Fight

Image result for irish travellers bare knuckle fighting

Trouble is brewing. In a post-crisis diazepam haze yesterday I worked for a while then got sucked into YouTube and watching the opening blows of an impending Traveller war in the UK. Big scary men brandishing sunken-knuckle fists, talking quickly in Irish lilt, threatening each other in bizarre home videos – ramping up the violence, shaking with rage, shouting – while the people of the annual horse fair village of Appleby sleep less soundly in their beds.

A guy didn’t show to fight another guy. In the dark of a bad quality phone recording at night a stocky man in a balaclava ranted his piece to camera while waving a sawn-off shotgun. Then somebody called Tommy Joyce offered to dig up the recently deceased wife of another Traveller and fuck her in front of him. I stopped watching after that. I have too many wars of my own to get wrapped up in grave robbing and necrophilia.

I’m finding things difficult right now. It started yesterday at the high point of a long walk up into the hills. I wondered if I just had too much to look down on in all ways up there. Too much to view, with all the bad bits mixed into the good parts. Reflection and contemplation are supposed to be good, but I can’t stand it. Hence the panic, then the tablets. I felt so small and unable to change a single fucking thing in my life. I don’t know what I like any more, I just know what I hate.

Just read all that back.

What another load of self-indulgent whinging.

My CPN is due in a few hours. I’m lost and today is another write-off.

Some say that people enjoy wallowing in fragile mental states – that mental illness is whacky and kooky. Not me. It’s ruined my life. I am tired of fighting it all. I feel beaten-up, sometimes I’m bloody, too. I punched myself so many times last night that my stomach feels like a bag of minced steak. There is no air in here, the music playing in the background is the only thing that’s tying me to being in the present, able to type; got to stop looking up at the treeline and wondering what’s watching me.

A bad day. Things aren’t working out. Confusion. Marble works and mice, dugong swimming, help, Cortez the Killer, bright yellow flowers outside the window, apple blossom, grey skies, shark attacks, the eventual grey goo, mocking laughter, and a whirlpool up high above me, drawing me up.

 

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