The Decline (continued)

Today’s word is….contemplative. Met the lovely Fionnuala on Sunday after attending a (semi-helpful) writing workshop with author Sally Nicholls at Whole Foods on High Street Ken (who knew a food vending establishment could be that stressful to navigate?), polished off a bottle of Pinot Grigio and put the world to rights before coming home to a wonderful roast chicken dinner with all the trimmings courtesy of new housemate James (who is earning more brownie points by the day). Was a good day, in spite of the rather unfortunate hangover from the night before (if memory serves it all went a bit wrong when some bright spark suggested mixing vodka with asti spumante…), but as always happens when I focus on my reasons for being unable to persevere with Kilifi and inevitably conclude it’s because of the breakdown of my relationship, I ended up lying awake in my bed with a myriad of thoughts running through my head.

One such thought is on the issue of counselling. As an ex-psychology student, I’ve always been a big believer in the benefits of counselling for those that need it, but have never conceived of a time when I myself might benefit from it. In light of my dreadful behaviour over dinner last night, however, I’m starting to wonder if it may actually be time to give it a try. What was meant to be a nice catch up meal with my friend and both of our mothers somehow turned sour when I took exception to my mum fussing over me (in response to me voicing my current unhappiness – what did I expect?) and voiced this opinion out loud. As is customary when one is rude to one’s mother, she got upset, the atmosphere worsened and I, being the pig-headed and downright stupid human being that I’m sometimes like to be, became more introverted and defensive. The result? Both of us ending up in tears and me going home to yet another (uncharacteristic) sleepless night filled with dark thoughts and dreams of my Ex.

I think it’s fair to surmise from the trauma of last evening’s events that I am firmly out of sorts, and if truth be told I’m getting a little sick of it. So many questions are going through my head it makes it hard to function normally, for example: Why can’t I get over my Ex? Is it normal to still feel this way nearly 18 months down the line? Will I be able to move on and find someone who will treat me properly without some kind of intervention? Or am I destined only to attract guys who treat me like crap until I’ve somehow learned how to respect myself? It’s not all about relationships though, I’m also asking myself questions about life in general: Where am I going? What do I want to achieve? I like to consider myself as a talented writer, a deep thinker, but am I really so different to everyone else? Am I even special at all, or just deluded?!

In my (currently rare) moments of clarity I tell myself I’m putting way too much emphasis on being magically healed, that what I went through was a trauma in its own right and will therefore take time to recover from, that there’s no harm in just ‘being’ for a while, not over-thinking and over-analysing every tiny thing, seeing what happens. The only problem being that what I tell my brain and what my brain actually chooses to do are two quite distinct things. If only I could selectively delete certain memories – Eternal Sunshine stylee – maybe then I wouldn’t be plagued by all these dreams and insecurities. Recent newspaper reports would have us believe that option may not be so far off*, but in the meantime what’s needed is a way out of this quagmire of wasted emotion. Maybe, just maybe, in this case therapy is the answer. Can it hurt?

*I was being flippant when I made that comment. Even if I could erase all the bad memories I wouldn’t – your memories make you who you are (even if that person does happen to be a borderline-delusional paranoid neurot), and I’m not a fan of science fiction-turning-fact.