Courtesy of Londonist
26/10/2021
I am on the District line, travelling across London to see a friend. It’s a pretty lousy line, constantly threatening delays, moving slowly through the suburbs into the centre of the city, as if being a mode of transport is a hobby and not an essential service. I am feeling embarrassed for some reason. Most of the time I am confident in being open about my vulnerabilities, but today I feel like a raw nerve, red and viscous, laid out, unfiltered for all to see. At this moment I am surrounded by strangers and I’m self-conscious. So I look at my phone like everyone else, and write this.
I’ve been struggling to write something ‘polished’ lately. Sentence structure the way I like it, a clear format and no contractions. Actually, I gave up on the ‘no contractions’ rule a while ago. Does anyone care if I say ‘I’ve’ instead of ‘I have’? I’ve no idea. I just know that I once cared, and now I don’t.
I’m trying not to worry about things. The Bible says not to worry, and that worry will not add a day to your life. This is true. So why am I sitting on this train, going at a glacial pace, thinking about everything, from the humdrum things of life to the explosions, and worrying? Maybe I answered my own question. That’s a lot of thinking. I’m off to see a friend! Stop thinking so much.
Reprimanding myself like this doesn’t work very well with depression.
The key is to physically do things. And I am! It’s why I’m travelling. It’s this horrible limbo, the mental purgatory between one location and another, that gets my brain festering. I feel very lonely sitting amongst all these people. I contemplate myself in the reflection of the opposite window and think how frozen my face appears. I look away. How did we get here?
I’m on the Jubilee line now. It’s much faster and more reliable. I’m halfway there. Suddenly I’m casting my mind back to last night. I’ve been dreaming of painful things. I wrote a poem about it the other day called 3:30am. It’s a world where everyone has an axe to grind. I’ve always had hyper-realistic dreams as a side effect of my anti-depressants, but these are several shades of indigo away from that. I didn’t sign up for these cruel nights, and the resulting mental hangover as I fight through the following day.
I’m about to get onto the third and final train. I’m nearly there. Things are about to drastically improve. This train is above ground, and I am getting fresh air and even some sunshine. Light shatters the dim ceilings of the Underground and warms my frozen face. The hoaxes that are nightmares, worries and fears don’t dissipate, but I’m nearly at my friend’s place, and with that comes a space of safety where I can pour these things out and little by little, continue to cleanse my feeble-feeling heart.
Later - on the way home
I am on the first of the three trains (and a bus) home. It’s above ground but the sun isn’t shining anymore. I’m much improved though. I spent time with a dear friend whose company was a balm to the raw flesh.
I’ve also come away with cake. I love her.
It’s still lonely on the train. I’m thinking of kingdoms where I will never feel this way. I do not despair though, but am encouraged that despite that, I’m not ready to leave this one, even if I ache all over. I live a blessed life.
About to board the District line again, old unfaithful. I’m going to go home and take a shower, put on pyjamas and watch a Korean drama. It’s strange, sometimes the little things make all the difference. Other times they feel like slapping Band-Aids on broken bones. Hopefully today it will be the former.
The train meanders and I contemplate the journeys I’ve taken. I remember when we went to pick up Claude, our Maltese poodle puppy, two years ago. He slept on my lap all the way home, which was a four hour drive from Shropshire to London. It was a very peaceful trip, looking at England stream past the car window with Claude breathing slowly against me, small enough to cup in my hands. I was so happy, and I think now while I’m on my way home, where he’ll be running amok, that silence can be so beautiful, and that I have faith I’ll find it again soon.
I’ve just realised I’m squishing my bag which has the cake in it.
I’m also realising I’ve now spent about three hours journaling today and I actually feel better. Somehow, I know I need to be by myself at home. I’m tired. I tire easily. I am going to cuddle Claude and stay warm in my QMUL (Queen Mary University of London - my alma mater) jumper. I want quiet in my head. I want the melancholy to subside to a simmer instead of a boil. I’m sick of feeling scalded. Tomorrow is a new day. I couldn’t paint my life by numbers, but somehow it still ended up kind of pretty. None of these sentences are related to each other. That’s okay though. I’m nearly home, and as I remember my day I think about how good I have it. I look at the messages on my phone and the waters of depression calm a little bit. I think I was more resilient as a child, but I’m trying.
My bus has come. I’m nearly there.
Claude
3:30am
I awake at three-thirty
This Monday morning
An autumn day breathes
Somewhere else.
We are still in the depths
The murk and the mire
Neither fully day
Nor fully night
I pick up my phone
That subtle blade
Flicking through posts
With nothing good to say
I go back to sleep
Nightmares returning
I’ve no shield in this fray
No ally to be seen
My chamber of dreams
Where monsters lacerate
Brain of no mercy
But then I wake
I rise, I gaze
Reality sets in
I touch my face
More rested now
Sleep was a blessing somehow.