“April is the cruellest month, breeding
Lilacs out of the dead land …”
– TS Eliot, “The Waste Land”
Warning: bad language, questionable photographic skills, and self pity.
I’m home, on a week’s leave. Because I didn’t want unpaid, or to go off sick. Those were my options.
*Sigh*, as Charlie Brown would say.
What is it with April? I just can’t seem to get the hang of it.
April is when people close to me – Mosu; my father-in-law; Mom – die. Plus people I wasn’t so close to, like my cousin, whose sudden death at 50-something, a fortnight or so after Dad’s, shook me.
One 1st April – although American, I do understand simple irony – I went off sick. And, for the first time, actually took it easy, rather than driving myself even further down. A bit of a mixed memory, that.
It’s also the month when, last year, I injured my knee after tripping over my own goddamn shoelaces. (Yes, I am aware I’m an idiot, ta very muchly.)
April is also when something happened which ultimately resulted in my going for counselling. That “something” is a big part of why I’m home writing this, rather than at work, or preparing for a shift.
Today is my first day off. So the inner dialogue is still quite shouty:
“No one wants to know!”
“Shut the fuck up!”
“Who cares? No one sodding cares, that’s who!”
Because when I’m unwell – and I’ve been a lot worse than this – that’s how my conversations with myself often go.
Is this helpful? Is it hell. But neither are people who tell me to “move on”.
Except, of course, maybe they aren’t. Maybe that’s just my particular flavour of bipolar-coloured paranoia.
“Oh, hell…” I can hear my mother say.
Mom didn’t teach me to swear. The passage of time, and shite happening, did.