Back to Mull after that, after almost a month off, possibly…
Another holiday - a long train journey with some books to Italy or Greece and back, stopping where I find the sun. Writing letters and notes to myself. Musings and wondering. Alone? With a friend? Meeting people?
A lot of bed time.
Watching shite television and wondering what the point of it all is. Feeling ashamed and worried about the future. Doom impended. No way out. Go back to bed. [Keep bring seaweed up to Celia & Philip's croft; Keep the fish and chips and pizza nights going, somehow; climb a mountain; call a friend; let myself cry; more bed time.]
Wonder at going to the doctor, increasing dose of cod liver oil. Stay away from people. Try and be around people. Run back to bed. Hate myself and bed and wish I didn't need to be there. Wish I didn't want to be there. Watch all of Game of Thrones in one sitting. Eat the entire supply of Chocolate Tree goodies. Feel sick. Go to bed. Can't sleep. What's the point. Sleep in until 6pm. Feel bad so watch crap film to feel better. Feel worse. Realise I've not drunk any alcohol for two months, or listened to music, or laughed. Call Tashy who encourages me to write a list and to go for a walk. Call Pete who tells me to read the letter I sent him. Call Mum who tells me to just come home. Call Becky but she can't listen to me anymore. Email you but not have any words, and feel stupid.
What is the point in boe, the ceilidh collective is finished. Bunessan Bakehouse is another joke and RoME preposterous. I'm a non-starter. A layabout, just talks and does doing. Now can't even talk.
Go for a cycle but get off after three minutes and cry.
Why am I here. What am I doing? Why the hell is it exactly the same as last year. Why the fuck can't I Fuck It, and walk away. Shrug my shoulders. Leave the black dog to go bark at trees or go for a swim instead of constantly pulling me down. Why is it so strong, so big and mighty. Bastard.
Days, weeks and months go by. My room is horrible. What's the point of tidying. What is the point of trying. I still do the seaweed runs. I still fry fish, I still form the dough. But why? My savings from the summer are running low.
Low, low, low.
Then a visit from a friend. I make a cup a tea. Find myself sitting down. Interested in what she's saying. Like the way she explains, has opinion.
I wake up early the next day and find myself making another cup of tea. In a Mich cup. It tastes, well, it tastes good. I can't believe it and see a light, a reflection in the window. I stare at the reflection and see outside. Nothing is stirring.
But I am.