The heating is broken. My landlord is getting an unqualified person in to work on the gas boiler tomorrow, possibly blowing us all to kingdom come or poisoning us with carbon monoxide. I am not impressed. It is cold, even with the electric heater on that I am worried about running because of bills. I feel the gorge of anxiety rise in my chest. I detest anyone coming into my home, especially now with this latest omicron bullshit doing the rounds. This is my bedroom, not just my living room. I feel under attack, spied on, almost violated. I want people out of my space, especially when those that come in here don’t respect the fact this is my home, the first home I have had in almost forever.
Someone said to me recently that this is not my home, that I only rent, that I shouldn’t get too comfortable. I wanted to push their head down into their words and make them eat them like cold thin gruel. The one person who always cares for my feelings, remains my darling Ruthie. She cares deeply. She would never say such things. I can see her in my mind’s eye shaking her head and hoping I don’t blow a gasket somewhere along the line. I wish I was more like Ruth: stable, seeing the best in people, the best in situations, the best in life, giving the benefit of the doubt. Unfortunately innocence, whilst it is ultimately the mother of bravery, left on the last train for the coast some years back. My bravery is built on sheer bloodymindedness, the tatters of innocence, and a determination not to lose the war, even if I might blow a few battles along the way.
Once that innocence is gone, once the bad knowledge of what can and does and will happen, that can happen, has been instilled in its place, there are two options: see the world for the dangerous, hostile and violent place that it is, a place that gives no quarter nor cares for what anyone can or cannot tolerate…or close the fucking curtains and pretend it is all ok. I have gone for the first option. I would rather see what is coming at me, so I might have a hope in the hell that we live in, of giving the disaster the swerve. I always seem to manage to pull off some matrix moves, and ultimately survive. I get lucky, I’ll be the first to admit it. I get lucky, and I get tough. I think I am tough rather than brave, the difference being I live my life terrified, I feel fear almost constantly, I just choose to live alongside it and do it all anyway.
I suppose I will try and survive tomorrow and yet another incursion into my peace and solitude, and try again to say what I mean, say what I feel, rather than say what I think I should be saying.
The no man’s land of this week between Christmas and the start of the new year never ceases to amaze it. It is as if these days simply do not exist, yet here they are, adding up, year in year out, in a pile of non-days that mean so little, but hold just as much weight and danger as any other week in the year. I guess I will try and tough them out too. I almost want to get 2022 up and running, see what it has in store, what it has to offer….almost. My rational brain is standing back, taking cover and hoping beyond hope that this time next year I am still here complaining about the heating.