3 January 2011

2011 always seemed likely to be a bit of a meh year, sandwiched in the No Man's Land between the pleasing roundness of 2010 and the Olympics horizon of 2012, so hopefully you will forgive me for not weeping with excitement at its commencement.

On top of this gambolling levity, I had a bit of a psychological breakthrough last night while I was listening to Eckhart Tolle, and, with some initial shame, I faced up to this: the basic fact of my existence does not bring me pleasure. I have not yet experienced a gladness at just being alive. Before you call the Samaritans and draw up some sort of suicide-watch rota in Excel, I would like to clarify that I do not by any means wish to suggest that I'd rather not be here. I'm just pointing out that the mere fact that I live and breathe - miraculous though it unarguably is - is not enough to make me ooze with contentment. Currently, it takes more.

And I don't think that this is especially unusual. Many people would point out that everyone has basic human needs that need to be met in order to be happy, and that several of my boxes remain stubbornly unchecked. I am not in a loving relationship, you could point out. I don't have a strong sense of place in my local community. I don't have a clear career path or a clear idea of my life's purpose. How can I expect to be happy?

But I'm not talking about happiness: I'm talking about peace.

Some big things have changed for me in the past few months. I'm no longer angry with myself 24/7. I no longer feel like a failure. But I've spent my whole life thinking I was one, and now that conviction has gone, now I don't have to beat myself up for not being good enough every waking moment, I'm not really sure what to do with my time.

I know this: there are people who are way worse off than I am who still feel, at their core, that they're glad to be here on earth. I know I should be thanking my lucky stars, but I live feeling constantly trepidatious. I wake up in the morning and wait for the next thing that will trip me up. If you've read this blog before I hope you'll be more than aware that I'm more than aware that I have more than a lot for which to be thankful. But an awareness that one has, for some improbable reason, landed pretty much at the zenith of the planet's fortunate doesn't equal peace. For me, it equals guilt, and pressure. Those lolling-tongued dogs running about in the park don't need a raison d'etre. They don't feel guilty for being happy, or for not being one of the starving dogs in Africa. They just are.

And so, this is my resolution for 2011: to be at peace with reality - not what could be, or what was, but what is.

Admittedly, it's not one of those HILARIOUS resolutions that I will recount down the pub and look down self-consciously as I receive a wry chuckle from my assembled friends, smiling to myself as I pretend not to see them exchange knowing glances about my unarguable Wildean brilliance, but since the whole 'going down the pub with a group of friends' thing that I thought would be a constant staple of my existence turns out to be a pathetically rare occurrence in adult life, what with none of one's real friends knowing each other particularly well, and everyone living in different places and most people having to get back for the babysitter and the others not really concentrating on your answer, even though it was them that asked you the question in the first place, because they are too busy checking their emails to see if anyone from Soulmates has emailed them, which of course they probably have because everyone else seems to meet people at the drop of a hat, maybe that's not a problem. Anyway.

So my year has started off with plenty of potential for growth. I was feeling flat as a steamrollered sheet of A4 on NYE itself as I got off the tube at Liverpool Street station, and then I received a text from Grania. Its mere arrival was enough to irk me as I'd been consoling myself that the reason why she hadn't messaged me from wherever she is in the Middle East is because she couldn't due to bad reception. Then its contents turned irk to vex, as she confirmed that she was having an amazing time with her new man, and I was flooded by a combination of genuine happiness at her good fortune and the shameful hatred of being excluded. Then Sarah was ten minutes late and I suddenly wanted to give up altogether. I was a minute away from going back home, redonning my velour and climbing back into my risk-free bed, but then she arrived and it was lovely to see her and we tottered over to Brick Lane and met up with the others. It was a good night in the end, although we were definitely a friend group who'd tagged on to someone else's friend group, which is better than not tagging at all and just being a tiny unit, but, as discussed above, it'd be nice to be the dominant friend group for a change, rather than the taggers. I spent a lot of my late teens and twenties being part of the dominant friend group, and I know that at the time, it wasn't perfect. It was pretty claustrophobic and limiting, but there was also something comforting about it that I do miss. But I'm sure I'll have that claustrophobic set-up again all too soon and then envy those heady days when I drifted around, unfettered, from group to group, all varied options and non-committal freedom.

I cycled home in my leopard-print jumpsuit at 3am, singing and waving at the people who wished me Happy New Year en route, and was thrilled to get back, so happy, in fact, that I haven't opened the front door since. By the time I leave to go to work tomorrow morning, I'll have been in here for 77 hours, or 4650 minutes. I haven't achieved much in that time. I made two lots of soup, did three loads of washing, ironed patches onto my slippers and cleaned up my hard drive. On 31 December, I had realised that my diary was bare for this three-day stretch and I thought I should make some plans. I invited a ton of people over for lunch today, but barely half replied and, of the ones who did, only two could make it and they didn't know each other and probably wouldn't have got on, and an awkward lunch for three wasn't quite what I'd had in mind when I'd sent out the invitation, envisaging rowdy Trivial Pursuit and daytime drunkenness. Everyone else I asked was going to see family or already had plans. So I cancelled it. Initially, I felt sad. Then I listened to Eckhart and I calmed down for a bit. Why fight what is? Silly me. Then I realised I was tired and I didn't want anyone to come over to my flat anyway. Then I thought about Grania and felt left out again. Then I told myself to stop being such a self-pitying nightmare. I thought about Glastonbury but realised that inner peace doesn't come from using future excitements to cope with present boredom. Then I tried to meditate but couldn't concentrate. Then I sat down and wrote this.

Meh.

For someone who doesn't want their blog to be about mental health, I seem to spend a ridiculous amount of time writing about it.