It’s now twenty past ten Saturday morning. Been up for about an hour. Went to bed late last night and couldn’t sleep. Ear infections and antibiotics do not a fun night make. Probably because I didn’t drink Friday night. Not through choice. Ear infection. Antibiotics. Had dreadful night Thursday, ear really hurting and swallowing was a nightmare. Made me cry in the end. Went to emergency surgery first thing Friday morning. Had to wait nearly two hours. Hate going to the doctors. So depressing. Full of teenagers with kids they can’t control and old people.
Don’t know what to write. Nothing really happened last week.
It’s raining like crazy outside. Lightening just started flashing. Might be a storm starting. No thunder. Storms used to make me excited. I’d feel them in my head before they started. Like the molecules in my forehead were dancing, like my skin was a bit tight. I’d forgotten that. Now I’m waiting for the thunder or it won’t be a proper storm. Wonder when I stopped being excited. Can’t remember anything. Seriously. Seven days’ worth of stuff and I’m struggling to remember what. Like there’s a black hole where my past should be.
Haven’t written an journal entry for a while. Keep forgetting. That’s not true. Haven’t written a journal entry at all. (Promised no more lying to myself last night in the middle of a tiny panic attack). Still feels like I’m making excuses and that makes me feel tight chested and anxious, and that’s crazy cause I’m me so why am I bothering making excuses to myself?
I remember I haven’t written and then I feel guilty and then I think, I’ll do it later. And then it’s later and I can’t be bothered. And then another day goes by and the same thing happens, (because nothing ever happens that’s worth writing about) and the longer it goes on the less important it feels. Never kept a journal, even when I was a kid. What’s the point now really?
I was sorting out drawers of stuff a week or so ago that I hadn’t looked at since we moved house back in 2006. I pulled out untouched old jewellery boxes and all my cheap tat, and some medium tat and some mystery might or might not be tat. Stuck to the bottom of my Gran’s red jewellery box, the one with turning ballerina and scary music, was an envelope. Very mysterious. Surprised to find in it were some poems that my gran (Ann Bagley) had written about and to my granddad (Jim Bagley) days after they were married and he’s gone back off to do more soldiering in the war. They’re beautiful. Poems of love written in June 1942.
You’ve heard people talking about cannabis being a gateway drug?
Well, it’s maybe not the best analogy, but Tony Robbins had proved to be my gateway. Completely unbeknownst to him, he’s provided me with the lever that has allowed me to find a way into my own mind. So who is Tony Robbins?
It went like this.
Here’s me, headless chicken, running around waving my arms in the air.
( Word of advice, don’t ever Google ‘personal development’ without a parachute!) In fact, I’ve just done it again to save you the trouble and it gave me 51,800,000 results. Yep, fifty one MILLION, eight hundred thousand results.
And that was just on Google, never mind the other search engines!
I know, I know, probably loads of things, probably nothing. It’s all about the discovery right? Taking charge, being actively involved in my thoughts so I can spend the rest of my life doing the things I want to do. So what the hell is wrong with me?
Well bloody hell. I reached 50 this summer. But apart from the odd 5 minute skirmish with personal development, it coming out a battered looser I might add; I’ve pretty much lived my life by going where the wind blows. It’s been fun, it’s been rubbish, it’s been exciting, it’s been stressful, it’s been, it’s been…a life unplanned.
I’ve got a rubbish memory. Oh, I’m not an amnesiac or anything. But recalling events and placing them accurately in my timeline is a challenge. I’m okay with nailing down things in the last few days, maybe the last couple of weeks. But the past is…well, it’s the past. Last couple of weeks, recently, a few weeks/months/years ago, when I was little, when I was at college, when I lived in,before we were married…that’s as accurate as it gets.
I am totally in awe of people like my Granddad. He could drill down into his past to the hour and day, never mind the month or year. ‘Ah yes, when I was in Africa in ’43, it was around 10 o’clock March the 16th if I remember rightly…,’