#oneaday Day 737: Returning to reality

We go home tomorrow, which is going to be somewhat bittersweet, as I'm sure you can imagine. There has been absolutely no sign of Oliver over the course of the last week, no contact from anyone who has seen him, no sightings reported on social media and — perhaps thankfully? — no reports that he has passed away. So I choose to believe that he is still out there, somewhere, just waiting for us to find him. Perhaps it's all a game to him. He does love a game.

grayscale photography of concrete road during daytime — Photo by Airam Vargas on Pexels.com

I am, of course, still absolutely sick with worry. It has been two weeks today that he went missing, and whatever happens, I am always, always going to be wondering if there was more we could have done — more we should have done. There are zillions of online resources out there saying what you "should" do when a cat goes missing, but a significant proportion of them appear to be AI-generated drivel and pseudoscience.

I am not willing to give up on him, though. At this point, it feels like it will be unlikely that he will come home by himself for whatever reason, but I still want to go looking for him and will be doing so when we return home tomorrow. I don't know if I will be able to achieve anything — over the course of two weeks, it's entirely possible he could have gone a long way, although most supposed "experts" (with the caveat above) seem to believe that cats who spend the majority of their time indoors, as Oliver did, won't have actually ventured very far, and are probably hiding silently somewhere they feel is "safe". This, unfortunately, makes them extremely difficult to track down; the most supposedly reliable advice appears to be to bring things that are "familiar" to them — things that they recognise the smell or sound of.

Part of me is concerned that he has simply been taken by someone. Not necessarily stolen as such, but perhaps he was seen somewhere, the owner didn't think to get his microchip checked, and now thinks that they have a wonderful new cat in their family. If that has happened, I have absolutely no idea how we would go about finding him — although if this has happened, his status will be flagged up if and when he is taken to the vets or a shelter or something, and that, in turn, would allow us to be reunited. But that, of course, depends on the person in question thinking to take him to a vet or shelter — if indeed this is the situation in which he has found himself.

As I've said repeatedly over the course of the last two weeks, though, the absolutely impossible thing throughout all this is just not knowing anything. What made him jump out of the window? Which way did he go? Was he just exploring, or was he running from something? Is he hurt? Is he hungry? Has he been taking care of himself for the last two weeks? Has someone else been taking care of him for the last two weeks? I don't have any answers, and these myriad questions swirling around my brain are driving me absolutely spare.

I'm supposed to be going back to work on Tuesday, and it'll be right back into a difficult, stressful time, too. Honestly I'm not sure I'm going to be able to cope. I am wracked with pain, sadness, guilt, anger, frustration and all manner of other emotions, and I still don't really know how to process any of them, or how to direct any of them in a vaguely productive direction — either for getting some work done, or for tracking down our precious boy.

As with any difficult time, I guess it's just going to have to be a "one step at a time" sort of situation. I want to think this is all going to end happily and become a funny story to share in the years to come, but I am also fearing the worst. I don't want to lose him. He is so, so precious to me.

There is nothing I can do from where I am right now, though. Tomorrow is a new day, and we can decide what we need to do from there. So the best thing I can probably do at the moment is get some rest and try to come to tomorrow as alert and refreshed as is possible under the circumstances.

Want to read my thoughts on various video games, visual novels and other popular culture things? Stop by MoeGamer.net, my site for all things fun where I am generally a lot more cheerful. And if you fancy watching some vids on classic games, drop by my YouTube channel.

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#oneaday Day 729: The struggle for your emotions to be heard

One of the things I find difficult and, at times, frustrating to deal with, perhaps particularly as a person with an autistic spectrum condition, is properly conveying the emotions that I am feeling and the depth of those emotions. Our recent anguish over Oliver's disappearance is a prime example of this. I am feeling intense amounts of pain, sadness, anger, fear, grief and all manner of other emotions over this situation, on a pretty much continual basis, and yet I'm not sure if I have accurately conveyed that to anyone.

woman checking compass on trail — Photo by Ali Kazal on Pexels.com

It's not as if I haven't tried to do so. But I feel like any time I have attempted to — with the exception of my therapist yesterday, who is trained in such matters, and my family members, who have been through situations like this and thus understand — I have simply got a response that is, at best, a cursory "oh, Pete, I'm so sorry" and then nothing much after that.

I'm not really sure what I'm expecting or wanting from other people, to be honest. But something about it just doesn't quite feel… "enough", you know? I am here, devastated at the potential loss of a family member — because make no mistake, Oliver is a family member — and I feel like a lot of people I've expressed this to have pretty much forgotten this fact almost as soon as they have given the appropriate response as defined by the unwritten social contract we all agree to.

To be clear, I'm not angry at anyone who has responded this way and I'm not annoyed that very few people have reached out to see how I'm doing as the week goes on. I know that everyone has their own things going on in their lives, and their own priorities of things to care about. I cannot reasonably expect people who are not directly involved in this situation to care about it as much as I do. I know that.

But I think what the problem is, is that this is putting my overall loneliness somewhat into perspective. There simply are not very many people left in my life that I feel like I can express these things to, and that they will give a shit. It is at times like this where you really feel like you need people in your life to support you, to uplift you, to distract you from the dark thoughts swirling around inside your head, and when you simply don't really have that outside of your immediate family members, it can feel a tad difficult to deal with.

I think about how I might feel if someone close to me was dealing with such mental anguish, and how I would want to be there to support them. I think about how I have been with people who were once close to me who have been through similarly challenging periods of intense, sustained emotion. Perhaps I am the one who overdid it? Perhaps I was overbearing, smothering? I don't know. It felt like the right thing for me to do at the time, and the people in question seemed to appreciate it, too.

It's just so difficult. Like I say, I really don't know what emotion I am really "supposed" to be feeling right now, because the fact is I simply still do not know what the situation actually is. All I know is that Oliver is missing, and his condition is unknown. And until we learn something more about what has actually happened, that uncertainty is going to be probably the leading cause of the intense sadness and frustration that both Andie and I are feeling right now.

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#oneaday Day 714: End of a long week

It's been a very long, stressful, challenging week, but I'm finally at the end of it. Sure, I had to work a little late this evening (by choice — I wanted to get the thing I was working on finished before the weekend so I could start afresh on some other things I need to do next week) but now it is officially the weekend. And it's a long one, too, what with it being a bank holiday on Monday.

grayscale photo of elderly man sleeping on a rock — Photo by PRIYA MISHRA on Pexels.com

I am tired. Very tired. I'm also worried that we have not-very-long to get a hell of a lot done, but no-one else seems to be panicking about it, so I'm trying not to panic. Trying. I am mostly succeeding, but there are times when I do feel a bit "OH GOD OH SHIT WHAT THE HELL". I can usually get through those times, though.

This is something I was talking about at therapy this week. One of the things that has sort of… emerged in our conversations is the fact that I do have what my therapist describes as a "wise" side, which, at times of great difficulty, anxiety or stress, can usually break through the noise of poor mental health and set me if not completely "right", then certainly on a somewhat more productive path than staring at a wall wishing the entire world would go away for a bit.

It is a challenge, sometimes, to allow that apparently "wise" part of myself to speak, but one thing I am learning to acknowledge about myself is that this part of myself does exist, and that when I do allow it to speak, it usually has something eminently sensible to say. It's not a part of me that admonishes me for making mistakes or doing things inefficiently; it just calmly, gently says to me something along the lines of "look, here are the facts, here is what you can do about it, here is what you probably should do about it" and then, barring a complete breakdown of mental health, I can usually then get on with the thing.

Of course, in the past I have experienced times where that voice can't get through. I have experienced times where things really were bad, and I knew there was no way of really avoiding the "bad". I endured, though, and I like to think my experiences have made me stronger as a result. After all, as much of a state as I consider myself to be in at times, I am still here. I am still going. I am still fighting. I haven't given up.

And oh, there have been times when it would have been easy to give up. At least one of those occasions has been immortalised on this blog, although at the time I sort of danced around the subject in the things I was writing, because I think on some level I was conscious of the fact that although I was having thoughts of giving up on everything at times, I didn't really want to follow through on them in any sort of way that would have had permanent consequences. Hell, I'm doing it now, because part of me doesn't believe that I was ever really willing to give up.

And I guess maybe I wasn't. Because, like I say, I am still here. There are things I would like to change. Things I would like to improve. Things that I wish were different. But I know all of those are things that I can, potentially, do something about. I am not helpless. I am not useless or worthless. There is reason and value to my existence.

That got a tad deeper than I perhaps intended, but it was one of those occasions when the thoughts just sort of started flowing, so I thought I'd run with it. Anyway, I'm off to go and eat ice cream and play some video games now. Have a lovely long weekend, everyone.

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#oneaday Day 187: Anxious mess

I've been an absolute ball of pent-up anxiety for… probably a few days this week, if I'm honest, but it's been particularly bad today. As is often the case when I find myself getting panicky, there isn't really a concrete root cause of it, but there are plenty of factors that haven't helped.

I'm having one of those times where everything just feels a bit overwhelming, and I feel like I can never quite get "on top" of things. It's not necessarily having too much to do or think about, more a disproportionate sense of how "important" everything is.

The rational part of my brain knows that nothing I'm presently fretting about is important or worth worrying over, but when your brain enters panic mode, none of that matters; it just builds and builds and builds until you feel ready to burst.

Like, right now I'm typing this on my phone and the inaccuracy of the keyboard is winding me up way more than it would do under normal circimstances.

I think being ill hasn't helped matters. Part of what I've been worrying about is whether or not I would be better enough to attend tomorrow's work Christmas activities. They should be fun, but they're also filling me with a certain amount of trepidation and social anxiety, and worrying over whether or not I'd be well enough to attend has just been making me feel worse.

But I'm going to try and clear my mind, get some sleep, then go and enjoy myself tomorrow. I get to take a trip to London, then enjoy making cocktails, a nice dinner and then some evening drinking and socialising. And no worrying about travelling back late from London, as we have a hotel laid on for us. So that will be nice.

It will be nice. There's no need to worry. Then at the weekend I get to go see my brother because he's making one of his occasional trips across the pond back here, and see my parents for a bit (prior to seeing them again at Christmas!)

Everything will be fine. I just need to keep telling myself that. None of what I have just outlined is any reason to be uneasy, scared or anxious. So I just need to calm down, chill out, relax and sleep.

So let's see if I can achieve at least one of those.

#oneaday Day 158: Obligations from 30+ years ago

I have a recurring dream. I am told it is quite a common one — or variations on it are, anyway — but I'm going to talk about it regardless, because I've been sitting staring at a blank page for half an hour and haven't been able to think of anything else to write today. So indulge me, if you will.

In my recurring dream, I am back at my secondary school. I am hanging out with my friends from that time, which is 30+ years ago. And I am not attending one of the music group rehearsals that I'm supposed to be participating in after school. I am, apparently, deliberately not attending it, and I am standing in a place with my friends that is within line of sight of the music block. My music teacher Mr. Murrall is standing outside the music block with his arms folded, just staring at me with a disapproving expression on his face. I feel bad. I feel guilty. And yet I do not — cannot — walk over there, apologise for whatever reason I have not showed up to rehearsals, and get back involved.

This dream is sometimes complemented or accompanied by a scenario in which I am preparing to go on stage, either to perform a piece of music or act, and I absolutely have not practiced the thing I am supposed to be performing. If I'm supposed to be acting, I don't even know my lines a little bit. If I'm supposed to be performing, I don't really know the piece of music and, usually, my instrument is not in any condition to be played. For some reason, the musical variation of this dream always involves the clarinet, which was always my "second instrument", and the problem is usually that the only reeds I have for it are in an absolutely awful state that would make playing near-impossible.

These sorts of dreams are clearly anxiety-related. I suspect they may also stem from a sense of mild guilt that I don't do as much music in my free time as I used to — though I have been a bit better since we got the new piano, and my Mum has been kind enough to purchase me a frankly absurdly expensive new stool as an early Christmas present, so that will make me even more likely to make time to play. I haven't touched the clarinet or saxophone for years, however; since both are instruments best played in a group situation and I have no suitable group to be part of, I haven't used either of them for a long time.

Times and lives change, of course, but music has always been an important part of my life, even when it comes to my other interests. One of my favourite things about video games, for example, is listening to their music and coming to understand all manner of different styles — and, if I'm lucky, tracking down some piano arrangements to be able to pay homage to my favourite tracks in my own way.

Once that nice piano stool arrives (which may be as soon as tomorrow), I wonder if I will be free of those dreams? I doubt it, I suspect, as dreams are rarely so literal; I suspect these particular scenarios come from a more general sense of anxiety than something specific. But at least I can say to myself that I'm making an effort to make the time for something that has always been — and always will be — important to me.

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#oneaday Day 124: Dead Aim

During quiet moments at work, I, as most people do these days, I suspect, like to pop on a YouTube video or two to cheer myself up and distract from a gradually growing sense of how existence is futile, we're all sitting atop a doomed planet, and that any "legacy" we might leave behind is largely meaningless.

Today I decided to watch a clip of comedian Jon Richardson talking about men pissing. I present it below for your consideration.

It's true. Men can't aim. Well, they can, but they can't aim well, and at any given moment one is at great risk of one's penis refusing to accept the commonly agreed laws of physics, and just do something completely unexpected with one's piss stream. And, inevitably, as Richardson points out, this always happens when you are not at home, making it an embarrassing situation that you have to determine exactly how to deal with.

The most embarrassing time it happened to me was on a trip to hospital. I'd been suffering some pains, so I'd gone along to the walk-in centre, and they'd taken me in to the emergency room, as is seemingly fairly standard procedure with abdominal pains.

I was there for pretty much the whole day, largely because the combination of my own anxiety and what are apparently some incredibly stubborn veins meant that a gradually escalating series of medical professionals were completely unable to draw any blood from me via conventional means, and there was a very long wait between one giving up and them bringing in someone higher up the doctors' food chain.

At some point as afternoon was turning into evening and I was developing increasing discomfort and unease about the cannula jammed into my hand, it was decided that I Must Piss. I was presented with one of those bedpans made from like eggbox material and invited to get on with it.

At this point I should say that I am not a regular hospital attendee. In fact, I have never been admitted to hospital, which is one of the main contributing factors to my anxiety over them. The other is the print ad for the computer game Life and Death by The Software Toolworks (below), which traumatised me as a child and has ensured that I am, and always have been, absolutely terrified at the prospect of Having An Operation.

Anyway, I'm drifting off the point somewhat. We were here to talk about piss. Fact is, I wasn't sure what the, err, "etiquette" was for using this bedpan. And, given that I had a pointy thing stuck in my hand that was becoming both increasingly uncomfortable and a growing source of considerable anxiety, I wasn't entirely thinking straight. So rather than doing the sensible thing of toddling off to the bog to piss in the egg box, I just whipped it out in the little cubicle and thought I'd do it there and then. The curtains were closed, I figured, and no-one was making any indication of coming by to check on me, so I thought I'd just piss and be done with it.

My knob had other ideas. It chose that moment to enter full on "lawn sprinkler" mode, spraying almost everywhere except the direction I was actually pointing it. I was absolutely mortified as soon as the whole hideous process started, but of course, I was powerless to prevent that which had already happened. Thankfully, I managed to wrestle it back under control soon enough to be able to provide a convincing sample in the receptacle, so that was one job taken care of.

Now, there was a more pressing matter to deal with: the fact that I had pissed all over the bed (which, thankfully, was covered with one of those thick black sheets that fluids just sit on top of, which I suspect is precisely for situations like this) and it was dripping onto the floor. I had to act quickly, less the proof of my shame flow out underneath the curtains into the adjacent cubicle, so I frantically looked around for something with which to deal with the situation. I settled on a box of tissues conveniently placed on the shelves at the back of the cubicle, and began mopping up. I supplemented the initial mop-up with the antiseptic wipes one of the numerous attempts to draw blood from me had left behind, and after a bit of effort, I suspect no-one would have ever known that I had, just moments earlier, sprayed the entire room like a particularly horny un-neutered tomcat.

Not long after, the hospital let me go, my eventual diagnosis being effectively a shrug of the shoulders and the vague suggestion it might be a small kidney stone, but it was probably nothing and I should just go home and rest. No mention was made of any smell of piss there may or may not have been in the cubicle, and the cannula came right back out, unused.

And so that was that. My worst pissing shame, a completely wasted day and a sore hand. Have a pleasant evening.

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#oneaday Day 29: Dream Education

I had one of those dreams that it's difficult to wake up from this morning. It was a variation on a dream I quite commonly have, which involves being back in some form of education, knowing that I'm not doing something I should be doing, and not being able to make myself sort that situation out.

The most common form this dream takes sees me back at secondary school, knowing that the school's music groups (typically the orchestra and concert band) are rehearsing and that I should be there, but I am not going. My old music teacher Mr. Murrall is standing outside the music block looking disapprovingly at me standing some distance away, often with my friends from the time, but I can't bring myself to admit that I've made a mistake, and that I should go along and resolve the situation.

Last night was a little bit different, as it revolved around university. I had just moved into a new flat — not any of the flats I actually lived in during my time at university, but something my mind dreamed up — and was settling in, but I realised I had no idea when term started or if I should have been going to any lectures. Any time I thought "I should look up when term starts", I was distracted from doing so, and I became more and more convinced over time that I was missing significant parts of my course. But, again, I couldn't correct the situation.

Education-related dreams are, unsurprisingly, usually interpreted as being something to do with learning, and variations on the theme such as those which I describe above are usually tied to various forms of anxiety — often imposter syndrome.

If I'm being honest, I can tell where some of those thoughts are probably coming from. The recurring dream about not showing up to orchestra rehearsals is likely due to how I'm aware I don't make nearly enough time to practice music these days, and should probably do something about that. I think I want a new piano, though; our current one is fine apart from a few seriously dodgy notes in the octave below middle C, and unfortunately those notes appear to be some of the most frequently occurring in almost everything I want to play! New pianos are expensive, though, so you can probably see where some of that anxiety comes from.

As for the imposter syndrome side of things, I've definitely felt that before. I'm not sure I'm feeling it a lot right now, because in my current position I feel like I'm valued and that I contribute something meaningful — although thinking about it, there are still aspects of the daily work life that do cause me anxiety, such as having to deal with the social media side of things. But I've definitely felt it in the past; feelings that I "don't deserve" to be where I am, or that I'm worried someone will "find out" something about me that I don't want to be found out — exactly what, I'm never sure, because I don't have anything particularly shameful to hide.

I suspect, as someone with a natural undercurrent of anxiety flowing through me at most times, I will never be completely free of these dreams. I actually don't mind them all that much, as they sometimes have an interesting, nostalgic element to them. I do wish my dream self could break free of whatever is holding him down and resolve the problems at the core of those situations, though… that way I could just enjoy being back at school or university!

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#oneaday Day 2: Taking Stock

So I said yesterday I'd come on to my present situation and what got me thinking that starting this nonsense up again might be helpful. It might as well be today, as that acts as a good introduction to what will come afterwards, as well and perhaps a means for those of you who are stopping by for the first time to get a better idea of who I am, what I do and why I'm typing this at all.

As I type this, I am 43 years old and, for the most part, broadly satisfied with my life situation. I am happily married to a wonderful wife, I have two delightful cats and I am gainfully employed in a field I actually have some enthusiasm for. I'm not what I'd call especially "wealthy", but I make enough each month to both get by and to be able to indulge my interests. Nothing to really complain about as such.

And yet I can't honestly say that I'm happy. Part of this is down to the depression and anxiety I have been suffering… well, probably since always, in retrospect, but which I've definitely been actually conscious of since my 20s. Part of this is down to the current state of the world in general, which just seems to be inexorably sliding towards self-inflicted oblivion in more ways than one. And part of this is down to specific things that occur on a day-to-day basis, which can have a fairly major impact on the way I'm feeling.

Yesterday, during a conversation over dinner, one of our assembled group of friends posed the question "when was the last time you felt joy?" — and it proved to be a bit of a stumper for several of us. One of our number — the one who, and I mean this with no disrespect to him whatsoever, is probably the most "privileged" among us due to the combination of his upbringing, the hard work he put in to get to the position he is in now and said position that he is in now — is routinely fairly cheerful about most things, so he had no problem in pinning down some recent examples, but he also noted that there are plenty of stressors and difficulties in his own life, and there had even been occasions that had brought him to tears.

The rest of us didn't feel so positive, to varying degrees. A common thread of frustration and upset was how the world is today. Bombarded by advertisements, annoyed at the lies and misinformation routinely spread online, concerned about the yet-to-be-seen long-term consequences of innovations such as social media, we all found ourselves feeling somewhat despondent about certainly the near future, with the far future having some fairly severe question marks hovering above it.

And yes. There is a lot about today's world that I do not like. There is a lot about it that I do not like that I am not in a position to do anything about, either, which is doubly frustrating. But there are some things, closer to home, that I probably can do something about.

For starters, one of my biggest frustrations about "the world" in general is that it doesn't feel like it's built for me. This stems from a combination of factors, including the social anxiety I feel as a result of both my depression and anxiety and the underlying autism spectrum condition of Asperger's syndrome, and also physical factors such as my weight.

My weight is probably one of the things that upsets and annoys me the most, because I know it's entirely self-inflicted, but I also know that it's a symptom of other factors.

I've always had a bit of a problem with my weight, but since the COVID lockdowns of 2020 or so, it's been particularly bad. I got bigger than I ever have been before, and I was already at a size where certain activities were completely inaccessible to me. Couple this with the fact that I have a hernia which the doctors won't treat until I lose some weight — which itself causes physical pain and discomfort on a fairly regular basis — and you can hopefully understand where I'm coming from when I say that I physically feel uncomfortable in a lot of situations in today's world.

My weight problems can be tied to my mental health, because I know that I often use food as "self-medication", to use the clinical term. I get depressed, upset or angry about something, and I reach for something tasty to "make me feel better". I recognise that this is a problem; I even recognise the behavioural patterns as being alarmingly similar to someone with a substance addiction — without going into details, I have some experience of helping someone who went through such a scenario and thankfully made it out of the other side, though not without leaving me with some lasting trauma that I suspect will never go away. But that doesn't always help me in doing something about it.

The old cliché is that the first step in solving a problem is acknowledging it exists, though, and I'm already a few steps along that road. As you can see above, I recognise the problem, and I've sought support for it — specifically in the form of Slimming World, an organisation with which I lost a lot of weight nearly 10 years ago. So far it has been going reasonably well — though I had a bit of a setback last week and am expecting another this week — but it's hard work.

The trouble is with the concept of "normal". In confronting personal problems like this, one of the biggest difficulties is in acknowledging that you are not "normal" by societal definitions, and that means you are going to have to do some things a little differently, perhaps for a long time or even permanently. On some days it is easier to make my peace with this than others. When I am in a position where I can mostly be in control of things and have some support standing by when I need it, I can generally muddle through without making too many mistakes.

But I do make mistakes, and confronting those, acknowledging them and dealing with the consequences is something I struggle with. If I deviate from a "plan" or even a "hope" that I have for myself, I beat myself up about it a lot. It upsets me and frustrates me and I become afraid. I'm not even sure what I'm afraid of — or perhaps it's not just one thing. Sometimes it might be being afraid to face those who are trying to help me, like I've let them down somehow. Sometimes it might be being afraid of my mistake having irreversible consequences. Sometimes it's just plain, simple fear, with no real source; it's just there.

All of the above doesn't just apply to attempting to bring my weight under control; it's something I struggle with in daily life. If I make a mistake at work, it can utterly ruin my day, even if no-one else thinks anything more of it after the initial acknowledgement of the issue. If I make a mistake in a social interaction with someone, I'll play it over and over in my head, wishing that I'd done something differently. If I make a mistake in something I'm supposed to be doing "long term" — like losing weight — I can easily feel a huge hit to my motivation and wondering why and if I should bother.

All this might sound a bit bleak and, I'm not going to lie, it is. Despite being in a life situation that is more than satisfactory, as noted above, I am still struggling right now. Every day is a battle against myself; some mornings I even feel afraid to get up. That's not something one should be feeling.

Perhaps talking about this stuff, even if it's just to myself, will help matters somewhat. That is at least part of the intention of resurrecting #oneaday. It's helped me before, so I suspect it may be able to help me again. And in the meantime, I'm thankful that I do have the support I do when I need it.

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2475: Necessary Evil

I've grown to hate money.

Well, that's not quite true. I like money when I have it. I hate the feeling of anxiety it gives me when I don't have it, however, especially in situations like I'm in at the moment where I'm owed a considerable amount of money (like, over £1,000) in outstanding invoices from freelance work I undertook nearly two months ago.

It's not character-building to have no money through no fault of your own; it doesn't teach important life lessons; it just plain sucks balls.

It's exceedingly demoralising to be strapped for cash when you know you've been working hard for your pay, and said pay is nowhere to be seen for one reason or another. It makes all the effort you've put in feel like a waste. Meanwhile salaried employees waste time on a daily basis fucking around with Fantasy Football and other such shit, secure in the knowledge that they'll get their paycheck at the same time every month, come hell or high water — particularly if they're an established employee with a decent enough track record to be considered a fixture.

I already struggle with anxiety and depression, but when money is tight, too, I just want to bury myself in a dark place and not wake up. It makes an already difficult situation feel all the more hopeless and desperate, and I'm running out of ways to cope with it.

I quit the job I described yesterday that didn't feel like its benefits outweighed its many drawbacks — this is not the job that owes me over £1,000, I should add; rather, it was the part-time courier work I mentioned in passing a few times recently (which subsequently ballooned to an underpaid 7-day working week). I calculated that any money I would earn from it would immediately be eaten up by expenses incurred working that job, so it's simply not worth the hassle, stress and physical discomfort it causes, particularly without any opportunity for a break.

I feel bad turning down a source of income, but if the net profit is negligible, I'm better off staying at home, saving the wear and tear on my car, not having to pay up for fuel and having the time and energy to pursue other opportunities. That's how I'm rationalising it, anyway.

Just have to hope one of these opportunities I currently have an application in for and my fingers crossed for actually comes to something, but it's frankly rather difficult to feel hopeful right now. I guess that at least means it will be a nice surprise if anything does happen.

2447: Left Behind

I think one of the biggest sources of my anxiety these days is the growing feeling that I'm being "left behind" by the rest of the world thanks to the fact that everything changes so damn quickly these days… and moreover, if you don't keep up with it, you may well end up having difficulties.

As I type this, I'm occasionally stealing glances over to my dining room table, upon which sits an Atari 800XL and a CRT TV-monitor for which I'm currently awaiting a cable to allow the two to talk to one another. I'm excited to get the 800XL up and running not just because "woo, wow, retro", but because it formed such an integral part of my early life that it feels like a small piece of "stablity" in the turbulent waters of the modern age; a rock I can cling on to in order to avoid getting swept away.

This might sound like an odd thing to say with regard to a 30+ year old computer that I'm not entirely sure still works (I'm pretty sure it does), but since tracking it down I've become quite interested — excited, even — in the idea of using it for various purposes other than just games. Specifically, I'm perhaps most excited to use it as a "distraction-free" means of word processing; once I get it up and running, I fully intend to fire up the old copy of AtariWriter and actually do some ol' fashioned plain text composition. (My one nod to it actually being 2016 is the addition of an "SIO2PC" cable, which will allow me to transfer files from the Atari to a PC or Mac for safekeeping rather than relying on 30+ year old floppy disks.)

This probably sounds like a lot of effort to go to, but I'm excited because it allows me to focus on one thing rather than constantly being bombarded by the distractions that life in 2016 — and computing in 2016 — offers. Multitasking is all very well and good, but when you're trying to get anything done and Google Chrome is right there willing you to go and, I don't know, hunt for rare Pepes or something, it's sometimes hard to resist. Boot up a word processor that you have to load from disk and can't do anything else while it's running, on the other hand, and you have a situation much more conducive to Getting Shit Done, because once you've spent a couple of minutes listening to the soothing (and occasionally terrifying) sound of that disk drive snarking and zurbiting its way to your chosen program, it feels like something of a waste to then just shut it all down without actually doing anything.

I've drifted off on a tangent a bit, but my point is fairly simple: I long for the simplicity and the single-mindedness of days gone by, and am feeling increasingly stressed out and anxious by the constant demands for attention we get from all angles these days in 2016. I've attempted to minimise my exposure to these distractions as much as possible — primarily through minimising my contact with social media, which is probably the biggest distraction of all for most people these days — but with each passing day, I feel more and more inclined to just want to shut myself in a dark room and have a bit of peace and quiet to myself.