Stuck on the treadmill

I’m stuck.

Stuck on a treadmill with no off button, feeling that life doesn’t have a pause button I can press, just moving when I don’t want to.

I’m waiting.

Waiting for central hearing to be put in, for electricians to come, for test results, for what seems to be an endless list of things.

It’s like being at the eye of the storm, unmoving yet the whole world is moving around you and you feel strangely detached and set apart from all that’s happening.

But am I moving.

I don’t know. My sister has breast cancer, the cat has liver cancer, I’ve got a kidney problem…apparently..and nothing ever seems to be resolved. Not properly. Not really.

I just seem to lurch from one thing to another and try as I might, I can’t fix them. I feel strange. I feel as though my energy has dissipated and I don’t have anything left. I’m not angry but disgruntled. I’m not bitter but frustrated and yet I lack the energy to even be that.

Work is insulting me by training me to answer a phone. A phone. I’ve answered a work phone since 1986!. Perhaps I know how to do that?. It’s just another thing that adds to that sense of…fedupness that I feel.

I am discouraged. I try and edit my book but do so without enthusiasm, knowing that it’s boring having to correct so much and angry with myself for having written things so poorly to start with. I know what I’m trying to say but it’s better in my head than on the page.

I see the sun and want to travel again but know that my partners utter failure to look after herself this past year had brought on a host of medical issues we didn’t need. That will delay or destroy plans. I can barely live with the former, let alone the latter.

This is a mess.

This blog is a mess. A confused, contradictory mess.

It’s my life.

Dreaming of normality

Looks familiar?

As I look out my window this morning, the sun catches my eye. It’s a bright day, full of promise with blue sky above and a cool but not unpleasant temperature.

And when I close my eyes I’m instantly transported thousands of miles away to the early morning hustle and bustle of the buffet breakfast and the murmured ‘Good Morning’ from fellow guests.

I’m transported to a deep blue sky and the noise and the colour ; the shouts of the children as they pass, ‘Hey Mister, you okay?’ And the cheeky grin.

And I miss it.

I miss the little things. I miss the buffet breakfasts with the rather pale sausages of dubious origin, and the dish marked only as ‘foul’, the Danish pastries in lavish designs and comparing one hotel breakfast with another.

I miss comparing beds, rooms, views and the smile and nod from the cleaners as I pass them in the corridor.

I miss tiny bananas, exotic fruits and foreign versions of ‘English Fish and Chips’, nosing through hotel shops in search of lurid t-shirts and tacky fridge magnets and wondering whether it’s more advantageous to change money here or at the next hotel in case the exchange rate changes.

And I miss being free.

I miss being me, happy, chilled, excited, up for it. Being truly me, the Autistic me that revels in hotels and flights and seeing things I’ve always dreamed of seeing. The Autistic me who can drop the mask, that exhausting falseness, and just revel in the enjoyment of everything around him, even if only for a few days.

I miss being in control. Knowing a little of what I’m looking at, researching, discovering, exploring.

I miss long hot days in the sun. Good company (usually) and talk of things I understand and appreciate, mutual interests and hopes, expectations and dreams.

I miss the one thing that truly makes me happy.

I close my eyes.

I’m dreaming now, dreaming of a time when I can be free again. Dreaming of a time when I can pick up my passport and pack my case. Dreaming of normality.

I’m dreaming and yet I’m fearful. I’m hoping yet I’m scared. I’m wishing though I’m worrying.

I want to be me again. I want to be free again.

But until that day comes, I can only dream.

Towards the light

Next week.

I can imagine it already. The doors opening and a tidal wave of humanity desperate for a pair of socks and a mankini hurling themselves desperately towards the displays whilst shop staff look on in horror.

Horror. How apt.

I dread next week.

I dread the lack of sense we will show and how we will react to this new found ‘freedom’ of ours. If what I’ve heard so far comes true then I can well imagine a third wave and another lockdown will be upon us by the Autumn at the latest.

There’s a desperation. I must have a drink in a pub. I must go to the shops. Must. Must. Really? Why?. For human interaction. Really? How much human interaction is there in swiping your bank card?.

Our trouble is that we lack self control. The sun comes out and we rush to the beach, angry that a thousand others have all had the same idea yet failing miserably to understand that they have only thought the same as us. How selfish of them!.

I dread next week.

I don’t want people. I don’t want to feel unsafe as the floodgates open and the streets heave with life. I’m Autistic and I’m not a people person anyway but especially not now. It’s not as though I’ve enjoyed lockdown with its battering of my mental health and those things I look forward to, travel for instance, now under threat due to circumstances beyond my control, but people?. No, I don’t want people.

Because people don’t think and don’t care.

They want a pint and god help the man who stands in their way. They want those trousers, that book, that hair cut…the list goes on…but so will others and the release of tension, the sheer abandonment of common sense and self control is a truly scary prospect.

There’s a light at the end of the tunnel but the wrong move, too fast, too many, too…stupid, and it will be extinguished.

So, towards the light we go. But I’ll hold back, I’ll bide my time and make sure the bulbs screwed in properly and the lights not flickering before I’ll venture out.

People. It’s all about people.

And I’m not sure I trust them.

The blogging conundrum

Please blog, they said.

So I did.

Only nobody read it.

But I missed it.

They said.

Because I’ve too many followers.

Oh, I said.

Trying not to feel.


And then I asked myself.

Do I actually write,

Things people want to read,

Or am I dull,




Am I just,


One of the crowd,


In the mix?

And is it unreasonable,

Silly of me,

Vain of me,

To expect, want, need…







But I blog,

And it’s not read,

By many,

And a part of me,

Is sad.