Friday creeps up every time. Every Tuesday, Wednesday I get this sense of dread that the week is slipping by already, and the depression and anxiety sets in that I’m drifting still towards that waterfall, doing nothing with it. I started getting angry yesterday, uncommunicative and evasive. M couldn’t get anything out of me. Nothing except my desperation to write. I couldn’t do anything else. She left me to it. She has done so now again and again. We made an effort for a while, and our problems were a novelty, demanding of my time, but it all cracked last weekend when she had the weekend off and had been planning exactly what we could do with it, but I became desperate at exactly the same time and had to write. God, I can’t believe it has been a week since I tried to write a poem, The First Circle, which I shall be posting about some time soon when I get round to it. That fact depresses me. It literally feels as if I haven’t lived for a week.I’m feeling Kafkaesque about it all. That is, feeling much as he felt about women, and the women he kept in his life, writing to them, but keeping them, as far as he could, at a distance. I got back from work, and, as I describe, or adumbrate, in these pages below, I got into researching nutrition. I was tired. Before this I got into looking up catering courses. I had been feeling that restful regret that I hadn’t been cooking, this whilst watching Ready Steady Cook and some other programme about amateur cooks taking over a restaurant. Of course, that bubble soon burst when I saw such a course would last a year. I remember how I felt when we went to reregister for the Spanish course we had been doing on Tuesday nights. I felt such a claustrophobic pressure that I was losing more time - a genuine fear - such that we pulled up to the car park and then had this blow up of an argument like we have when my uncommunicative nature lets something build and build up. Then there was the Dreamweaver course I found, the same one I wanted to do two years ago when I was waiting for my CRB check, the security clearance for my work, and when I had everything settled, and blissful amounts of time on my hands to learn HTML.
Today I started cooking the beans I had left out yesterday with no plan, feeling that it would be a particularlydisappointing dish, and then got to looking more and more stern, and being more and more closed off. M eventually asked me over and over what was wrong and I shut down completely, crying. I don’t want to go out, I said. She had suggested this. I always don’t want to go out on a Friday, it makes me stressed. She talked me down, but I didn’t look up even towards her, nor even shook my head or nodded at her questions. I should say, she said. I hadn’t said anything, and sometimes I want to go out. But of course, I meant more than this. I didn’t want to stay in with her. I want to do my thing all the time. (I have been becoming increasingly aware of exactly how Aspergic I am, and how much I have been forcing myself to do things that go against my nature.) You’re still young to have a novel published, she said. It didn’t console me one bit. She looked sad now…
She told me to go and write. Just like she did last week. Eventually, she decided to go out without me. She rang a girl at work she’s been going to the gym with.
And then everything was so much better. Still is. She came back a while ago and wouldn’t tell me where she had been. I hadn’t texted.
I’m in a strange mood. One you only describe with better poetry and better drawing than I am capable of. (Music too of course, but I can’t play it.) Suffice it to say, in my somnolent frame of mind, that I have been reading about the Brain Gym my nutritionist suggests, quite aside from his iridology(!) on the Guardian Bad Science Website, and I see once again that I simply don’t fit in anywhere. That got me to thinking about how nobody ever replied to my posts on the Asperger forums. Then too, to my profile on Guardian dating. The less said about that the better, that’s how desperation (existential) works. That and, I have been thinking about writing a poem comparing my need to reveal all on the internet to the mindset of a flasher.
The ‘poem’, by the way (I’ll deploy scare marks for fear that somebody might think that I hold my efforts to be worthwhile in and of themselves rather than as exercises towards a better understanding of poetry, a fear all the starker for the links I provided just the other day about Mark Haddon’s poetry), refers to my surfing the web.