Tuesday 11th September 2018 - Musings on Genius

[Retrospectively written - copied from handwritten diary]

There are those that walk or have walked amongst us to make mere mortals feel wholly inadequate.

I am certain that I could acquaint myself with many more if I could stand the mental torment but amongst those whose paths I've come across and who spring readily to mind include authors and broadcasters Stephen Fry and Clive James and scientists Richard Feynman and Stephen Hawking. S.F. and C.J. have had careers that span my mature life and I count myself fortunate to have followed the meat of both careers. S.H. obviously achieved popular fame with A Brief History of Time, an accessable but still difficult quantum physics introduction.

R.F. on the other hand was the subject of a Horizon (I think) programme a couple of years before his early demise which I happened upon by accident as a TV repeat or on YouTube. I recall him explaining some complex theory or other in such plain english that it was impossible not to be able to follow the thought processes. However, by the time he'd reached the end of his monologue I couldn't for the life of me remember where he'd started or how we'd reached his conclusion. Maybe, it's because the minds of great thinkers are wired differently.

What, then, is genius and how do those so endowed deal with it? I mean, how do they suffer 6 billion fools, where does the mental stimulation keep coming from and how are they able to release the energy of ideas?

Suffering fools is the most difficult for me to comprehend. Maybe it's as simple as never having known any different and they have developed systems of behaviour and the thought processes to enable them to dumb-down for interaction with us mortals. Afflicted with a high I.Q. myself (but not the 170+ of these gods) I find myself socially awkward, easily bored and endlessly frustrated by the stupid who seem to have been put in charge of everything.

The mental stimulation and release aspects are easier to fathom. They simply disseminate their original work through art, writing, lecturing and association with contemporaries.

How do we define genius? Da Vinci is universally held to fall into this category and it would be impossible to argue otherwise given the quantity and quality of work produced, much of which was years and even centuries ahead of it's time. But what of Van Gogh, an oft-called flawed genius? I beg to differ here. There is no evidence of the precociousness in youth generally associated with the label and frequently assigned to chess and musical maestros; Mozart springs immediately to mind and I've no doubt it applied equally to Kasparov, Fischer et al. Van Gogh on the other hand was a tortured soul , tortured by the folly of religious indoctrination whose focus became art and crutches were wine and women. It is easy to argue that he produced original and great art but this came from the intense focus of a damaged mind on a specific task - to paint what he felt.

But who am I to judge. I know I'm more Van Gogh than Feynman but without the focus or talent.

Monday 10th September 2018 - Alien State of Mind or Stephen Fry Saved My Life

[Retrospectively written - copied from handwritten diary]

I've woken today in the strangest, most alien state that I've known for years, and I do not exaggerate. I'm not prone to hyperbole, it's another of my pet hates as when TV talking heads refer to 'everyone' talking about or watching something or another when it's bleeding obvious they're not.

I am awake, alert, 'alive' and feeling 'normal'. I've just been in the garden, sitting beneath the crabapple tree, smoking and feeling calm and relaxed. I know this can't last and may only afflict me in the nicest sense of the word for an hour or two but it gives me such an immense sense of relief that I feel I must sit here and retrace my recent steps, in a probably vain attempt to uncover the reason for it. What has happened and what might I have done differently to bring about this strange state of affairs. I have my suspicions but mujst examine and consider each possibility in turn to draw any firm conclusions.

1. Medication - Lifting myself from the sofa I can tell by a glance at the weekly pill folder that Sunday night's doses were duly imbibed. I did skip Friday's allocation when I couldn't gather the enthusiasm to raise a tired body and mind from the reclined to reach for them but we'll probably discount this as a causal link.

2. Social Interaction - Della and Stephen visited us yesterday, as usual and nothing out of the ordinary in terms of discussion or revelation transpired. So, we'll park this one, too.

3. Diet - As normal coffee and cigarettes only this morning and it's now 10:00am. Yesterday, I prepared the traditional Sunday bacon butty brunch and ate nothing further until dinner later in the day; breaded pollock, chips and peas. Normal. A bar of chocolate in the evening, a fake snickers from Aldi or Lidl. Normal. Around 21:30 I had an abnormal bowl of corn flakes laced with raisins, demerara sugar and semi-skimmed. Unlikely but worth trying again is it not?

4. Exercise & Fresh Air - no significant amount of either. Discounted.

5. Personal Achievement - nothing to write home about. A disgruntled customer found fault with a locomotive sold on Ebay. A bit of ping-pong correspondence and a partial refund led to a satisfactory conclusion for both parties and preserved my cherished 100% positive feedback rating.

6. Mental Stimulation - now, here I have made a noteworthy change. Over the past 3 days I have been devouring Stephen Fry, not literary (sic literally) but metaphorically speaking. Over 300 pages of The Liar avidly consumed at every opportunity, even reading by LED light jafter dark when the others have retired to bed for the night. Is it too fanciful to start believing that exercising the old grey matter and a bit of escapism can effect such a change in energy and disposition? Healthy mind, healthy body to reverse an overused phrase. Since it is mental health that is the bane of my life and my consumption of literature has been minimal for so many years, the argument for this has some logic and is indeed persuasive. Or, it could just be wishful thinking. Either way, I still think it's the best 50 pence ever spent in a charity shop. Guess it's time to get back to the Trefusis and Adrian road trip.

10:45

Rude awakening time. The palpitations have been reignited. The clank of the letterbox and the fluttering thud of mail on the doormat is the portent of more doom and gloom. Dianne retrieves the deliveryand dishes out a whole pile of love-letter circulars from the bank. I'm encouraged to open them but have neither the mental fortitude  nor financial means to deal with them. I promise to open them later as I don't wish to lose the good mood. I'm lying, of course. The fragile mood has already taken a knock and I have no intention of darkening it further.

[Writing this retrospectively allows me to confirm that corn flakes are not a wonder cure for depression]

Friday 7th September 2018 - Private School

[Retrospectively written - copied from handwritten diary]

As usual, I feel that I've been lax with my writing but I notice it's only been 4 days since my last update, which isn't so bad for me.

It seems to have been a busy week one way or another, despite not much evidence of progress being made. Events of Monday and Tuesday are currently consigned to the mind's recycle bin and can't be readily restored. The passing of time isn't likely to aid their recovery.

Wednesday, however, is memorable though not miraculous. I attended the Men's Shed and made good progress scraping the garden varnish and detritus from the solid pine coffee table I've been rejuvenating. Managed to get a bloody war wound when the glass scraper I was using slipped in my grasp and we took delivery of our shiny new lathe, just prior to my early exit at 13:00 to collect Dianne for our regular D.I.A.L. meeting. I helped with constructing the stand before leaving but missed the christening of the machine later in the afternoon. I look forward to having a play next week.

Just remembered that Monday was a meeting with my 'work coach', a pointless and humiliating chore inflicted by a callous government [Ouch! Did I really write this?]

Thursday was more interesting. I signed up for and attended the first of 8 weekly sessions at Community Roots (Wild Haven) entitled 'Producing [something or other]'. It's all about manufacturing crafts to sell under the chaharity's banner. Yesterday, we spent our time learning to weave dragonflies and corn stalks whikch were more akin to bullrushes in my humble opinion. I guess it was enjoyable to the extent that I met and interacted with people in a relaxed, non-judgemental and friendly environment. I will persevere with this and look forward to the woodworking elements in future weeks.

Totally exhausted when I got home, I still managed to write emails to the utility companies, half promising payment of the outstanding accounts in the next couple of weeks. This being subject, of course, to Dianne's P.I.P. claim being reinstated and a lump sum back payment arriving.

Today, I feel as though I should be in the workshop producing but innstead I've picked up Stephen Fry's debut novel The Liar and read the first chapter. Sourced this from a charity shop for fifty pence a few weeks ago and opening it for the first time this morning lfound what appears to be the remains of the previous owner's breakfast inside the front cover. At least that's what I hope it is!

Unsurprisingly, the setting (or at least the background) for the book is a public school, though a prologue to chapter one describes a murder in Mozart's house in Salzburg, a place I visited on my own one day during a family ski trip in 1990. The first chapter gives no inkling as to the connection and simply introduces a few characters.

Reading it made me realise that I would have thrived in this environment; maybe not academically as there would have been others far more well read than I but as a personalijty. I would have undoubtedly fallen in with the rebellious, subversive crowd more easily than with the swots but the ideas, attitudes and experiences gained could only have shaped me for the better. Notwithstanding, of course, the need to attain a decent level of academic success to satisfy the scholarship requirements. If only I'd have applied myself to the interviewas concertedly as I had the entrance exams and not been so pig-headed about honesty at an early age Imight have achieved so much more.

Still no sales on Etsy but another loco and a couple of poistcards have gone from Ebay.

I've just re-read Monday's entry and note that I'm repeating myself here to some extent. Sigh!!

Monday 3rd September - Melancholy

[Retrospectively written - copied from handwritten diary]

Feeling desperately melancholic today, so I'm puting pen to paper in thee hope of exorcising the demons. It sometimes helps.

It's one of those days when I want to be left alone, in peace with my thoughts and able to well up or even cry if I feel like it.

The craft fayre plan has hit the rails. I suppose it was ineveitable that the cash flow trickle would dry up at some point. The cinch point came last week. First, an unexpected (foreseeable I suppose) direct debit from the Paypal account for the annual FlickR subscription left the balance barely sufficient to cover the Ebay fees for the month and then the realisation that the upfront costs of attending organised fayres were greater than expected. Most ask that proof of Public Liabilijty Insurance be carried. The cheapest quote I could find was for 60 quid.

On top of that I need another £100 or so to pay for 'essential' items in my Ebay basket; padded envelopes, bracelet blanks, rust paint etc.

On the positive side, the sale of one of the remaining locomotives this morning helps a little. I can meet the Ebay fees for the month. I guess if turnover in the next week or two picks up, some forward momentum might ensue.

Had a mandatory Job Centre appointment this morning for Universal Credit even though I'm not required to seek employment whilst I continue to provide fit notes.

Anglian Water are chasing outstanding bills via recorded nuisance calls and E.On have similarly sent text messsages.

We still await the restarted P.I.P. payments following Dianne's successful appeal against their being stopped late last year. Once they are confirmed a backdated lump sum should allow us to clear the utility bills and I'll be able to instigate a claim for carer's allowance. At that point finances should be somewhat stabilised and maybe we can move forward. However, I'm at breaking point in the meantime; sad, helplessand dwelling on the futility of mere existence without purpose or hope of a bright future.

Thursday 30th August 2018 - An Epiphany?

[Retrospectively written - copied from handwritten diary]

I suddenly realised something about myself recently that I find quite profound. Why had it not occured to me before?

Planning and goal setting, which Id always felt were weaknesses, in fact aren't. At least in so far as setting short-term objectives are concerned. The issue which afflicts me is what happens once a goal is achieved.

For example, I wanted to be a computer programmer. Despite being told that there was no route in, from the role I was undertaking at the time, I managed to work my way through tht system and was duly appointed. I wanted to own and operate my own business. Roll up carpet cleaning and antique dealing and forex trading.

All these achievements filled me with satisfaction. However, I quickly became disaffected when the reality of the mundane, repetitive nature of things set in. I'm a junkie in need of the next fix.

You see, I have to constantly be trying something new and different. It's not a case of the grass being greener on the other side, it's an aching need for constant stimulation. I have a boredom theshold that is infinitessimally small and I have to believe that this a personality disorder that is the bane of my life.

I've often remarked in the past how much I envied those that are average. Average I.Q., average ambition, average earnings, average outlook and world view. Then, life would be so much simpler. Work 9-5, pay the bills, live in an average house, drive an average car, take family holidays on the Costa del Sol, work 40 years, draw an average pension and die peacefully at 78, without ever being overly concerned about the state of the world, the meaning of life or any of my other hopeless preoccupations.

My I.Q. is a curse.

Tuesday 28th August 2018 - Waiting Room

[Retrospectively written - copied from handwritten diary]

Sitting in the waiting room at the doctor's surgery, the most appropriately named room in history; the wait is interminable. I wouldn't mind so much if it was a quiet and peaceful place but the..........[interrupted train of thought as I'm called to my appointment. ON TIME!! I'm sure it's never happened before].......constant chatter at reception, the harsh creak of distant doors, the old lady who wants the world to know her life story by way of uninterrupted reminiscences that surely denote a constant preoccupation with the past and the inane tripe uttered by the DJ introducing this season's latest banal , manufactured tripe with unfettered enthusiasm, the like of which is normally reserved for shopping channel hosts. I will try to read but with the mind working overtime on all the distractions I find myself at the end of a paragraph with no recollection of it's substance. A further skim read normally commits the words to memory but makes progress painfully and irritably slow, thus taking away the enjoyment.

The weather's moody today, being on the cusp of Autumn as we are. Consequently, the headaches are starting again so not too many words on paper today.

I'm now sitting in the car with a grass-covered dune for a view. I don't think I'll venture down to the beach today.

Friday 24th August - Jellyfish

[Retrospectively written - copied from handwritten diary]

Went to the men's group on Monday. The 'Group' consisted of Mark the facilitator, Kevin and myself. Both Kevin and myself were first-timers so, in our absence, Mark would have spent 2 hours talking to himself.

We drank coffee and talked about random shit the whole time. So, naturally I was fidgety at times, not being one for small talk. I consider it a waste of time unless accompanied by copious amounts of alcohol (I'm practically teetotal these days) or other brain bending drugs. Still, it got me out of the house and interacting with other members of the human race. Don't know what Kevin's story was, nor he mine but as he was of similar age to me and reliant on a walking stick one can hypothesise that nature's spite or an accident have brought physical impediments that vex his mind.

There was mention of an organised fishing trip in the future, subject to interest and of guests attending the sessions to talk on various topics. I'll probably give it another go next month but wouldn't be at all surprised if I were the only attendee.

Whilst there I saw and spoke to Scotty, an acquaintance of mine and friend of Dianne's and introduced myself to Pinky. Dianne had described him as having a penchant for pink but "he's not gay" as if it mattered. I can concur with both statements. Turns out his real name is Dave, he's there every day, carves wood on Tuesdays and would be celebrating his birthday yesterday.

On Wednesday I discovered through a misdialled call from Scotty's partner that she'd managed to impale herself on barbed wire Tuesday night and ended up under the surgeon's knife to clean out some debris from the deep abdominal wound she'd sustained. She was back home yesterday, so Dianne visited with some of her favourite salmon pate and crusty bread.

As I had a couple of Ebay sales to mail, I ventured out this morning and made the customary trip to the beach. I wasn't there long as I couldn't be sure of the whereabouts of my mobile phone and it was causing me some unwarranted angst. It was either left at the Post Office or at home, either way in safe keeping. I walked fairly briskly one and a half breakers along the shore, finding a few interesting pebbles along the way and spotted a marooned jellyfish on the shingle bank. Another was found on my last visit. Until this week I don't recall ever seeing one at Caister. I imagine that this uncommonly warm summer we're having has raised sea temperatures sufficiently for them to migrate further North than is usual. I recollect as a child in 1977 (I think that was the heatwave summer and Elvis's last) swimming in the sea at Hunstanton and the waters were full of them.

On the way back to the car I managed to collect a couple of small pieces of driftwood that Dianne had requested for some kind of sea-art project she means to undertake. It also involves shells, twine and stones apparently. The mind boggles!

Been feeling quite off colour all week. I think a virus took hold last Saturday when my whole body felt tired and achy. These symptoms persisted for a couple of days and a bloodshot eye developed. The weeping eye remains and today I have the symptoms of a head cold with sneezing, a runny snout and that clawing irritation you get at the back of the nasal passage that extends down into the throat. Hate summer colds. Particularly this year as the glorious weather is just beginning to become unsettled, signalling it's intent to draw the curtain on the warm season and usher in Autumn. Want to enjoy what's left of it, please!

It's been a frustrating week generally. I don't feel as if I've moved forward at all and I'm probably correct. Looking at the positives, I suppose I've had some social interaction, added a few necklaces to Etsy, made contact with the Principal at First Move Furnishaid with a view to volunteering and....and....Oh! domestic relations have improved slightly and I've sent off a self-referral application to MIND that arrived in the mail a couple of days ago.

I know there was more to put down here but my mind has misplaced it for the time being. I'm sure when I was young I had total recall of events and thoughts which could be dragged out when needed. These days memory seems to be a skeleton of ideas and happenings, left thus to be filled with reasonable logic or guesswork. Or, maybe it's the conscious becoming tired and lazy and leaving all the hard work to the sub-conscious. [not sure this makes sense to me now]. My conscious would like to know the answer to this but the research would be a bit of a brainache and it really can't be bothered.

I ought to be writing this on my blog but I still prefer pen and paper. Perhaps I'll write the blog retrospectively.  If you're reading this online, the decision was made and acted upon.

Monday 20th August 2018 - Self Loathing

[Retrospectively written - copied from handwritten diary]

Here we are at the start of another 'working' week.

Dianne rose early today (for her) at 7:10am; a time I dread. I like to have some personal time at the start of the day to organise my thoughts, in the same way I like some end of day time to relax.

The first thing that happens is the TV goes on for at least half an hour and I'm inflicted with garbage for the illijterate masses; either This Morning or a soap catch-up. How can anyone concentrate or relax with all those shouty people talking shit in your living room.

The shouting from the box is intermittently interrupted by the first frets of the day; "I hate flies. Why are they always around when you don't want them?"; "I had to pick a dead wasp up from the kitchen floor. Will they come back again next year?"; "Is it going to rain today?", like I'd know; "What's on your list?", meaning how are YOU going to bring some money into the house. Never have I heard her say that she has an idea for something that she could do to bring in some extra income.

Apparently, she's not going out today as she's "got jobs to do around the house". For the past week she's been 'tidying' her bedroom. You ought to see the results!

At the weekend, both Friday and Saturday, I tried to get intimate with her but was rebuffed on both occasions. No reson was forthcoming, though on Saturday I suspect the imminent TV event she'd mentioned on several occasions during the day was more important. Probably explains my bad mood. [I haven't tried since]

Our relationship isn't working. I feel so very lonely. Della didn't visit yesterday and I miss her and the respite the visits provide.

There's a once-a-month men's group meeting run by MIND at Wild Haven today and I'm thinking of giving it a go. I can only countenance the negatives sitting here; it will be a bunch of 'loonies'; I won't have anything to contribute; advice will be as useful as teaching your grandmother to suck eggs. I subscribe to the theory that you are who you associate with and I can't help but think that association with other melancholic individuals can only be detrimental. It certainly hasn't done Dianne any good these past few years.

Give me a cause to fight for, something useful and meaningful to do with my time, a reason to live for fuck's sake. How have I managed to waste 53 years of my life without a plan or a vision or the mental fortitude to push forward and achieve something? My frustration with myself is wholly justified and pretty overwhelming at times.

Fuck it! Think I'll give this group a try. You never know, do you!?

Sunday 19th August 2018 - The Meaning of Life

[Retrospectively written - copied from handwritten diary]

It always surprises me how much deep thought runs through my mind that I decide can wait until I put pen to paper.

Then, I sit here amongst the breaker rocks on Caister beach on an overcast but warm Sunday molrning and it's all gone. Not forgotten, just temporarily misplaced and waiting to be taken out again like a dust-covered book on a shelf. This should be reason enough to commit thoughts to the page in a more timely manner.

I'm sure I've mentioned before how disillusioned I have become with life in general. Whilst this has always been the case to some extent, I feel it's manifestation now informs everything I think and do. I know that my life has to be different to have any meaning or purpose and to expereience contentment, if not happiness...............

I just broke off writing for about half an hour. The normally slow ebb and flow of the tide had been taken over by a sense of urgency (maybe on account of the strong wind) and the shoreline laps that were 10 yards away when I began jotting were nearing my feet. Whilst I wasn't immediately in danger of an unwanted salt bath, the distraction was sufficient to cause me to move.

Thus, I proceeded along the shoreline for, perhaps, another 100 yards but unusually the sense of despair, frustration, restlessness and foreboding that normally dissipates on a beachcombing trip remained. A wander higher up the beach and a trudge back to the car through clawingly soft sand followed. The search for driftwood and flat stones to carve took me pakst numerous sand hills and circles of nondescript stones left behind by holidaymakers.

The random distribution of small, burnt timbers that are found in some abundance always surprises but probably shouldn't. Presumably, the washed-up remains of reclaimed beach fires. I romanticise about them being the remains of sea-borne funeral pyres, if romanticise is the right word...............

Anyhow, back to the theme I started with. The loss of control, privacy and self-determination in my life is increasingly difficult to deal with. Whilst I can declare that suicide is not the only option under consideration I'm finding homelife more claustraphobic by the day and am beginning to ponder life as a single man again. Whether that involves intentional community living, a home in the woods, roaming the country in an old Transit or some as yet unconsidered option I really have no idea. If I could convince Dianne of the merits of I.C.L. that would still be my preferred option but it appears to be the least likely outcome.

Yesterday, I presented myself at my first craft fayre. The compliments and words of encouragement were welcome and convince me of the merits of pursuing mixed media and jewellery making further. The hard work of the pakst few weeks was made particularly worthwhile by one patron's genuine surprise that such a professional looking stall was a first visit to a fayre.

Having just proof read today's musings I must confess to some disappointment at the brevity of it all. Three pages of an A5 notebook don't seem to amount to much and leave me well short of the stream of consciousness writing that I would hope to achieve in the long run. More practise needed!

I think maybe I should get back to writing my blog. A reader or two might help with another of my dreads, dying in anonymity. This is a strange thing to fear for a private, introverted individual but perhaps ties in with the desire to lead a more purposeful and meaningful existence. I don't know!?

Wednesday June 20th - Medication

[Retrospectively written - copied from handwritten diary]

Yesterday, I skipped the Sertraline on the basis that I can't pay for the prescription. They also don't appear to help much, I'm concerned about negative side-effects (Why?) and I'm struggling to function on a daily basis with them. I also received a call from the doctor's surgery telling me there was a prescription for Folic Acid waiting to be collected. No indication as to why this has been prescribed!

Yesterday was a better day overall. Dianne had a friend and her husband from Colorado visit in the afternoon so I hid away in the workshop, made some progress on the picture frame I'm upcycling and prepared a few price and attribtion labels for my completed mixed media projects.

Today, however, I'm back to feeling totally exhausted and helpless. In the mail was a letter from the surgery stating that I'd been referred to Urology. Dianne made me open it in front of her. We both hoped it was a follow-up from Wellbeing services but after 4 weeks, still nothing. Told Dianne that it was a general appointment confirmation letter with the G.P. (don't want her to worry or pester me). There was also another questionnaire from the E.S.A. people. I say questionnllaire but it's more like War and Peace. The Department for Work & Pensions could never be accused of brevity!

Made an Ebay sale and have boxed the locomoltive ready for dispatch but the thought of going to the Post Office fills me with dread after Monday's embarrassment. Expect I'll manage to get there somehow, though.

Dianne's just gone out but felt the need to ask me if I was going to be alright. She's obviously concerned and I must be making a bad job of hiding my mood now.

Late on Monday, I received a reply from the Old Hall Community in Constable country, near Colchester. They would welcome a visit from me/us on a convenient date. Some weeks ago I spoke to Dianne about the appeal I felt for 'intentional community living'. She wasn't keen then and I don't suppose she is now. I'd dearly love to organise something but I think it's a non-starter.

So, here I sit in the workshop pondering how someone with such a high I.Q. could finish up in such a predicament. I never fail to be frustrated, angry and disappointed with myself.

My sole lachievement in life has been to raise 2 children to adulthood in a safe environment with honesty, openness and a commitment to self-expression. They've turned out OK but at the expense of me kicking the financial ball further and further down the road to the point where it's rolling over the horizon.

At this point I'd like to return to the topic of intentional community living. I have long been disillusioned kwith modern life in general. Everything from celebrity culture, selfishness, greed, consumerism, 24-7 marketings, media propaganda and the corporate takeover of everything to environmental destruction, lying politicians, the business of war and narrow-mindedness. Whilst I.C.L. draws people in from varied backgrounds and belief systems , the important core values of working for the common good, preserving the environment, simplified living and respect for one another trump all the other bullcrap in life.

Dianne just returned from a fruitless trip to Citizens Advice with the grill missing from the front of the car. Apparently, she "heard something" but "didn't think much of it" and a search proved fruitless. What can I say; not even "never mind I'll order a new one". Good grief!!

To complete my self-assessment, I'm O.C.D. when it comes to organising and planning, have no respect for 'authority', resent being instructed unless I've asked for it and deplore a society that signs me up for citizenship as a newborn, then demands a code of behaviour and money from me but neglects me in my hour of need. Citizenship should be an option at one's coming of age, not a mechanism for a lifetime of conformity and slavery. Then, perhaps, the political class would work for the people, providing care and incentivisation, rather than selling themselves to the highest bidder.

This has always made me feel like an outsider looking in rather than a part of a dynamic organism. Life is too irrational, illogical, unreasonable and frustratiing. Or, maybe I'm just insane!?

June 18th 2018 A Low Point

[Retrospectively written - copied from handwritten diary]

The day started badly with a feeling of extreme exhaustion.

Every day starts exhausted but it's worse today. Though I tries to settle down for the night at around 11pm and woke at 00:20, 04:10 and for the final time at 07:15 this is a 'normal' sleep pattern, despite the nightly sleeping tablet. I put it down to the visit of my daughter yesterday, a very welcome visitor but always tiring.

I've been fretting over the weekend about today's visit to the doctor and anokther blood test. My kidneys ached on Saturday and I passed blood. My online research had indicated a worse-case scenario of bladder cancer (because of a previous episode a few weeks ago) or a best case of kidney stones. Either way it seemed inevitable that a referral to Urology would be forthcoming and this would mean invasive, uncomfortable and embarrassing tests.

Sure enough, having had a urine test a couple of weeks ago that was positive for elevated blood presence, she has referred me. I left another sample. Why she has not conlsidered the rare but known side-effect of haematuria for takers of Sertraline I have no idea.

Following the appointment I went to the Post Office for an overseas mailing, a bottle of milkand some tobacco. The debit card was declined for insufficient funds. Now what????

Straight to the beach I gandered to contemplate my options but the sun and heat proved too intense so I returned home.

I rang the doctors to book the appointment I should have made on the way out earlier and then Jobcentre Plus to find out the the results of my health assessment 5 weeks ago. I was told that this had resulted in a decision in my favour on June 7th but no benefit would be paid due to inadequate N.I. Contributions. Today just keeeps getting better!

My thoughts have returned to suicide and the methods I can face. A week's worth of Sertraline and sleepers might work but clinical intervention to treat the effects is likely to be sucessful. I'm now considering pitching a tent somewhere remote, without food or water and just letting nature take it's course.