I’ve been having a patchy few months, from the excellent; a week work experience in London which proved I am capable, the the shitty, the dribble of rejection emails for the few jobs that are around proving that whilst I am capable no one is willing to take a chance on someone with a patchy CV and a history that you can’t really whitewash and remove all the being ill stuff.
Needless to say this all has lovely positive effects on my mental health.
I know doing things and keeping busy helps me, but I can’t make myself be busy doing nothing or fabricating stupid nonsense like getting up early even though you have nothing to get up for just to be ‘in the work habit’ or whatever. My brain isn’t stupid it knows there’s no point so why pretend there is?
If one more well meaning but otherwise idiotic person gives me an ‘ooo have you tried?’ and then lists everything I am all ready doing, such as volunteering; I have volunteer work coming out my eyeballs, I do stuff in my preferred field but it’s sporadic opportunities and the more permanent positions are competitive, so that leaves me in the even more ego massaging situation of getting rejection emails for work I won’t even get paid for. Sometimes you get the scared look on their face when they realise you have tried all their suggestions, often more, and the realisation that maybe they can’t explain this one away hits them and the awkward silence and a few mumbles of ‘ohh gosh oh sorry must be awful’ descend.
That and the fact I know I can’t spiral into full time full on work with my health, especially if it’s a less than ideal job that will suck out any remaining vestiges of my soul.
I’ve been blank again, I have no desire or need to write and I hate it. I get a pang of guilt every time I get a notice saying someone has subscribed to this blog (thanks!) and I haven’t written anything in months. There’s just noting to write about, or if I do get inspiration it fades long before I can sit myself in front of a keyboard. I heard people talking about depression and creativity the other week, the whole ;ohh there must be a link, Sylvia Plath!’ refrain. Perhaps there is and in certain moods I churn out pages of drivel, but there are also spans; months, years, lifetimes of nothing; just an endless expanse of mindnumbing dullness. An endless river of woodchip wallpaper painted beige without even a a blob of blu-tac residue to liven it up.
On the plus side the likelihood of me ever having to pay back my student loan becomes minuscule so at least I got a sort of free education, though at times I do wonder why I bothered and didn’t just do a tesco diploma in workfare.