Welcome to the rest of your life.

Sub: Welcome to 2012!


I'm propped against the lime green cushion on the sofa, staring blankly at the screen and not really registering anything that is going on.

That is how I spent my New Year.

I went to see Puss in Boots at the cinema, had an Indian takeaway and now I am plonked in front of the wide screen in the living room. My eyes glaze over as I wish I was somewhere else, anywhere but here. That is how I brought 2012 in.

Despite being effervescent, I am actually quite gloomy. I sit for long amounts of time staring at the ceiling but not really seeing it. I analyse everything I do, have done and will probably do. This, of course, leads to me second guessing people, which can be a pain. I often answer myself before they have had a chance to give their view on some question I have asked. It’s one of the things that annoys me about myself. Then again I have never been anyone else but myself and I make damn sure that I shall not change. If people don’t like me now then I am not to be bothered with them.

This is just one of the issues I used to discuss with my counsellor. After the stroke I was offered the option of having one; I agreed. We outlined a few problem areas in my life and mindset which I need to cure/resolve if I am ever going to be happy.

‘Is anyone truly happy?’ Not what I was meant to say, obviously. Answering a question with a question is considered to be something a ‘smart arse’ does. In real fact I asked it because I was desperate for them to say ‘Yes.’ No answer came as I received a tight-lipped smile in its place. ‘Let’s focus on when you moved to Shropshire from Devon, shall we?’

Well, I suppose I could do…

It’s 2002 and I am in my small studio flat. My first proper home since I moved out from a house-share with a friend whom I had fallen out with. The problem with sharing with friends is that they indubitably find a boyfriend/girlfriend and they are joined at the hip. Her boyfriend, like a cuckoo, upended me from the safety and support of my nest. I have never been like that. I have always prided myself on my ability to still act and function as a separate unit whilst being in a relationship. ‘You’ve never been in love!’ I hear you cry. Maybe, maybe I have not. I cannot recall ever being in love so fully that I immerse myself completely within my partner that I shut the rest of the world out and my friends. If that is ‘love,’ you can keep it!

Abandonment. That is problem number one.

‘Why do you feel as if everyone if going to leave you?’ The pen is tapped against her notepad. She has read my file and knows where it stems from. ‘I imagine it is because my father left us at an early age and then a lot of my family died in my early years.’ She nods and steeples her fingers on the other side of her desk. By me answering fully and truthfully she feels that she has (achievement) ‘unlocked’ a door or something to my soul. Truth is, I quite readily admit my faults and where and why I think they have started. I have never shied away from the fact that I have ‘daddy issues’ and ‘commitment issues,’ albeit in a different way to others. I let her think she has made a breakthrough whilst secretly feeling the serpent coil within my stomach. What an idiot. I let the corner of my mouth twitch. I know I could stop it from doing so but I allow it to slip through today.

‘What is your relationship like now with your father?’ She wants to focus on the future now but I like to just speak as my brain wants me to. Normally this leaves people confused but, hell, this is my time. Well, nowadays it is distant and we rarely see or speak to each other. He has a girlfriend and she has children living with her and so he is ‘busy’ a lot of the time. He does protest that he has nothing to do with the kids as they irritate him and he cannot be bothered with ‘brats.’ Indeed. Why help raise someone else’s children when you neglected your own so thoroughly? That would be ridiculous, right? I smile blankly at him whenever he says this and we are at an embarrassing silence in our conversation. We both know that he lies constantly and we both know that neither of us will say anything to catch him out. I am too old and too tired for this game. I think back to 2002 and start speaking aloud, my eyes distant,

‘Don’t call me ‘dad…’’

Standing in the pub with my so-called father I am left a little take aback. Did he just say that? Yes, yes he did. I am in my late teens and have moved half the country to reconnect with him.

‘Don’t call me…’

It rings through my skull and my insides knot. Outwardly I am as blank faced as usual. I have been practising.

‘Yeah, whatever Simon.’

He goes to the bar, satisfied with my answer. I have ordered a Bacardi and coke and try not to choke on it as it burns its way down my throat. The reasons for him not wanting me to call him ‘dad’ (as if he even deserves the title) is because he hopes to pick up some moronic woman and take her home. My father is how I picture all men. After one thing in the end, no matter how nice they are. If it isn’t sex then it’s control.

A few of his friends come in and flirt in a lecherous way, he lets them as I am now of no interest to him as he’s spotted someone 20 years his junior. The only person I have any fondness for is one of his best friends, Calvin. A lovely gent that is generous with his time, humour and money. He buys me a couple of drinks and we talk about his daughter, who I work with. A few more drinks later and I decide to see where my philandering parent has gone. I am informed that he left some 30 minutes ago with some dark haired girl who he was plying with wine. Money wins out. I went home.

Shortly after this I was taken into hospital with pleurisy. He never visited me. Although I found out he was using my illness as a talking point on women, which cheered me to no end. I’m glad to help you out on your road to scoring, ‘dad.’

This wasn’t the first time I had been very ill and in hospital by any means. It was also not the first time he had not bothered to visit me. I had been attacked about a month after moving to Shropshire as I was walking home late with some friends I had made and we were set upon by some thuggish twats. I had some ribs broken but thankfully no more. It could have been much, much worse. I was put on multiple drugs and kept in hospital. When they asked for next of kin the only person I had was my mother, all the way down in Devon. I offered up my fathers number but it rang out. They did leave a message for him but there was no returned call. ‘Isn't there anyone else closer to home?’ I answered negatively. I did, however give them the girl’s number that lived adjacent to me in the block of flats. She was the only person to visit me.

The strain of the coughing made my ribs ache. I felt a horrific burning in my chest and I thought I was dying. This would be it, the end was coming and I had done absolutely nothing with my life.

After the pleurisy had departed, via draining of my lung and multiple antibiotics and pain killers I took up smoking and drinking. Idiotic, I know, but there was no other outlet. I didn’t self harm in the way that a lot of people my age did. I thought it was ridiculous. By the age of 18/19 I had a serious alcohol problem and was slugging back a bottle of Jack Daniels and 2 or 3 Bacardi bottles a day. We are not talking ‘breezers,’ either. I had mounting stress as I had been offered a job at my father’s firm as an embroiderist and design artist. I did my job and I did it well. My alcohol dependency didn’t seem to affect my work too much and thusly no one suspected a thing. My father treated me badly at work but I understood that this was his way of getting to know me. Tell a lie, I don’t understand it. He basically got a work horse who he could treat badly and knew they wouldn’t leave because he was their father. I look back now and I spit at my past self in disgust. Young and eager to please I worked overtime and took on more than I could handle.

‘You need to get a fucking grip. You need to have someone look at your head, you’re a fucking mess.’

Were the words departed to me after he visited my newish apartment. I had been raking the money in through extra hours and could afford to rent a 1 bedroom town property. I had my two lovely little cats that I doted on day and night. They were my children and I wanted to look after them and treat them as best as I could. This is known as ‘transference.’ As some of you may know from having spoken to me and/or having read previous blog entries I used to care for my little sister. This instinct is inbuilt in me now and I cannot function properly without caring for something or someone.

I hung my head in shame. I was a mess. I did everything he asked of me and still he looked at me like some pestilence that had dared to creep near him. I frowned at the floor, at the carrier bag containing 40 Marlboro lights and 2 bottles of my best friend, Jacky D. Yes, I was a mess.

‘What the hell your mother has been doing with you all these years I don-‘

I punched him in the face. Clean in the face, no build up. My fist cracked as it hit his meaty cheek. Quick as lightning he gave me a solid smack around the face back. A lot heavier and more muscled that I, he knocked me a few feet backwards. It was only due to my uneven flooring that I stayed upright; I could have kissed the architect. He turned white and reached out a hand towards me; I recoiled in disgust and must have been a sight as I seemed to bare my teeth. I was all spit and spite as I shrieked at him,

‘You can say what you like about me you fucking bastard but don’t you dare ever speak ill of my mother! She has been mother and father to me. YOU are a fucking mess. Look at you! Puffing yourself out around the girls, who just look at you and laugh. You’re washed out and washed up. You make me fucking sick. Get out!’

I could feel my lip burning and a very small wet spot appearing on my chin. He’d split my lip. My little cats came slowly into the living room and circled around my feet. I heard a knock at the door and was ready for round two when I realised it was the face of Stephan.

My neighbour came up shortly after he had seen my father leave, cursing my name as he wobbled down the communal stairs. He put a cold flannel to my face to stop the burn of shame staining my cheeks and made us a cup of coffee. Irish.

I went back to work on Monday and acted like everything was normal. I got myself off the drink and ciggies.

The counsellor looks at the clock to her left and I notice that she is fidgeting slightly in her chair. It was going to be New Years in a day or so and she must have been eager to clock off early. I barely smiled as I told her that I was feeling tired and needed to end the session. The visible relief that washed across her face made my lunch rise from its seat in my stomach. I swallowed deeply to keep my urge to vomit on her shiny desk at bay. She scheduled an appointment for ‘next week, same time,’ and I took the reminder slip whilst wishing her a Happy New Year.

That was the last time I went to see her.

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Present day:

I am sat at my vanity-cum-computer desk and it is 1:30am. Time has flown since I started to write this entry and I am only half aware of what I have actually written.

I can hear the tv chattering away in the other room.

Nobody ever just goes out to be with people any longer. We stay in, glued to the television that flickers from programme to programme. Whilst watching it I do wonder if half of the things I think I have done are actually what a character on the tv has done. How do we know the difference when we are so enveloped in whatever rubbish is on?

I do want more. I want to live, experience things out there rather than hole myself off from the world in my safe living room.

Alas, we live our lives in front of a screen of some sort. One day we will all have square eyes.

As soon as I get a job I am saving up for my 10 year plan. It goes something like this:

• Ensure I am in a job where I can advance rather than have my head batting
against the ceiling with no future.
• Move to somewhere bigger.
• Save up enough money and rent out somewhere at a decent price.
• Go through IVF and sperm donor to have a child of my own. I have thought of this and I do want children but I don’t trust anyone enough to have one with someone. It amuses me that people I have dated have mentioned that they do not want children. ‘Who says I was having them with you?’ is my response. I would have to deign someone completely worthy to have children with them. To be honest, I don’t think I will ever feel that way about someone. It’s more on my side than theirs though as I just cannot trust people. Having been ‘done over’ quite a few times I think it’s best this way. Plus I won’t spend years resenting them for inevitably buggering off and leaving me and my children. My mother has given me a solid view of what happens when you get older, you get traded in for a newer model. No matter what you look like, how well you get on-you will be replaced.

Men don’t feature largely in this plan, I know. Truth is I have never needed anyone. I never feel tied to anyone and ever since I can remember I have always believed that a stand alone approach to life is the best one. Even throughout the stroke and other things I have been largely alone but that is more the fact that I could never adequately explain what was happening to me and nobody really understood. I do like helping others though and as I get older I have found I have slipped into that annoying trait of bossing people when I really just mean to help. I think it’s because I see mistakes people are about to make/are making and I want to steer them clear of it. Nobody has ever mentioned me being bossy or overbearing but I do feel like that sometimes.

2012 shall be my year. I will be 26 on the 26th of January and that shall mark them start of my plan. I have waited too long to get better and too long to put my plans into action. I hope that you are, whoever you are, making the most out of your life and not just pissing it away.

Welcome to the rest of your life.


(I bloody well hope the world doesn’t end now I have said all this. I shall be very annoyed.)