annanotbob2's Diaryland Diary

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Why Not?

I had an epiphany about why I am struggling to write these days, while still getting twitchy about not writing. It's because I am so steeped in sadness, of course it is.

I'm reading through my early blog, from 2005, and although life is chaotic and often difficult - I was hurtling towards my second big breakdown, the one that would take me right out of teaching, but Elder Daughter's MS was still episodic, she worked and drove and lived her life - and the blog is still lively and often funny I find, reading it all these years later.

For example, from November 2005, remembering an incident that took place three years previously:

"About about a boy

Just managed to hit 9,000 words [doing novel-writing month]- well, 9,123 to be precise, the last 700 of which were during the ad breaks while we watched 'About A Boy' on the telly. I don't know if I've written about that film before, but I'm going to again, as it has a most particular place in the hearts of my Younger Daughter and me.

It first came out in 2002, when I was just starting to crawl out of the depths of the nightmare depression. I can't remember what precisely had gone on during that day, a Sunday, but it had been full of aggro - Son getting arrested or a day in casualty with him trying to blag codeine, or something of that nature. YD and I were both sick of it being such a fucking struggle and endlessly having more to deal with, never a break it seemed. In a fit of rare positivity we decided to go to the pictures and see a nice romantic comedy. A film with Hugh Grant in had to be a pretty good bet.

As indeed it was, but how had we failed to notice that it was largely about a woman who dressed and behaved like a hippy (guilty, m'lud), cried all the time (guilty), was completely oblivious to the terrible consequences for her kid (guilty) and even had a purple comfort-cardie that she huddled into in times of woe and a very short home haircut. It was our fucking lives, our agony, up there on a giant screen, in a packed cinema. We kept stealing glances at each other, to see that things were OK and odd bits did slice right through to the core and make the tears just pour down my face, and hers. When the kid comes in and his mum's crying again and you get his voiceover I nearly died at how much I'd mis-imagined how it was for my kids.

Anyway, if it had been only that we'd have left or topped ourselves or something, but it's not, it's also such a kind, loving film and it explained me to them and them to me and Hugh Grant suddenly looked gorgeous, really scrummy and it was so so witty, that actually it was OK to watch it. It even climaxes with 'Killing Me Softly With His Song', or film in our case.

When it was over YD and I scrutinised each other to be certain no one was on the verge of cracking up, which we weren't, and we got swept into the exodus. Once we were walking, I found the tears flowing again, then I started to shake and I was suddenly completely overcome with massive, heaving, uncontrollable sobs, in the middle of the crowd. YD was there and sobbing too and we clung to each other and sobbed and sobbed I kept telling her I never tried to kill myself, I would never do that and she kept saying she knew that, it was OK and we both said sorry and it's all right again and again and sobbed and sobbed, then as quickly as it began, it was gone, for both of us and we suddenly grinned at each other and she said, 'When I saw that fucking purple cardigan!' and we got the giggles - we were in the foyer by now - swarming with people - and we just giggled our way through and home, remembering bits of the film that had hit the spot and then gradually easing into a peace that we hadn't felt for a long time."

I can't write like that any more, So it will be more depressing, but it will be the truth, my life, as it is, a bit grim.

9:13 a.m. - 18.09.18

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