Day 365: An ending fitting for the start

I so want this to be a great post. It would be so handy if this was a great post. But I’ve got no game tonight. I’ve had no game for approximately five months now, I’ve felt emotionally drained, creatively spent, like I just had to press on to this final post like a long-distance runner limping towards the finish line, long since lapped but determined to complete the race.

But here we are, regardless, at the end. And I cross. And it is done.

Hello, by the way. I’m Rob, and I set myself the goal of quitting boozing and writing a blog post about it every day for a year.

I set myself that goal 365 days ago today.

I wrote about addiction, and depression, and growing up with acne. I also wrote about eldritch cults, bank holidays, and the boss of Wetherspoons. I wrote essays about Apu from the Simpsons. I wrote dumb movie scenes. Dumb songs. Dumb I don't know whats. And I wrote one or two film reviews, as well.

Screw it, I’ll do a big old analysis/lessons to take away blog post sometime soon. I don’t have the energy tonight. I’ve made it over the line. Put a foil blanket round me, squirt Lucozade Sport into my mouth, hug me and tell me I did OK. Then take me to that big bed in Elrond’s house where everything is white and overexposed, and let me sleep for a month.

Yes, the Rivendell thing feels apt. I’ve pushed myself out of the comfort zone of my Shire, made it to the meeting spot that was arranged, ever pursued by Black Riders, and now I need to collapse.

But it will only be a rejuvenating stop off; there is a longer journey ahead. I’m going to get through the Snooker World Championship, the busiest fortnight in my pub, then I’m going to give myself a week to recover, to wander in the gardens of the world, taking photos, drinking coffee, reading, refilling the creative well - and then it’s back to work.

I’m going to redesign my blog. I’m going to continue writing every day, but move to posting only once or twice a week. Perhaps one film review, and one mental health/mindfulness/life musings piece. It’s been such an important exercise to be forced to post something loose and unfinished and often just plain bad every single day, and let it go, and move on - I needed to face the fear that sits at the root of my perfectionism, to show that the world doesn’t end and you aren’t run out of town on a rail just for making bad art. But having experienced that, Christ am I looking forward to having more time to actually sculpt my writing, rather than simply vomiting it onto the page and flinging it at the internet.

There are other things I need to do as well. It’s time I pushed myself further in my life. I need to start seeing a therapist, because I’m willing to admit I don’t have the strength to overcome my mental health issues on my own. And that is absolutely natural, and fine, and right. But I need to stop talking about it and get it arranged.

I need to learn to drive. It’s not like I can afford a car, or insurance, or petrol, or even those little furry dice - but it does feel like a mark of adulthood, a coming-of-age event, and if I’m being honest I’ve put it off for so long out of fear, and facing fear is the only way you can grow.

I need to sort out my skin. I’ve had acne since I was 14, and only the strongest drug you can take for it, Roaccutane, cleared me up when I was 24. But, as with the majority of patients, the spots eventually started to come back. I had five years completely clear, then the acne has been creeping back ever since. I’m using another treatment now, but it involves smearing cream all over my body every night, which is far from ideal. It’s not hugely efficacious, and it only masks rather than cures the spots; it’s like snipping up the biggest weeds in an overgrown flower bed every day, where Roaccutane is like altering the makeup of the soil.

All of which is to say I want to go through another course of the Roaccutane. It’s a horrible drug, and has a list of side effects long as your arm, but it was easily the right decision the first time, and most dermatologists seem to agree that a second course is no worse.

And what else? I want to get myself to a stage where I feel confident making money from writing and photography. Not all the money, and I’d be happy making none - but I don’t want to feel like what I create is too weird and insular and ugly to even try to sell to anyone, which is how I feel now. This is one of the things with which I think a therapist could help.

There are more, of course. And there is more to write. But it is late now, and I have work tomorrow, and it will be another tiring Snooker shift.

So it is goodnight, and goodbye, and, for just a little while, the end.

Stay lovely. And one last:

Hug xxx