Mood & Vibes: Angel Olsen - Lark, Lana Del Rey - Happiness is a butterfly
(The narrator is genderless, so every pronoun will be utilised. It's not that difficult, I promise.)
I’m in a really curious disposition.
And when I say curious, I mean it’s never been portrayed in the media, at least to my knowledge, and ~Media~ is the thing I base my life on; the expectations of what life could/should be as well as how people react to certain actions or situations. Which, thinking about it now, does sound a bit spectrum-y (I was on Urban Dictionary and this is the ad they suggested:) 😬 And I just cannot.afford.another.diagnosis.
God? Are you there?? I beg.
Growing up I was made to believe the purpose of school is to prepare one for the life ahead, and boy was I disappointed. Could’ve relied on my parents, I guess, but we were so cold and distant and used to sweeping everything under the rug and ignoring the heaping piles of shit beneath it that it took me 20 years to discuss my first same sex relationship with my mother. She didn’t ask about any previous ones as the media suggests mothers always do, and I only started talking to her about it because the relationship was the most impactful I’ve ever had, and the break-up hurt me like never before. And when I say we “discussed it”, I mean she asked what’s new, I replied I’ve broken up with a male man person, and her response was the Boomer version of “sometimes it be like that”.
So I had books. And later movies, and tv shows, and video games. I knew not all of them were real or factual, I knew it didn’t always represent the full magnitude of the human experience, but at least it was something. It was less scary going into the world, wide-eyed and unassuming.
So here's the quagmire, the quinkydink: I think about death every day.
When it gets really bad, I yearn for an absolute end, a complete stop to everything, one might say (although I, with my gay brain, cannot wrap my head around ceasing to exist. I don't think any human can.) An actual fucking suicide. A handful of pills and a pocketful of stones.
On better days, I crave a coma. A pause, a break from existence. A coma that feels like floating; there's no rent to pay, no body dysmorphia, and definitely no mental illness.
And I've tried, multiple times, to end it. Unsuccessfully of course; but that's because I am a narcissist. A narcissist who thinks his death would rob the World of the talent that I apparently? potentially? possess. A talent that I have not done anything with, apart from a blog post every three years. A talent that was not proven or attested with a university degree. And I'm pretty fucking sure that this supposed belief, this conviction that I'm good at something, better at something than the average person, was created by the childhood trauma to make me think
There's still hope. There's a light at the end of the tunnel (preferably bisexual lighting lol jk fam). All this; the suffering, the trauma, the abuse, the rape, the cuts, the depression, it's gonna be worth it.
I'm scared that it won't.
I want to take a walk. Been laying in bed all day to the point where my lower back starts to hurt, which is a sign I’m more than familiar with and used to ignoring. Plus I want sweets; I know it won't help even though the simple act of getting what I want used to. I asked my personal dietitian (bf) permission and he said no, but I still got them; even though I know I will be trying to ride this wave of inspiration instead of stuffing my face. I never learn.
After the shop I just keep on walking; straight, which is so foreign to me. If there was a smell to define this high street, it would be fried chicken. It's full of shop after shop. I tried imagining how much chicken is killed and cooked every day, and got a headache.
It's frightening, seeing so many closed shops and empty storefronts in every borough; and yet, the high street is pulsating with (masked) life. Queues outside stores, traffic jams and incidents, street works and road closures, and the people..I'm no longer afraid to look them in the eyes, and I do, provocatively, wondering, what's their story.
The only thing high streets aren't lacking in are delivery boys (and occasional girls). Just your average Sam Porter Bridges, waiting outside McDonald's on mopeds or bikes or scooters, shivering in anticipation.
They're dressed in typical British fashion: both winter jackets and shorts; house slippers and fresh white socks. I think I saw a sex worker, but was too afraid to ask for advice.
My mother messages me, and the conversation habitually turns into shifting blame and guilt tripping, and how one "shouldn't give up because there's so much to live for".
I could talk to my friends, you know, but in the last two months both bffs asked me to help them die. We actually made potential plans; my favourite is taking all of our savings and spending it on cocaine, and leaving this plane of existence whilst riding high.
It has become a case of blind leading the blind. 9 out of 10 friends my age have some sort of a mental illness; do you still blame that on computers and the internet, mom!? Saying "God i want to die" has become ordinary, it doesn't ping off alarm bells like it would in the movies; fresh scars don't impress much because my friends have scars, too. I reread books I read a decade ago; I downloaded games like Angry Birds or Candy Crush because, I think, what we're trying to do here is evoke a memory or a feeling of a time where shit wasn't so difficult. Rent didn't need to be paid because we lived with our parents; depression was just beginning to plant its seeds; living in a small town meant your experience with dating was limited, and therefore hatred for me wasn't as deep as it is now; shops weren't so cosmopolitan so you didn't need to go to Waitrose for the perfect guacamole and just ate what your parents made you. Life was easier, man. And now, a decade later, I'm wondering if those 6 pounds I wasted on sweets will impact my next month's rent.
This is my la dolce vita.
Suddenly, the high street is cut off by a bridge, and we enter an area of beautiful high rise estates and no rubbish on the sidewalks. All the buildings have fences and gates, and there’s a fountain in front of the main entrance. Maybe one could hear the quiet rippling of the water in the dead of night.
Another ambulance siren; maybe a person tried to cross to an area where they don't belong.
Eventually I cross the street and turn back. There’s a couple on the sidewalk in front of me, which always causes some amount of stress in the purposed tranquility of a walk. Will they judge the way I look (they have their backs to me and couldn't care less to turn around to even look at me)? Will our paces synchronise and I'll be forced to either walk the remainder of the route feeling anxious, or will resort to that awkward shuffle where you start walking faster to get ahead of them and then slow down once they're a safe distance away?
I don’t feel it myself do it, but I surpass them; maybe my pace was faster, maybe they slowed down; who cares? Does it even matter??
They’re close to the gated estate and I’m next to the street, and for a second I can’t help but think: what if I did it? Would it hurt a lot? More than it already has, at least.
There’s a truck incoming, that’s a sure-fire way. If only half of me was hit, would I do an awkward pirouette, like a turnstile? My arms stretched out, with a grocery bag in one hand. Maybe the groceries would do a neat hurl out of the bag and on to the street. Kill Bill style.
The yogurt would pop, icky white on the tarmac.
6 kilometres and 90 minutes later (avg pace 15min31s/km) the head is clearer, I guess. The only positive tonight was the length of the walk; perfect timing to come back with legs starting to hurt and a desperate need to piss (and have some water).
On my way back, I walked past that fountain and got a closer look. It hasn't been in use for ages; that 'water' I saw was tiny blue fairy lights left over from christmas.
