It’s early, 6.20 am. No nightmares (that I can remember); no SaltScrubs and I slept through from 12.30. Little mercies.
I sang with my choir at a short Remembrance Day concert at our local Church of Ireland last: Fauré’s Requiem, which is beautiful and moving. During it, I tried to remember how fortunate we are thanks to other generations much readier to sacrifice; more familiar with oppression, tyranny and loss. I offered up my voice in gratitude.
I detest the self pity I feel at the moment. What have I to be sorry for myself for? I’m reminded by others how much I have – a home, a family, my health, friends, living in a lovely part of Dublin, my car – and I see all that. The problem is not how much I have, the problem is that I feel I don’t deserve any of it.
I’m tired of trying to be better, to feel better, to get better. I’ve had enough of trying to fix things, trying to figure out which bill to pay this week, trying to learn new things, trying to keep a nice home, trying to forge a new career, trying to be a better person. I don’t care enough to keep trying. But I’ll keep trying. I’ll keep going through the motions in the hope that it will get better, that I’ll be better, that I’ll deserve whatever comes from trying.
By Roger McGough
I think about dying.
About disease, starvation,
violence, terrorism, war,
the end of the world.
keep my mind off things.