“I may sulk and not post for two weeks. It has been known.” – Me, on Monday.
Oh dear, and that was just supposed to be my Little Joke, not some Awful Premonition. That’ll teach me to tempt fate.
Several times over the last few weeks, I have come, ooh, that close to going all Teengoth Livejournal “Impale Yourself Upon The Jagged Shards Of My Pain” on you. Because a) it’s one of the few remaining classic blogging styles which I’ve never attempted, and b) it might have been, y’know, cathartic or summat.
However, I have successfully managed to restrain myself on each occasion. Because – and regular readers can repeat this after me on the count of three – misery is not my muse. To say nothing of the potential for squirming social embarrassment when meeting friends in Real Life who actually read this thing (and there are plenty).
Other times, I’ve thought: come on, blog some meaningless crap about pop music to cheer yourself up. But then, as I said on Vanessa’s blog: Sometimes, the gap between the front and the reality grows so wide that it becomes scarcely possible to maintain the front. (Although arguably, it might sometimes be desirable.)
Yes, readers: I am still wobbling. This week more than most. Although today, hardly at all. Must be that Friday feeling.
Up until a couple of weeks ago, and without quite realising it, I was maintaining a stoic Keep It To Yourself strategy. Then, over lunch with Buni one day, I unexpectedly found myself talking about things. And realised that this was the first time I had properly opened up in a long, long time. And further realised that this was, on balance, a good thing; a necessary thing, even.
So, since then, I have been cautiously following an It’s All Right To Talk About It With People So Long As You Don’t Get Completely Self-Indulgent About It strategy. Which, so long as I bear in mind the second part (after all, nobody wants to be a bore), has served me quite well. Something to do with distance, objectivity and perspective, no doubt. Helps to prevent me getting bogged down in those ghastly, isolating, internal monologue feedback loops. (As does the oh-so-controversial St John’s Wort, which is starting to kick in.)
Yesterday I went to see my GP, and opened up a little further. (We are fortunate enough to have a local state-of-the-art health centre which is widely regarded as one of the best – possibly the best – in the city.) I had several worries about doing this. Firstly, that I would make a complete hash at describing my symptoms. Secondly, that she would dismiss my problems as not worth bothering about. Thirdly, that she would merely write me out a prescription for something which I really wouldn’t want to take – and which would in any case not deal with any of what I see as the root causes.
She listened; she asked pertinent questions; she showed appropriate concern; she respected my position; she took me seriously. I shall be returning next week for a full 30-minute appointment, so that she can begin to assess my situation more thoroughly. There will probably be several such appointments. She was bloody good. It helped. I’m lucky.
So. In the absence of Teengoth Angstblogging, and in the absence of Cheering Inconsequential Crap… let us instead re-open that Old Curiosity Box, and deliver the third of the ten re-picks which I promised you in June.
As requested by groc and noodle, here’s another chance to hear:
Gina X – No G.D.M. (Dedicated To Quentin Crisp) (1979)
(Click here to read what I said about the track last time round.)
This should set you all up nicely for the weekend. Have a good one, y’all. I certainly intend to.
troubled diva 