Saviour

Saviour

1. One who delivers or rescues from peril

As I see it, life has always been a matter of focus and timing. Sure, maturity and experience have their obvious parts to play. The burning issues of our teenage years always seem laughably miniscule as we replay those hormone ridden incidents in a nostalgic review. Still, in my internal playback, I recall equally pitiful 'dilemmas' that, even at the time, I didn't give a shit about. Why? Focus and timing. Always, focus and timing.

And in one particular facet of life, focus and timing really do rule all. Relationships. Bloody relationships.

Focus:

If my furious googling has served me well, it was Shakespeare who first stated that 'love is blind'. Well, I'm going to put a slight swerve on that, if you don't mind Will. As I see it, love is blinkered. I'm talking about everything from sinful lust through puppy love all the way to being metaphorically impaled upon Cupid's bastard arrow. It all comes down to focus. Now, for as long as you can keep your focus solely upon the object of your affection, nothing will distract you. Nothing. Not food. Not work. Not your friends belligerently reminding you that it's the third weekend in a row that you've blown them out to watch another crap film with your girlfriend. And certainly not another member of the opposite sex. But woe betide you if you let that lovestruck stare quiver for a heartbeat. Because in that natural, treacherous moment, where your eyes remind you that there are a multitude of attractive possibilities, your focus imperceptibly shifts. Imperceptibly at first, that is. Before you know it, in a rush of libido and biological imperative, your focus has been shunted from your heart's desire to your loins' desire. And once your focus shifts from one specific woman to many potential women the blinkers are lost, never to be recovered. Focus is a bitch.

Timing:

I've previously declared that Love - and I've capitalised it to indicate that we're discussing the Disney variant of love here - is a question of timing. That when someone decides that they're ready to fall in love, lo and behold, miraculously the next vaguely suitable mate they find is elevated to the love of their life. Cynical, yes. But wrong? I remained convinced that my perception of love was unerring until recently. We'll deal with that heart-wrenching episode another time.

All in all, a remarkable insight you'll doubtlessly agree. But where does all of this nonsense fit into what's been playing on my mind in an infuriating loop? Let me fill you in.

I've always confidently preached that in order to be able to have a healthy relationship with a member of the opposite sex, you have to be happy in yourself. In previous years, I've delivered sermons to a choir of friends on the matter. "The problem with Rachel" I admonished "Is that the thing that makes her happy in her life is me; that's why I have to finish it with her". Finish it with her I did, confidently striding along my egotistical path in a state of blissful apathy. This was a few years back. The ensuing couple of years transpired to be a cluster-fuck of physical and mental destruction. We'll save those soul-raping events for another time.

Which leads me, in typically tangential fashion, to the tuneless melody reverberating its miserable notes down my spine. I'm not happy in myself. I have great friends. I have a wonderfully supportive, albeit slightly fragmented, family. I'm attractive enough. To the casual observer, I'm in a great place. Shit, a recent ex-girlfriend wrote a list of reasons why I'm so great (yet another backstory for another time) and there, sitting smugly at number one; he's a happy person. Am I fuck. I'm just another individual well-versed in creating whatever impression he chooses. And my main problem? Easy. I hate my job. Loathe it. Absolutely detest every minute of it.

"Shit.." you exclaim. "That's easy to change". And of course it is. The difficult part isn't knowing what you don't want to do. The real tough part is having a clue what you want to do. Now, I know exactly what I want to do. I want to work with dogs. I want to get up every morning looking forward to my day. 'Find a job you love and you'll never work a day in your life'. Beautiful, Confucius. Profound wisdom, no doubt. But what do you do if the job you'd love just doesn't touch the sides when it comes to paying your bills? How I envy the individuals who grow up wanting to be solicitors and accountants. So, I'm left endeavouring to sum up some enthusiasm for a search to find a job that I don't want to do.

I want to meet a girl. I want to have kids, settle down, start a beautiful family and live happily ever after. Of course, first I have to meet the right girl. And that's when the trouble starts. When the girl in your life is your only constant source of happiness, you're leaving the door to anguish wide open. Even the initial courtship is a rollercoaster of emotions, soaring high on first kisses and plummeting to wrenching depths when your phone doesn't beep within an hour of sending that text.

And that's when the nagging starts up again. How can I really have a healthy relationship when I'm not happy in myself? I mean, what am I looking for?

A fucking saviour?

Catharsis

Catharsis.

1. the purging of the emotions or relieving of emotional tensions, especially through certain kinds of art, as tragedy or music.

Emotional tension. Yep, that sounds about right. Everyone has some form of emotional tension. I'm certainly not a special case. Hell, I used to be a damn sight angrier than I am these days. Metaphorically packed to the brim with emotional tension at one point. And now? Now I just don't know where I am.

Well, that's not quite right. I know where I am. I'm in a position where I'm far better off than a lot of people and nowhere near where I want to be, in every sense.

You see, I have a real problem with emotional indulgence. I resent it in others. To be frank, I ridicule it in others. I can scroll down the Facebook newsfeed in a numb daze and still internally cringe at the screams for attention jumping out of the screen at me. So and so "doesn't want to talk about it.." followed by comments of "are you ok hunni? ? xx". Who gives a fuck. Don't wash your dirty laundry in public. Yet here I am writing a blog. Still, I'm not expecting this to be read by anyone and if there is another soul sullying their eyes with this diatribe; well, turns out Mr Cathartic isn't my real name and chances are rather high that you don't know me.

So back to emotional indulgence and more specifically, my very personal issues with it. Forget about my hatred of it in others for a moment. Nothing fills me with more self-loathing than my own emotional indulgence. Because I certainly indulge. It's a rare day where I dont crawl into the dark corners of my pysche and wallow in self-indulgent dispair. And then? Well, then I feel guilty as a dog sheepishly trying to ignore the puddle of his own piss in the corner as his master walks in. I feel foolish, in fact. "How the hell are you going to moan about your lot?" I demand of myself. "You really think you've got it bad?.

You see, I'm very aware that everyone has their own shit to deal with. I know what my pressing issues are. And everytime I dwell on them, the martyr in my head points out what a dick I am.

"Fucking Crohn's Disease. Why can't I be normal?" - "Michael has Cystic Fibrosis and you're going to moan about Crohn's?"

"Why couldn't my parents have loved each other and be together?" - "Your childhood was fine and you have an incredibly loving and supportive family. Who are you to bitch about anything?"

Even writing a blog I feel like a melodramatic fool. And, as I mentioned before, I'm not even expecting anyone to read this tosh. Which brings me on to Therapy.

Yep, I've capitalised it. Fuck it, it's a dirty word to me. Both my brother and sister, independantly, have suggested that I could, perhaps, use a little therapy. Probably right. But shit, if I feel guilty just splashing around in the depths of self-commiseration in my own mind, how the hell am I meant to seriously contemplate paying someone else to listen to my petty grievances?

And how are they meant to help me? Do they consult that illusive handbook entitled "Answers to Life"? Ah...I see. It's the 'getting it off of my chest' which is meant to be the real therapy. You know, the whole 'talking about it' shindig. Well, I'm not a big talker. Don't get me wrong, I'm a charming social butterfly when I want to be. I'll fall for a girl and tell her just about everything that has happened in my life. But to talk to someone about something that really matters to me? To use someone else as a sounding board for how I should feel about things or how I should be reacting to a situation? Now that is not me.

Which leads me to here. A nice convenient place for me to rant without the self-ignominy of keeping a diary. Or, as my brother calls his, a journal.

Fucking ridiculous.