And I have known the eyes already, known them all—
The Love Song of J. Alfred J. Prufrock, T.S. Eliot
The eyes that fix you in a formulated phrase,
And when I am formulated, sprawling on a pin,
When I am pinned and wriggling on the wall,
Then how should I begin
To spit out all the butt-ends of my days and ways?
And how should I presume?
It’s my 33rd birthday on Tuesday, and I will be heading to the psychiatrist with my Dad and husband. It’s not exactly how I expected my life would pan out.
This was more the plan: Everyone always told me I was really smart and charming and I went to schools and universities where people have gone on to do great things, thanks to intelligence, hard graft, and good connections. So, I expected I’d do that – maybe work at a national newspaper or be a politician, or similar. I had great potential everyone said, if only I could be more consistent.
I sort of set off on this road. I went to a good university, after a mixture of brilliant and totally crap performances throughout my ‘academic’ career, I moved to London with everyone else to become a ‘big deal’. I went into lobbying, then felt it didn’t suit me so tried journalism, which I love, but have struggled to hold down consistent jobs in. Ultimately, whatever any doctor or psychotherapist, or supportive husband, says, when I go for drinks with my consistently successful friends, I feel like a failure.
I always thought this was a random mixture of chronic anxiety disorder and depression, which I took pills for, but it never really worked. But recently, after ten years of struggling to form a life and a career, I’ve been diagnosed with Bi-polar II.
I want to try and record my thoughts, as I try to become less miserable.
