Back in London, the high I seemed to be experiencing on return from Spain has slowly but surely disintegrated, like I suppose it would for anyone leaving sunny, warm European skies for our all year round grey and cold climate. At home I tried one last time to send an e-mail to David, my French romance in Sitges, and this time it appeared to go through, to my great relief. There has, however, been no response since, and I guess that there will never be a response. It wasn’t meant to be anything other than an extremely brief liaison, and I guess I’m fine with that. Though finding someone here to replace him has proved somewhat challenging this weekend.

Other than bad weather and post-holiday loneliness, I have had to contend with my annoying flatmates, who seem more intent than ever on getting in the way of me having a tolerable life. When I left London last week the kitchen was in a mess, and it still is. Someone’s washing was left in the washing machine and it still is, meaning I can’t clean my clothes before I have to return to work tomorrow.

That’s another thing bothering me: going back to work. I sneaked a peak at my work e-mail address earlier, and there were about 80 unread. I expected a backlog of work to come back to – it’s always the same when I go on holiday – but that’s 80 important-looking e-mails, all addressed directly to me. Oh, Monday will be such fun.

The only good thing is that it’s taken until now for the bad feelings to really hit me, three days after I got back. In the past I would experience the downer immediately upon stepping off the plane. As it is, I was able to have a couple of relatively OK days in London, going to meetings, seeing old faces, showing off my tan. I managed to do loads of writing for an exciting new book for which I got the idea in Spain; things looked good. It’s just today that I feel extra tired, and I have all this washing to do, all those e-mails to look forward to reading, and I want to lay in my bed and cry.

I’ve felt noticeably tired most of the time for the past six months or so: whenever I have the opportunity to lie in bed I more often than not will take it. Today I couldn’t even move until 3 o’clock, when I briefly went downstairs to make a small sandwich, making sure both my flatmates were out before I did so. After the sandwich I had to come back and sleep another couple of hours. It’s not just the holiday catching up with me, it’s like this practically every weekend. When I do sleep it’s not proper sleep, it’s that unhealthy medium level dozing where the dreams are always vivid and strange. I’d like to have gone to a meeting today, to share about the lonelies and the resentments, but my body felt so heavy this afternoon, by the time I was able to get up and switch the computer on to write this it was past the time of any meetings that I knew.

I’ll be all right by this time tomorrow, I guess. The first day of the working week will be nearly over, there’ll only be four left until the weekend and I’ll have dealt with whatever major crises arose during my time off. It is interesting that I haven’t experienced any post-holiday blues until now. Last night I mentioned to someone at my home group that it was strange – I was probably tempting fate by doing so, and now I’m paying the price.

Still, the constant tiredness is beginning to bother me, as is the fact that I can’t stand to see either of my flatmates at the moment, and this horrible Sunday evening misery which I haven’t experienced for months isn’t helpful. I know it’s the old depression, trying to get a grip on me and bring me down. I finally finished with the anti-depressants recently, just before I went to Spain actually, which probably explains a lot. I don’t want to have to rely on pills to feel OK any more. At the moment I guess I’m going through the natural daily ups and downs which come with withdrawal. Sometimes I feel great, sometimes I feel awful for no reason. It’s been like that all my life. I am, to be frank, sick and tired of the ups and downs. But I don’t want to go back on medication, I want to learn how to live and feel OK on a day to day basis without anything in my body.

As I write all this I can feel the grey-ness lifting a little, and I imagine that writing has become my main tool in recovery for changing the feelings. Though I’ve used the phone a bit more this year, it hasn’t yet become a tool that I always rely on when all else fails. I don’t know why, I just feel more comfortable writing about this stuff.

Recovery has taught me how to spot the patterns: I know exactly what’s bothering me today, and I kind of know what to do about it. Until very recently, the idea of getting up and doing something about my problems would invariably make me groan with dread. Today I am keenly aware that the only answer to my problems is to go to work tomorrow and keep earning money so that one day, perhaps soon, I’ll have enough to be able to move into my own place and leave these fuckwits behind. When I’m not living with them they won’t be fuckwits – it’s just while I have to share a small space with them that I feel suffocated and offended by their every move.

I just put Madonna’s Immaculate Collection on; that helps a little. Reminds me of sitting on the beautiful Mediterranean coast on Monday evening, soaking up the late rays of the sun. Oh, there’s Like A Prayer, and a pang of sadness. I miss Spain. It seems that I won’t be able to listen to some songs now without feeling that sadness. When I heard Lady Gaga’s ‘Alejandro’ on the radio this morning I felt that same sadness. It reminded me of Wednesday night, when I let go of all inhibitions and threw my arms around the guy I’d been staring at all night in the club. I know that won’t be the last time I ever go to Spain. I’ll have good times again, but it won’t be for ages, and that’s the deal breaker for me this evening. I’ll have to wait probably months before I can afford another holiday.

Well, I should probably consider myself lucky that I got to go to Spain and do those things at all, shouldn’t I?


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