Tuesday 18th September 2018 - Fatigue

[Retrospectively written - copied from handwritten diary]

Four days since my last entry. Lax and undisciplined am I.

Feeling crushed by tiredness, I've become a bit of a zombie and have achieved zero recently, with crafting on hold and inspiration in short supply.

The socio-economic implications inherent in developing a new political system are vexing me. Unable to concentrate, I try to plant the broad notion into my sub-conscious before sleep, hoping it will do all the work the conscious me cannot. No joy so far. If a basic framework, at least, would evolve I'm certain that the fleshing out would come relatively easily. I'd like to take the ideas and either produce a work of fiction or my own grand manifesto.

Through the living room window, from where I sit,  my view is limited to the copper beech in the garden opposite, It shakes violently in short bursts, limbs akimbo in the blustery wind. There's still warmth in the sun, so much in fact that when combined with high humidity yesterday it became uncomfortable in the afternoon. Still, the last hurrah of Summer is to be savoured. We'll miss it when it's gone.

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.

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!?

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.

Tuesday 23rd January 2018 - The Story Ends

So, my story ends a little sooner than I had predicted.

Letters are written, the office is tidy and the process has begun.

I will endeavour to send final messages to family before I lose consciousness completely.

Thank you to anyone who cared to read this blog & responded positively to my twitter postings.

I wish you all to lead full and happy lives.

Plesre take tthe ume to leacr o vonr commrnt or dontion :)
























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Goodbye and good luck.

Monday 22nd January 2018 - Still here

The letters from the bank have started to arrive, giving notice of declined payments. The trigger I had been expecting.

So, yesterday was to be the day. Last night in fact.

I had written some notes on the laptop, which was to be left open so that whoever discovered me in the morning would have a connection to the me that was a few hours earlier.

It begins, as it should do, with the following line:

"Please do not resuscitate - I am of sound mind and fully aware of the consequences of my actions."

There is a brief explanation of how I came to this point, directions as to where goodbye letters may be found on the pc, the funeral arrangements to be made (the service is written), who to contact about life and pensions, how a little money might be raised and a final goodbye.

However, I received a 'phone call in the morning from a relative who would like to visit this Saturday. I would like to see him and his partner one more time so I have resolved to try to make it to the weekend. It does seem a long way off, though.

To fill the days I will endeavour to do some work, engage on Twitter and keep home-life as normal as possible for my nearest and dearest. Having rediscovered my love of writing, the inability to continue with it will be my last great regret.

Tuesday 16th January 2018 - Surviving One Day At A Time

Here we are still.

'They' say that every day is a bonus but it doesn't feel like it. Constant worry, extreme exhaustion, loneliness & the inability to formulate a solution turn life into existence, not living. The end seems inevitable now - I'm just waiting for the trigger. I don't know where it will come from; a 'phone call, unwanted mail or a misplaced word but it's coming.

I agonise over the consequences.

A mentally ill wife, drugged up to the eyeballs, who "can't be bothered" or "doesn't feel like it" or "wishes" for or "wants" things but makes no effort or progress towards attaining them. Expecting them just to arrive, she numbs her intellect further with a diet of daytime TV, soaps & other nonsense, constantly informs me about every minor ailment that most of us would think nothing of, or unworthy of comment at least, and takes issue with every passing comment or minor event due to anxiety. All whilst grazing on junk food; the effects of which are now counteracted by the use of statins, rather than willpower or restraint. Traits and eccentricities that were once considered quirky, charming or quaint have become exaggerated over time, as seems to happen to us all as the years pass,I suppose. The daily ritual takes place without apparently noticing or considering others. The effect it has on my quality of life is akin to forced anonymity. At the same time, I feel the guilt and responsibility of someone who's shared so much of her life and who cannot reasonably be said to be blameless in the journey that brought us here.

In this situation, would my demise be the making or breaking of her. I try to convince myself that having to face up to life and responsibility may, after the initial shock phase, make her stronger in the long-term. The children will surely rally around with the support she will need in the beginning but that raises another issue. As young adults are they yet mature enough to accept and deal with this? Is it fair on them, anyway?

I spend every day treading on eggshells and with the spectre of debt collectors looming on the horizon. With nobody to turn to for support this really can't continue.

The recent return to reading and writing brings brief moments of solace but it's not enough.

To anyone reading this I apologise for the brevity, lack of structure & tone. And it feels like I'm abdicating responsibility which is disingenuous.  However, it's all I can manage today - maybe there'll be a 'bonus' day for elaboration and editing.

The Final Curtain Call?

This blog was meant to have been started some years ago. I have returned to it at a very low point in my life in the hope, not expectation, that a soul purge might actually save it. Crippling financial issues, a mentally ill wife & a decrepit dog have led me to the point of suicide planning as the 50 something life of quiet desperation & loneliness cannot be viewed as a viable option indefinitely.

With the plans in place, I took to scribbling down my own funeral service a couple of weeks ago & I thought I'd reproduce it here in the rough draft form in which it was left - a virtual congregation is better than nothing, I suppose. My aim was to make it to christmas for the sake of the family & this has been duly achieved. As another holiday weekend arrives, I feel safe from the creditors & it is likely that I will now see at least the first green shoots of 2018.

Anyway, here it is warts and all:

"Music In : Karl Jenkins - Dies Irae (because I fancy making an entrance just the once)

I was born on 20th December, 1964, on a snowy night at my grandparents' house & grocery store at *****************.

Later, in 1967, a brother would arrive, followed in 1971 by a terrible accident [my sister].

My childhood years were spent in Wymondham, Fakenham, Cromer, West Winch (nr King's Lynn) & Ormesby as my father moved around the county of Norfolk with each successive promotion.

In common with most people, I suspect, my memories of those years are an eclectic mix.

In Fakenham, I collected frogs spawn & fell through glass while adventuring in the garden.

Cromer provided a very uncomfortable cure for the constipation I was prone to, in the flat above the bank we lived in whilst our house was being built; traipsing to school in the snow wearing short trousers; careering down the hill we lived on, on my bicycle & obviously being unable to stop at the bottom without crashing; collecting frogs, picking bluebells, running for my life from a swarm of bees I'd upset & kissing Diana Hare 50 times in the bathroom of her parents' house. Then, there was the copper knocking on the door one evening because I'd cracked another kid's head open with a stone during a mud fight, provoking a bee to sting me to find out what it felt like & having to do a xmas reading to a large gathering - I believe this was because I was a voracious reader in those days & knew how to pronounce the long words, rather than on account of any public speaking skill or youthful charisma.

At West Winch, I continued to read & excelled academically; at primary school at least. At 8 years old a teacher suggested I had a career as a writer to look forward to, which impressed & encouraged me greatly as a little bookworm. I also remember the free, daily milk we were given before Thatcher put a stop to that. Then there was the new kid from America hurling the chalkboard rubber back at Mr Bray, at an even greater velocity than it had arrived because he didn't know any different, having my face forced into the ground by 'Fatty' Fuller and riding home on my bicycle one lunchtime, thinking it was the end of school for the day.

My academic career really peaked at age 11. I passed the entrance exam but failed the London interview for a scholarship to Gresham's School. I was still a shoo-in for Grammar school but the emphasis on learning by rote didn't appeal and neither did the formality or discipline. Smoking behind the bushes, lunchtime expeditions out of school when they were banned & fights on the playing field ensued. I did manage an 'A' in English Language, which I took a year early & a few more 'O' Level passes but nothing to bang a drum about.

Further disappointment was to come on leaving school when my dream of becoming a detective was quashed by a failure at the final interview for a place at the Metropolitan Police Training Academy in Hendon. My honesty let me down, once again!

At this point we'll brush over my 'career', except to say that it was unfulfilling, unrewarding, fitful, largely unplanned and not much fun. Application to routine, discipline and the desire to be instructed never were my strong suits.

In 1990 I began dating the love of my life, Dianne. It all began on April 22nd that year and I proposed 10 weeks later on July 1st. She always lets the side down by not remembering the dates. My memory will consign anything it regards as inconsequential to the recycle bin so I think this emphasises the importance I attach to these dates.

We married on 9th March 1991, moving into our flat-pack filled new home on our wedding night. Della Luisa arrived, over 2 weeks late, on 30th September 1992 and the nuclear family was complete on our anniversary in 1996 with Max Angus' arrival - the longest baby in history and the second whopper for poor, diminutive Dianne..

They've now turned into 2 fine, young adults. I hope that the love, encouragement & freedom of expression they were afforded will be passed on to the next generation, should they choose to have children themselves. I'm very proud of them both and I can say, without ego, that Dianne and I should give ourselves a pat on the back for a job well done!

Reading : Dylan Thomas - Do Not Go Gentle Into That Good Night
                (if you can get a recording of  Richard Burton reading this, that would be great)

Thomas wrote that for his sick father.
To me, though, the dying of the light begins on the first day of our lives. So, please, if you can, roar through the metaphorical pearly gates, completely knackered from a lifetime of excess on a tricked out Harley. Bright eyed, bushy tailed pedestrians you are not!

Some Life Lessons - What I've Learned But Not Necessarily Acted Upon

1. If you're obese or stupid at 16, that's your parents' fault. If you're fat & stupid at 26, that's your fault. What have you done with the past 10 years? Did you change your diet, read a book, try critical thinking? Why not?

2. Don't judge strangers. That drunk, disheveled man sheltering from the weather, under cardboard, in a shop doorway, was once a small child running down a street somewhere, carefree & full of hope and joy. His path has probably been a long and tortuous one. He's not made a lifestyle choice!

3. If you have a dream, make it a reality. Stop dreaming or wishing. Make a plan and every day take one step towards making it come true. One day that almost imperceptible light in the distance will be bright as day and right in front of you.

4. Surround yourself with positive, motivated people and avoid the naysayers. If people say something can't be done, take up the challenge and prove them wrong.

5. Keep an open mind and question everything; even if you believe it to be true.

These are the lessons I should have taken on board and acted upon and for the most part did not.

Now, go forth and eat, drink & be merry and lead full and happy lives.

Take it away, Joe.

Exit Music: Joe Cocker - Fire It Up [Live in Cologne if possible]"