I don’t know why, but the peculiar image is one of being on the London Underground, mid-evening, with my Mother.
It’s that moment, that sensation, that come to me when I am low, when I am vulnerable, when I am weak and unsure. You must know what I mean. Those moments into which we throw ourselves when we find ourselves in that strange world of anxiety, uncertainty.
I do not find myself in a happy place. It’s always a moment of fear, of difficulty, of sadness, of awkwardness. Not even of anger. At least anger would be useful.
It feels, at the moment, as if my life is a succession of these moments.
There’s one of the ersatz police, a crossing guard wearing the armband of the Civilian Militia Support. He holds his hand by his waist, his canister of pepper spray on one hip and a heavy, irregular looking stick on the other. That is his own, I think to myself.
We are proceeding slowly through the crossing point, cars covered in dust and greyer, browner than they should appear.
He looks at me, this crossing guard, and I think I can see the same sense of sadness, of fear, in his eyes, that I feel emanating from my own. Why am I so fragile at the moment? Nothing is unusual.
I want to cry, but there isn’t the emotional energy within me to sanction such a draining course of action. I must keep driving, through the dusty crossing points, through the city, to my destination. And when I get there, I will wait. that is all there is.
I try to look at things rationally, logically. I try to assess the situation, try to get myself into my mental-emotional comfort zone in order to develop a healthier perspective. Why am I so sad, so anxious, so tired, all the time? Why can I never find peace? I am asking these questions in a more palatable format than diary, or therapy. Palate. What a strange word. I use it so infrequently.
I am waved through, and drive slowly on. From the car behind, some boys get out with guns and move towards the crossing guard. I look away. He doesn’t stand a chance.