Alone and Silent.

I'm alone in my flat. I'm silent. Not uttered a word since coming back from shopping and lunch. Having been paid on Tuesday I have bought a few things. Mainly food but I did buy some things for my kitchen. I resisted the lure of a beautiful suit, I would simply never wear it.

The clear indicator is that I'm not in mini mania. The buzzy times I love so much but others don't love 

The last two months have been tough mentally. Losing people who matter and are loved has a devastating effect on my fragile self esteem. My confidence suffers, I doubt everything and none of the brilliant accolades people ascribe to me have meaning. Nor indeed are believed. 

This week my world was stunned to learn I failed my university assignment. Stunned into silence as one friend said. I don't do much well. Mental health yes, cooking maybe, writing, allegedly and academically I have my moments. Clearly I missed something somewhere. And I'm living with this in my lonely and silent world. 

Mozart plays, I've been reading and trying to manage the emptiness of my mood.

On Thursday out there in the real world the General Election takes place. That change is needed is obvious to many. But what change will we get? I don't know who to vote for. But I will vote.

With that I leave you.

I Heard a Voice. 

Some Good?

I'm not sure where to start. Or indeed whether to start at all. Maybe I'm wiser to say nothing. But I cannot not post. For today is that day. 34 years since my sudden and cataclysmic descent into madness. 

A girl. A hangover. Sunshine. Myopia. Guilt. They all played a part on the sunny June morning at Selwyn College Cambridge. 

What happened next is recorded in books. In pain. In tears. In despair. And in suicide survival. 

All these years later I'm older, greyer, fatter and balder. But against the odds I survived. And that was a miracle. 

Who could have known that on the day my frail life collapsed in my entitled, decadent arrogance of youth so much would have impacted on so many lives?

My books, little read but some say inspiring  record the details and the pain. Did anyone ever give a more brutal, terrifying and accurate description of suicide? If they did I've never read it.

I'm a failed writer, a failure in relationships, a failure in family, a failure in Cambridge and a failure in what might have been. What happened happened because a bright young woman met a talented, clever but utterly flawed and traumatised man in Spain, got involved then walked away. Sound familiar from the last five weeks?

Alone again but loved, valued and respected. Could I ask for more after a lifetime of what ifs but utter failure?

I will listen to my music, look at my pictures and read my letters. I know not where she is, the woman who sent those letters. But wherever she is I hope her actions on that sunny June day in Cambridge has brought about some good. 

Many say I saved their lives. All I say is I just talk to people. 

I Heard a Voice. 

The Shadowy Past.

A face I'd not seen for some time appeared last night. She knew me but I didn't recognise her even though she seemed vaguely familiar. She flitted around in her drunkenness stopping for a few moments to talk to me.

Not until I was leaving and she insisted on giving me her number did it finally dawn on me who she was.

She worked in the pub before lockdown. Married at the time to a curry house owner clearly things had changed a lot since then.

Back at home somewhat bemused I pondered whether to contact her. A few weeks after the earth shattering news of Charlotte walking away do I really need another unstable and chaotic woman with a penchant for drugs and alcohol in my life?

I don't know the answer to that but I suspect like Charlotte Jasmine will be a flitting ghost from the shadowy past and the world of mental health. 

When I finally got to bed I endured a night of disturbing dreams. One about mum forced me to get up at 8 am, ridiculous for a Sunday. 

The sun was shining then. Now it is grey and cold. I feel tired and worn. And I know this coming week will be both busy and challenging. 

With luck though what has remained unchanged since changing job will finally shift. Probably too late but it is needed.

In the emptiness of a grey Sunday morning I'm listening to Handel's Saul and have been reading Anthony Bourdain's Kitchen Confidential. Almost finished. If that doesn't confirm that despite the comments of many friends I shall not and never will work in the food business I don't know what will.

At a more modest home roast rolled breast of turkey with sage and thyme wrapped in bacon is on the lunch menu. Looking forward to that.

I Heard a Voice.

The Old Man and the Sea.

Walking along the seafront yesterday afternoon in sporadic sunshine I stopped to take a picture. What I saw afterwards was an old man who was and is hurting and the glories of nature. After it reminded me of Ernest Hemmingway's Nobel Prize winning novel The Old Man and the Sea.

There are many things that are unremarkable about me. Approaching 55, no family or partner, living alone in a small commuter town. Yet it has been a storied life. As my unofficial therapist often remarks "you've led a very rich life".

So what am I? Story teller? Mentally ill? A former world class musician? An author? A cook? An opera lover? A reader? A failure?

The last couple of years have been so tough. Losing people I love and care about really hurts.

But on this sunny Sunday morning on the coast I'm doing what I do every day. I survive, I cook and I entertain. 

In two hours there will be roast rib of beef, Yorkshire pudding and horseradish, strawberries after then cheese and grapes. The wine will flow and once again I will be home with my dad and my friends. 

I Heard a Voice.