It starts with a dream, as many things often do. A dream that is vivid, vibrant, fragile, disappearing in the new day in both senses of the word. Hope and sleep. This is a dream to be healthy. To be better.
A quote comes to the protagonists mind now, “If wellness is this then what in hells name is sickness?” He questions the idea of wellness in slight desperation. “Surely” he thinks, “surely health is subjective. Surely one’s health is comparative to oneself.” He seeks to rationalise sickness.
“It’s ok to be depressed, it’s ok to burn with self-hatred, it’s ok to turn his destructiveness inwards. It’s ok, surely? It’s ok, it’s ok.” It’s a desperate line of logic, rinse and repeat, repeatedly flawed. He knows even if wellness is comparative he’s been better. So, he returns to the dream, having validated his own sickness, having confirmed to himself that he cannot rationalise it, he cannot convince himself that everything is ok.
It is at this point that he swears, anger’s such a wonderful emotion for putting the correct emphasis on the F’s.
The C’s and the T’s too, hissing through clenched lips and teeth, white knuckle spittle. “fuck fuck fuck cuntingfuck”. Cunting fuck indeed. What purpose and what point does the anger serve? How does it help him? How does it make anything better, make him healthier? better? This is his thought pattern, his construct.
Emotion as purpose. Make sense to you? All things he deludes serve a purpose. When he feels anger it’s for a reason, it does something, it solves something, it fixes something. Lust? love? Fear? Anxiety? All these things do something, they solve something, he believes and deludes truly, they fix things. So he gets angry, he swears but he cannot see the purpose, “what’s the fucking point in this?” he cries. He cannot accept the anger, he cannot tolerate it without it having a point. His dream of being better moves one step away, cyclical. He dreams, and in his failings gets angry, and in his anger he gets sicker, he fails, and in his failure gets angry.
Then comes self-destruction. “How else do you manage emotions? “He says “They are not allowed to exist,” he thinks “They must be negated, mitigated, managed.” ‘NMM’ he thinks to himself. Clever. Is this the problem? He thinks himself so clever.
It starts with a dream, then. That hope, to be better, to be well. He tries delusion and in failure rages, and in rages self destructs. “Perhaps,” he considers thoughtfully in repose, “the dream itself is to blame”.
“I hope for a better life, a better future. Happiness, contentedness, soft dreams and soft beds, pleasant conversation, smiles and love. I dream of these, I hope…for the unobtainable. No wonder I’m depressed, no wonder I can’t cope. My expectations are too high.” False logic, flawed logic. He knows deep down he was ill first. How can you dream to be well unless you are not?
But it helps, a little. It helps. It hurts to know you are less than you could be. To know that things could be better, you could be happier. What’s more depressing than knowing you’re depressed? “It helps”, he says, it helps. Is that what life is about? Every little helps. Tesco would have you think so but is that what life is about? Is it about surviving or is it about living? Is that what life is about? Is that why we dream?
It’s understandable, he thinks, that he would dream of health. To be normal, loved. To be strong, warm, content. Open the door, there’s a glow in the house, a comfort of familiarity. Pleasant lived in noises come from inside, the tv, the kitchen, computer room, study, wherever. Someone greets him, there’s a smile, there’s love there in that smile. No clenched teeth, no clenched lips, no white knuckle spittle. Warmth. Step in, shoes off. Home is where the heart is and he has a house to love and be loved in. Care, attention, compliments, dramatic arguments about politics, everything and nothing. Makeup sex. Passion, vim. Life. Beautiful multicoloured life. Like his dreams at night the image seems so vibrant, so powerful.
It’s a wondrous dream no? Especially to those that see in grey. He opens the door now and he fears. He is afraid. He is scared. He opens the door now and there is no warmth. He keeps it all inside, his fear. His big cowardly fear. Scared of life, scared of people. Scared of the outside. Scared of the past, scared of the future. His fear burns him like his self-hatred, it burns for the stigma he places in it. Weakness is unabided, just like emotions with no point. Weakness is wrong, it is bad. He cannot let those around him in. Cannot, cannot. Will not.
So lonely and afraid he sits and dreams, he tries to speak, he reaches out, he screams inside but doesn’t even manage a whisper to a friend. his own fears conquer him, conquer his dream. He cries, a lot. he’s just reaching the point he thinks, oh how he thinks that maybe, just maybe he can admit that. He doesn’t have much faith in himself anymore. He doesn’t think he can do this by himself, so he cries because he struggles to let anyone help. Beliefs have always had a way of crushing dreams.
This is why he believes emotions must have a point, this is the root of his fear, this is why he lets no-one in. Everything has an agenda, wants to hurt or use him. Every emotion shown to him is there to manipulate him, every word, every action, every kiss or absent hug serves to damage him in some way. If that is true for everyone else it must be true for him. He even knows this isn’t true. He even knows that there are those that care about him, that are genuine. He knows the friends he have now are true but he is so scared, so terrified of being hurt he cannot bring himself to take that last leap, that last step and be real. To cry in front of them, to love, to care.
He dreams of health, of wellness, but he hopes for a smile.
And Idle thumbs 