that's important, not the scale based on the norm.

Short-term bursts of this feeling can be triggered by small things that have latched themselves in like a rusty key insisting on opening a creaky, cobwebbed door. This isn't reactive depression, it's just a similar feeling on a short-term basis.

My bleach showers come when I see a particular type of sunset, have contact with one of a few people (one of whom is possibly my best friend in the world), come across in-depth references to guilt and shame, I do something that I feel isn't authentic. I find these come crashing into me when I least expect it, although episodes don't usually last more than an hour or two. I'll often think of self-harming or have suicidal thoughts during these moments.
Incidentally, this is what I believe Winston Churchill meant by his "black dog".

My bedridden emptiness comes when I spend too much time with people, when I return from any traveling/journey over about an hour, when I have to speak to people about myself. I like talking about myself to be honest, but I just don't like having to do it.
I don't like having to do anything.
It's these moments that aren't so short term, occassionally last weeks at a time. I'm ok right now, but I can feel myself buckling, it's a little scary but I'd be lying if I said I wasn't comfortable when extremely depressed. These may be the times when I'm harming, thinking of suicide and hating me, the world and you, but there's a safety in the independence of depression. I can do whatever I fucking want, and if anyone notices, I don't care. It's completely careless. It's strange, you'd think carelessness would bring happiness and the freedom I'm always harping on about, but it's not the same carelessness. It's not carefree, which suggests I'm choosing not to care, it's careless, which to me suggests I don't have much say in it. It happens to me and I make the best of it while I can. I'd certainly rather be a selfish prick than a crying one. Sometimes anyway.

I hope to leave for Paris by the end of January. I'll keep you posted.

Also, I received two lovely comments on my last post and I didn't get around to reciprocating or even publishing. I've just been busy with Christmas and the like, and I will get around to publishing and replying to the relevant people soon, promise!
I think it's The Beholder and GB, who happen to be two of my favourites on this whole site anyway, so that's just plain nice.

Hope you all had merry Christmasses and will have happy new years! See you on the other side.

1 comment:

  1. Good luck with your plan. Needless to say, it is something I would probably never attempt. Be prepared to meet a lot of weird people, Paris is a huge city. I hope you're good at French.