I remember Coventry but I don’t remember it well

Last night we went for a walk. We both saw a shooting star but at different times. I took photographs of suburban gardens at midnight. Everything was still except for us and the occasional taxi. Our world was lit silver by the moon.

Tonight, I stood outside looking for shooting stars, I saw two, both out of the corner of my eye. I would’ve liked to have seen more but there was a lot of light pollution and I couldn’t be bothered to walk to the park and besides it’s very creepy after dark with the strange disembodied sounds that travel across the landscape from the hills and distant moors.

The air had an autumnal chill.

I fell asleep before I could finish writing. I wish now I’d stayed outside longer now.

Yesterday, the one-day flower flowered. It breaks my heart every year. The flower that smiles today, tomorrow dies. Today, it is all shrivelled and my heart is broken. Even with the warm sun on the back of my neck.

I feel filled with this oddly muted anger. I feel angry about the situation, the decline in my mental health and failings that led to me being in this situation. It’s a long time since I have felt anger. It was something that was solved easily during therapy: once the anger was legitimised, it faded away.

I am not coping again. I keep trying to bring some sort of equilibrium to the situation but I just can’t seem to keep it together. It’s really frustrating. I feel like I did pre-therapy. The withdrawal effects of the escitalopram aren’t helping, I feel a lot of the mood issues can be attributed to them.

I just want to be asleep all of the time. Dreaming my life away, even the recent nightmares of being shot in the head and cannibalised feel preferable right now.

I hate fucking whining like this. I like to solve problems. It’s the not coping: when trying to come up with a plan, I quickly feel overwhelmed, even small steps feel too much.

Anyway, it’s 1.15 am. I’m lying in the dark. 1.25 am. Still lying in the dark. I’m going to get up and drink some water. 1.43 am. I’ve drunk some water and eaten a biscuit.

It’s really quiet tonight. I thought the window was closed. I have the fan on now.

I remember Coventry. I remember we passed through it when travelling across the country from Kent. I remember Coventry but I don’t remember it well. It exists as a few fading photographs my brain took as I looked for the floodlights of Highfield Road. (I had a habit of spotting football grounds on long journeys when I was young.) I don’t think I saw them, I suspect we didn’t pass close enough to the Hillfields area where the ground used to be.

The anxiety dreams play out like an absurdist suspense film

Yesterday, I was thinking about the dream I’d had a few nights ago of being shot in the head.

I was in Mallorca involved in some sort of espionage. I was shot by a man in civilian clothing while a man wearing an army uniform watched on. They were on opposite sides. I was slumped against a wall watching an exchange between them. After the men had left in separate vehicles, I managed to get to my feet, seemingly undead and entered a bar where I received help. I was taken in a taxi to the place I was staying, a disused farmhouse and I collected together my belongings.

At some point, I was transported to London. I found myself disoriented in an underground shopping arcade. People looked at me strangely and I had persistent pain on the side of my head where I had been shot. I wore a tailored grey suit and a black raincoat but I felt out of time from the people around me. Disoriented, I felt I needed to get to Euston station. I searched for landmarks I recognised but the landscape shifted continuously. At one point I was near the Barbican but couldn’t get near to it because I was frightened of the towers.

I managed to find my way to high ground. To the south, London stretched out below me and to the north, I could see Sheffield in the distance. I sat down on a bench feeling defeated. I don’t remember anything after that.

I don’t think there is anything to understand from this. The only reason it received more thought than any other dream is the fact I was shot in the head and this the only time I can remember this happening.

My escitalopramic dreams are often coherent, very vivid and absurd. Sometimes even the anxiety dreams play out like an absurdist suspense film. The nightmares can be rough, though.

5.51 am. A soft rain is falling sending icy air in through the window. The light is grey. The occasional car passes. I want to be asleep. The brown cat is restless.

I should give in and get up. I’ve been lying here awake for over an hour now.

I should have got up! I fell asleep and dreamed I was cannibalised! First time for that too!

Rainy day. Rainy night. Hardly seems like August. Although, for a change, the dreary weather hasn’t left me depressed more indifferent. Is that an improvement?

Blue morning. 5.53 am. I can’t hear the rain, just your breathing. The light is bluey through the curtains. I can hear the rain now on the window. Another rainy day ahead.

Should I get up? Make a cup of tea and some toast. Or should I try and fall asleep?

6.06 am. Simon’s sitting at his desk with a cup of coffee. It’s another night he hasn’t slept. Outside his fourth floor flat, the landscape is brightening, it is raining and the light is grey. He swallows the rest of coffee. The world is waking up and strangely he feels less alone. He looks out at the rain, the distant hills and cars heading towards town. He goes to the bathroom and brushes his teeth. He gets into bed. He knows he’ll wake up at midday feeling awful but there is something about this time just before falling asleep when everything feels like it’ll be all right.