Keeping on keeping on

A rainy 2 am, Autumnal England. The smell of the sea. Salt in the air, its savour on my skin. Sinead O’Connor singing – oh, anything. Joy and sorrow. Memory lane. Lonely.

I destroyed everything that was good in my life – and didn’t know I was doing it. The chickens came home. Nemesis branded me. She took me by the scruff of the neck and beat the living crap out of me. I have the scars to prove it: both visible and hidden.

But still – at least for today – for this moment – for a rainy September 3 am in a place that is breathtakingly beautiful: moody, temperate, relatively benign; for the wonder that is life; for the remorse; for the battles already fought and won; for the grief; for the wounds i didn’t inflict; for the potential that is never lost; for all that I love – I’ll fight to live. Screw that pitiless, tedious voice that chants: die, die, die.

Maybe I’ll weave my way through the salty rain to the all-night supermarket for another bottle of wine, then come home and listen to more good music and, once again, give the self hatred a fight for its money.

And I’ll force myself to go to work in the morning. Why? Because there are people there who remind me why life is worth living. And – oh yeah – gotta earn a living.

Nearly 30 years ago my beautiful talented older sister took her life. She went out quietly one morning and walked into the lough she loved.

Life is fucking hard.

Thank you.