L. and M. come from Cambridge to stay for a few days. Ping pong in the community centre. Much laughter as the resident cat lies against the net batting the ball away. The happiness of being with people.
When they’ve left life plods on as usual. S. does her work as a research assistant for a historical project involving different universities, and makes monthly trips to the libraries in Norwich or Cambridge. I translate to the tedious sound of pigeon coos from the eave which remind me of endless suburban afternoons growing up, or waiting to grow up. The evenings stretch out like great clouds over the horizon… The last days, the days after the last day. Life isn’t short, it’s long, long…
Memories of the summer when it got bad, when I’d go weeks without talking to anyone except the girl in the off-licence. Before S. At first I tried to walk myself out of it. In the beginning I’d walk for an hour or two a day, then whole afternoons, sweat soaking my back. I’d walk through the city, through parks, along the river, down A-roads, past industrial estates, into the countryside. I stopped in pubs: a pint here, a pint there. I sat barely thinking, half-listening to tradesmen chat. Warm drafts, sun through the windows in the afternoon. Watch the drops running down the side of the glass into small puddles on the table. Make traces in the water with your finger…
Later, when I no longer had energy to walk, I’d lie in bed thinking of death. So this is what it comes to, I thought, you must be ill. Ill. I’d repeat the word in my head. This is what it comes to, I thought, something in me is ill and look, now I’m ill in a dark room. It was almost a relief, to have only one thought, one sincere wish. Almost easier to be cornered, really cornered and taken out of all fakery.
The monologues I’d have in my sick mind! It’s an illness, you see, I’m ill. There’s the death drive and there’s the life force and the life force is dying, it’s turned into the death drive. This is what it comes down to, it’s logical. The illness has grown inside me, fed on me and now it’s ready. It’s grown in the dark, but now you can see it. You thought I was lying, now you see I wasn’t, surely you see. It grows in the dark until it comes to this and look at me now. It’s an illness, there’s a name for it. Soon you’ll see.
Almost a relief that it had taken me, that they were wrong and I was right. Finally. See for yourself, I thought. Ill. Can you see it? You can almost see it, but not like I can. Here’s something indisputable for once, just look at me, lying in bed thinking of ways to die.
A hole was how I thought of it, like being in a hole and not being able to look up. It felt like a basic struggle between life and death. Something in me was trying to kill me, something else was trying to live. I couldn’t read, couldn’t sleep without pills.
I’d lie in bed in the afternoon daydreaming of a fatal accident, a crash, a meteor. It was the first thought I woke up to at night, pulled out of deep sleep as if by the thought itself. Almost comforting. I narrowed it down to a train or a truck, though I disliked the idea of implicating others. In any case I was a coward. I often pictured myself holding back at the last moment. I decided on a train, if I were to do it. I’d sort the practical things out first: bank, bills, belongings, if I could summon the strength. I’d get off at one of the small request stops, walk across the fields with an eye on my watch, find a suitable place by a stand of trees and wait. I’d bring what they’d need in my bag, which I’d leave by the tracks.
Underneath it all a voice said:
You’ve run out of options, what’s holding you back? You coward. You couldn’t make your life work and now you can’t even make this work. You’d panic and go home with your tail between your legs like you always do. You’ve got nothing left but me but you can’t even listen to me, you can’t even do that right. Your whole life has come down to nothing and will keep coming down to nothing and you know it. You’ve wasted all your options, you don’t need me to tell you that, so just do it, do something real for the first time in your life.
In the days that followed the worst of it I felt as if I were floating above the hole, but that I could drop back into it at the least disturbance, a hard word from a stranger. (And yet words seemed to mean nothing.) But just as one has hidden weaknesses one has hidden strengths. One day I drew a line that meant this stops here and stepped across it. I moved the line every day. It was a simple question of life or death, a simple question for once! Going forward meant life, going back meant death.
Sometimes a small shift of attention seemed to change everything, or rather illuminate what was already there, like a light turned on in a room. I started walking again, and often ended up at the parish church. It was always empty. I sat on a pew where the light came in through the stained-glass window. A vanishing speck inside – what? I felt an overfacing power and I felt it withdraw, and that gave me a strange hope.