It was a period of time when the partying stopped and the discovery process had started. It was way before the psychological analysis. In fact I would probably put it around my thirty-second year; around new years eve to be a little more precise. I don’t normally make New Years resolutions. I kind of write something in my diary, what I want to do in the coming year and just do it. It’s easier than a New Years resolution as it never contains anything I don’t want to do.
Amongst the lines of the diary page, warmly lit by a flickering tea light, I’d written;
‘Get on with writing best selling book.’, well I started it but as I never finished it I think that one is still open.
‘Run more’, by which I mean exercise more.
‘Spend more on self’, quite an easy one but it was a time of frugality, it continued in inky blue fountain pen, ‘including holiday to Paris.’ That happened which was amazing.
‘Actually, learn the violin.’ which was me having a go at myself for not putting enough effort into my playing.
‘Get out of my current career.’ this one took many more years to bring to fruition, but it took some planning and saving. With the ink getting noticeably lighter as the cartridge emptied the words turn to my promise to myself, the one thing to sort the core of my problems once and for all. Still sat in the arm chair I pondered the thought, ‘I’ve had enough now. This year I’m sorting it out. In the new year I have to decide once and for all what I’m going to do. Tell everyone and get on with living as a woman.’ There, done. I added, ‘or not do anything and get on with living as I am.’ I couldn’t even say it, let along write ‘as a man’.
It was great. I had a decision to make so there would be no further future regret. I already wished I’d done something about it when I was eighteen, or even younger, but at thirty two it was time to put a stop to the quiet slow destruction. The weeks passed by full of self questioning. May be sat in a cafe watching a young woman walk by and thinking, ‘I’m such a fake, how can I possibly do this.’ until the next time with a different frame of mind with a totally contradictory thought, ‘This is so right, I just have to do this.’
Around this time was when one of the clubs I’d previously been to in London had shut it’s doors for the for foreseeable future and my friends from Bristol had mostly gone their separate ways. Things, I suppose, had sort of dried up socially. Saturday evenings had changed dramatically. Suddenly I was at home cooking for myself and spending a night in with Bridget of the Jones variety. After wiping away a tear, being immersed amongst the fictional characters and the perfect end scene for those with a romantic heart, the television went off, the tea lights lit I would turn to my blog entry which then was at Y360 and also my diary. That diary of two thousand and seven is the most ink filled pages not matched since. There are some pages which remind me of what I was going through at the time which was so subtle that I was unaware of it. There are pages in which I can read a line and will have to stop because I’m a little too afraid to be reminded of it. I’d soon fill Saturday’s page and probably even Friday and Sunday’s page just for my Saturday night entry. I’d be doing the same to the blog, hammering away at the keys talking endlessly about nothing particular other than people watching without realising how important some of things I was saying. Every word fueled by a bottle of deep red Southern French wine.
With little else to say I would switch off the bright living room lights, now only lit by a candle in a flat glass star. Large shadows of dead reeds danced along the wall and over an oil painting above the fire place. Classical music only just loud enough to softly fill the ambient room and not to disturb the neighbours. Living a little into the countryside the only thing I would hear was the music and little else. The wine would make me think. I would sink into the chair, the sound of a violin hitting a high sombre note would only add saturation to my thoughts and emotions. It would only be when I either noticed it was actually 2a.m. or that I had moved to the sofa and woken at 4a.m. that I realised it was time to go to bed. Unaware, I had been wallowing ever so subtly. It went on for weeks, months, possibly even a couple of years. Thinking back it feels dangerous despite having a passion for feeling. Here ends the lesson.
Until next time. x