Day #141 - Fronteir Psychiatrist

Posted by Alex | | Posted On Wednesday, 20 January 2010 at 13:40

I'm noticing a lot lately. I'm noticing that I am far from 'as emotionally strong as I thought I was'. I'm noticing my idea of poetry doesn't conform to my ideal of poetry. I'm noticing couples more and more, and feeling horrid about it all, in a Helter-Skelter kind of way - I climb to the top, I slide back down, repeat to fade. It's not a very good start to a year where I thought that shaving my head and getting fitter would be enough of a culture shock to make me stop pining for the things I miss. Seems not.

I've had a few realisations over the last 48 hours or so:

  • I am not the nicest of people. I really am quite a bastard, for want of a better word. Actually em trobo malament lately about the way I treated my mate's girlfriend. He probably won't read thi, but, there we go; it's out there. I am actually feeling crummy about it.
  • I read a blog belonging to a girl I've pretty much lost touch with. We had a moment of brief passion over a year ago, and then drifted away from each other. She never really entered back into my life, but, she's still on my Facebook friends list. At one point, I thought I could have loved her. Now, on reading her blog I find out that she's spent the last few months on the verge of the abyss, as it were, staring down as it stared back. And it hit me. I'm not one who's afraid of death; in fact, my only absurd fear (beyond Moths) is to die alone... back to the point ... I'm not one who's afraid of death, but, the thought of her almost dying actually broke some of the concrete off my Grinch's heart. Maybe I care?
  • My grasp for languages is slowly going out the window as everyone I talk to, even the languages students, insist on using English. I wrote down donchisciottesco on Facebook last night, with a pronunciation guide...but could I figure out how to say it? No. I'm sure I wrote "Don-key-schee-o-tesco" before I checked my Paravia and found it to be "Don-key-shot-tesco". Lovely grasp of the not-so-phonetic alphabet right there. On top of that, I've looked at my pile of work, and the chances of it diminishing before Monday are slim to none. I am procrastinating like a fool.
  • Every day I stand in the shower and go through the same routine. I stare in the mirror, pulling down my eyelids and inspecting myself. I hop in, think the water is tepid, don't change the temperature, scrub down, and go through the same thought process: "Why aren't I over her?" "Do I genuinely still love her?" "It's been two months; surely I'd be over her by now?" "Why doesn't she talk to me?" "Is she enjoying her time without me?" "Does she feel like this every morning when she wakes up?" "Will I actually make it through my Year Abroad without going stir-crazy thing about her?" - two months, four days, and I'm still going nuts over my break-up. So nuts, I end up staying up til 3am thinking it over, sleeping til 8, then starting my day again feeling like this.
    It's really not on, but I don't even think there's any other way for me to tackle it. After my dream yesterday, I went for a walk; a nice half-hour trek around the streets, wandering, head down, listening to Sneaker Pimps. I felt content with the world and the beauty in it, as I walked down old side-streets, and over railway bridges. Then I got home, I ate some cake; I had no complaints. Today, I wake up, and the pangs start again. That boy needs therapy, said The Avalanches, and I think they were right.



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