How to buy a Twix

 

Someone said to write it down. To document it. Get the fucking feeling of your mind, like it was a car and you were taking it for a test drive, a spin. Not that you can fucking drive because well we’ll find out won’t we.

When you were a kid you discovered you didn’t like crowds. You remain terrified of mobs to this day. You don't like gigs or football matches in stadiums. That’s the school thing isn’t it? Those first few days of terror, the absolute crushing sensation that for the first time in your life nothing could protect you or comfort you for a few hours. And you’d lose yourself in books, fiction, encyclopaedias, lists and facts. And you can still reel off terrifying amounts of trivial, pointless shite. And the dates thing. You know where you were at any point of your life pretty much.

Today is July 28^th. You know that on this day in 1991, your then girlfriend’s parents came round with the dad’s own mother and she was from Weymouth and she looked like Nana Moon from EastEnders but without any of the kindness, just a little silent ball of rage. On top of the fridge in the kitchen is a double cassette player, a shit black one made by Aiwa and in that player is Shiftwork by The Fall. And it’s very sunny and your heavily pregnant girlfriend is a week late giving birth but you know it’s not going to be tonight. You know when things are going to happen. You sense things. You would be able to smell it.

You know because you think you’re tuned in differently. You smell that stuff they put on kids knees when they fall over in school playgrounds in the moments before someone gets hurt. And you can’t say it out loud because that’s insane, no one has that ability but you do and you keep schtum. Because you’ve learnt to swallow those words, the words that people jump on, like bugs to squash. People like to smash things they don’t instantly understand.

You can’t sleep because you’re always tired. You can’t get things done because you’re always doing something else. A lifetime of incomplete tasks. Easily distracted by your own self. You could buy a hoover, drag it home and be all excited about the hoovering you’re gonna finally do, gonna drag that flat from the jaws of environmental condemnation and save it and save you in the process and you know you mean it but the moment you get in you’ll be wanting to know what happened to Hollywood Beyond because you were humming it on the bus home and you’ll remember that on the 8^th August 1986 you bought their big hit, What’s the Colour of Money, from The Studio in Lampeter with some babysitting money you’d earnt earlier in the week from Cass who lived next door. The record was lurid green vinyl and you were unable to talk because you’d had two teeth removed due to yet another complicated orthodontic procedure conducted an hour earlier.

You’ll go on Wikipedia when you get in and the hoover won’t leave it’s box for a fortnight.

Sometimes you can’t wash. Sometimes you can’t do anything but drink. Some days you will have the ability to scrub your flat to within an inch of it’s life but you’ll probably have phoned in sick to do it. It’s like there’s a voice, not quite a conscience, more a kind of deranged interior supervisor saying fucking hell mate you have to do these things otherwise your life will fall apart, and it’s there all day long, it’s saying fucking hell mate why are you typing this shit down, no one will want to read it, and do you really want to share it anyway, who will believe you, you’re fucking losing it mate. But the typing means you don’t have to think about the pain in your foot which is causing you problems all the time and you don’t want to go to the doctors again because you have convinced yourself your doctor has written Time Wasting Hypochondriac down in medical code at the top of your notes so everyone who sees you knows they’ve got five minutes off work.

Memory. Long-term, pointless stuff, I’ve got that down.  I make three times the amount of food and drink that I actually consume. I get on buses and have to remind myself why I’m on it. I get lost in music. I go to pub quizzes because once or twice a week this esoterica blocking up the fire exits of my head becomes useful and someone will ask “which pop song from 1985 was the first number one single to mention the word “record”, I will know it’s You Spin Me Round, Like A Record by Dead or Alive which I will also know was the week Aston Villa lost a League Cup semi-final second leg to Oxford United because of course I fucking do but do I know where my glasses case is? 

Short-term, useful stuff? Fucking useless.

I make very bad, impulsive decisions. I am really bad with money. I have to stop myself from saying appalling, terrible things which I don’t really mean. I cry at everything that I don’t find hysterically funny. I watch films on repeat for days on end because the pattern of it being on means I am able to kill some time before the thing I need to do becomes too late to be done. I make instantaneous emotional connections with film and art and nature and all kinds of things. I can remember ex-girlfriend’s phone numbers from 30 years ago. The smell of their hair, the way they pronounced certain words. I couldn’t tell you either of my kids phone numbers. Some of that is down to technology I am sure.

I have extremely high self-confidence right up until I need it. I have absolutely zero confidence that people mean what they say when they try to boost my extremely low self-confidence. I fall in love very easily and hold grudges forever. I think about stuff way too much that I have absolutely no impact over. I can convince myself that I can see the future and sometimes I really can. I know when I’m being lied to because I am a brilliant liar.

When I complete a routine household or everyday task I feel the most astonishing rush for a nano-second and then I review it and I either conclude that I have forgotten a key component of said task or that I am an idiot for leaving it so long or that I am an idiot for having that rush in the first place. I think I have talent for writing but I hate writing in case no one ever sees it or that if someone does I will know that they are lying when they tell me it’s good.

I am forever awake in the night and sleepy in the day. I am clumsy and struggle to follow instructions to tasks that everyone else finds easy enough to complete. I worry about dying and think about killing myself quite a lot just to get it out of the way. I love my children more than anything and I wrongly suspect that sometimes they don’t love me very much back. I play the lottery. I don't eat sticky food. I have severe problems maintaining eye contact with people. I took my driving test four times and then just gave up. It is my concentration levels I think. I have to work very hard to not crash.

My school reports were unexceptional.

My friends say the following things about me to my face. I am a genius. I am mad. I am the funniest person they have ever known. They worry about me. I am kind. I will find happiness one day. I am loved. I should get tested for something. Maybe I have ADD. I have autism. I am a savant. 

I never believe them though I always look like I do. I am depressed. I am anxious. I say if everyone is neurodivergent then no one is and everyone laughs. 

I have been prescribed various things down the years but nothing works really. I tell myself my mind is too clever for the drugs. It says “I see. You just want me not to worry but we’ve done all right with worrying and catastrophising till now. It’s what’s kept us alive. Fuck you I won’t respond to these drugs.” And so it continues.

If I ring someone and they don’t answer, I will tell myself that they have looked at their phone and decided they can’t be arsed. Or if it is one of my children I tell myself that they are dead. I know that this is not healthy or rational. I did CBT. My mind did it again every time. Where’s the evidence for this negative thought you are having? And my mind will say I don’t need evidence, I fucking know sunshine. And then I will use some other crutch for confidence, it might be a can of lager or some cans of lager or some chocolate or I might sit down at my laptop and type.

I worry that I am just an egomaniac really and there’s nothing wrong with me at all. I second guess the reasons behind my every action and have to work very hard to dissuade myself from the notion that I am a narcissist or a Svengali or something else manipulative. 

Beside me, on this cluttered table, sits a cup of lukewarm coffee. It has a dinosaur on it and the caption “Tea-rex” and instantly on reading this I remember the word Archaeopteryx being the first entry in a little Ladybird book of dinosaurs my mum bought me when I was six. I was reading it in the playground on an overcast afternoon quite happy not to be part of the mob playing War or Kiss chase or whatever. I am sat on this weird little brick ridge reading a book next to a girl called Joanne Wormald who is reading over my shoulder. I can't remember her face but she had dark blonde hair and always got more stars than me in her school work.

Right now it is not 1977 anymore. I am not sure if I had breakfast today though I definitely went to Tesco this morning because I wanted to buy anti-fungal cream for my toenail. I did not buy it because I couldn’t be arsed to make a list with one thing on it and subsequently I forgot and came home with a Twix and some vanilla milkshake instead. 

Outside, the sky is blue and a child is screaming and splashing in a paddling pool almost the same colour as the sky. I have not had an alcoholic drink in 73 days.