I am actually really beginning to believe there is something in the notion of writing as therapy. I know why I am teensy weensy bit stressed – it is because Maria has the nerve to be away this weekend. Two whole nights!! Despite writing an insultingly objective analysis to woman’s hour of the recipe for a successful marriage (the male perspective was the brief (I doubt they used it)) – it was all a complete lie – I adore her, worship her and alarmingly for her, depend on her totally for my mental well being as well as my physical. Mind you that sounds some distance from the recipe for a happy marriage – more like the motivation for a plot to a Nordic noir. Obsessive neurotic lecturer husband self immolates in Fjord. Thus In anticipation of this disasterous weekend of blubbering heapness I feel the need to offload – so here goes.
I hate my own company- hate, hate, hate it. I can not put it strongly enough. If I were cast way on a desert island with my eight records I would throw myself and them in the sea before tea time – Fact, unequivocal, no lie. Those smugly self sufficient souls on the show always talk about making a shelter and enjoying the tranquility what they really mean is hoping they packed 20 Valium and screaming like a baby until they were dead with narcotics or exhaustion. That said I have managed to endure just a few memorable occasions of isolation. When I was 21 I hitch hiked around Europe for a month spending 90% of my time on my own or linguistically alone. The odd encounter with someone who would speak to me was a restorative sufficient to last a day or two before I started to collapse like soggy cardboard and wanted my mum. After Guildhall I spent 5 months in Italy but can only really count the first month as alone because after then I formed so many friendships (in desperation, a few undesirable ones for sure) that I actually had to change apartments to get away from some of them. Since then my alone times have been short and grim. I know when I am in one. There is a very particular feeling that starts in my stomach and then spreads until it has consumed every positive thought or feeling in me. I see a world peopled by Bosch – the artist not the power tool – flaming demons erupt from my indigestible (that’s another symptom) cornflakes. It has no rationale and for a bit there is no escape. Then it flys away for a bit – anything can trigger a temporary stay of the nonsense and exuberant joy a radio programme, the cats fighting, a telephone call. While bouncing between these two extremes I feel I can really empathise with those who suffer from bipolar disease. But now…
I have my writing. I have never had this outlet before and this weekend I will conducting a study – as follows: Does writing a blog help those pathetic individuals who can’t cope being alone cope better? Blubbering tear soaked phone calls to all and sundry will prove the null hypothesis.