June 25th, 2017

kiri win

A Useless Despair

I cannot free myself from the cage of my own mind, the oppression of my thoughts, the darkness of this unknowable melancholy that hangs over me like a perennial storm cloud. These thoughts that keep circling around the same desolate words: what am I doing, why am I here, what do I want, why am I so unlovable? I feel a loneliness deep in my bones that sends a chill down my spine when I try to sleep at night, and so sometimes I can't sleep, and I wake up too early, and I am infinitely tired, as if worn out by life's indifference to the capriciousness with which I charge at it, changing my mind every now and then about whether I am going in the right direction. I am greeted with a sigh of a resigned, enervated nature, life telling me that I am on my own; it is too tired to keep on caring.

There is an emptiness within me that I cannot fill. I am paralysed by the way it makes me feel so hopeless. On a cloudy, overcast English day like today, I dress myself up in the brightest of colours - a bright red skirt, a black top embroidered with bright red flowers - trying, desperately, to brighten up the monochromatic sadness of my mood. This damn mood, this bloody mood, this pointless and useless melancholy - a waste of time. I cannot focus on what I ought to do, for why ought I to do it if I do not know its point and purpose? Why am I here? What am I doing with my life?

I keep hoping that this will pass; that my mood and emotions will stabilise and I will be back to normal. But what if I don't? What if this is the new normal? My inner logic and residual sense of reason that try to convince me what a privileged position I am in are helpless against the relentless tidal wave of these feelings that keep washing over me, beating fiercely against the steadily eroding bastion of rationality that is this receding shoreline. Soon, there will be nothing left but water, water everywhere.


I don't know what to do. I don't know how to get out of this mess. I don't know how to feel better. I don't know how to stop this urge like I have to cry but I don't know what I am crying about, what right I have to cry, why I should be sad, what is there to be sad about? Woolf was here, and so was Plath; but what does it say about me that I look up to writers who eventually killed themselves?

The most tragic part, I think, is this: I haven't the genius to back up any of this whiny, self-indulgent angst. For fuck's sake, just grow up. Just grow the fuck up.
kiri win

(no subject)

On the way back from tennis at the club, I caught a glimpse of Gareth sitting at the table in the corner of the garden of the Punter, reading. He didn't see me. I walked past the pub briskly as I would have done if he hadn't been there; then stopped when I was clear of the pub, as if incapacitated by the words that have not reached him, the words that I have not made the effort of putting down on paper.

Then I walked on. I have nothing to say to him - nothing to say to his face. But I need to get rid of this, I thought; I need to purge myself of these words and deliver them to him, physically, the old-fashioned way. I need to get rid of this, and soon, because that brief glimpse of him was a bludgeoning blow to my unstable emotions, and I came home and almost felt like I couldn't breathe, as if suffocating on these thoughts that I had, screaming at me about how bad my life has become ever since I met him.

Of course, there is no causal relationship between my angst and the brief period of having him in my life, peripherally. And I do not want him in my life at all; he didn't make me happy, he couldn't have, all he did was add an unnecessary source of stress and distraction to my life. But it was his bad timing, the coldness of his method, his unilateral cutting of communication - all of this collided with the angst and uncertainty and melancholy that I'd been feeling regarding my PhD. And so, inadvertently, I associate the two things a little bit too closely.

I need to get rid of it. I will do so sometime this week.


On a happier note: after I wrote the previous entry, I tried my best to do some work, but all I wanted to do was to read a novel - The Bell Jar - and have coffee. I was also hungry and I didn't feel like cooking, and so I went to Fitzbillies, The Bell Jar in hand.

Maybe he could tell that I wasn't in a good mood; I wouldn't be surprised, for I am an open book, unable to hide my feelings, most of the time not bothering to do so. After asking me how I was and eliciting a half-hearted 'I'm all right' from me which he didn't quite buy, Matt gave me extra food, asked if I wanted coffee; and when I asked if he'd make it, he said, 'I'll make it for you', and then told me to sit down when I was waiting to pay.

He's just the best, isn't he? He's such a sweetheart. He'd inadvertently and unwittingly brightened up my day so many times in the 9 months that I've known him that he really is a bright spot in my life. But that is because we keep things at a certain distance, isn't it? If we get closer, this bright spot will dull and fade, like a smudged fingerprint or water stains on a mirror.

I texted him later in the evening to say thank you for the food and coffee. He followed up with the punting; if all goes to plan, we're going punting on Tuesday.


I am not a good person to date. I am an amazing girlfriend in the moment: I show a lot of affection, I like giving presents, and I am wholly present and intense when I'm in love with someone.

But this fades quickly. I get bored after a while. That's essentially how most of my relationships have ended, the reason I am single at 30, almost 31. I quote Plath:

The same thing happened over and over:

I would catch sight of some flawless man off in the distance, but as soon as he moved closer I immediately saw he wouldn't do at all.

That's one of the reasons I never wanted to get married. The last thing I wanted was infinite security ad to be the place an arrow shoots off from. I wanted change and excitement and to shoot off in all directions myself, like the coloured arrows from a Fourth of July rocket.

I bracketed and underlined the sentence in bold and wrote 'YES!' next to it.

It's not anything that is inherently wrong with the person. It's just that I like excitement, I like novelty, I like new things, I like difference; but after a while, the new becomes the mundane, the excitement becomes ordinary, and it is no longer novel. Yet, I want security and comfort and stability. Still quoting Plath, I guess I am neurotic then, for wanting contradictory things at the same time.

So I am not a good person to date. I am capricious, my affections die out as quickly as they are ignited, and I leave behind a broken heart.

I don't know why I am like this.