Roy Batty In The Belfry


“Chewie, we’re home.”

Spring cleaning. Not something I’ve ever done. But isn’t that exactly what I’ve been doing this past week? Reorganising furniture and sorting out things to donate to charity leads to secondary spring cleanliness such as noticing the windows could do with a damn good squirt with some lemon juice and that the rug, which really ties the room together, is no longer weighed down by heavy furniture which means I can get round to dragging it outside, hanging it over the fence and smacking the shit out of it. Almost literally. Grit, not shit, otherwise exactly the same.

Get round to it. Those things I will try not to do over the weekend. I’ve knackered myself out with all this activity and the pauses required to regain my breath after each one have become longer and longer so it must be time to admire my handiwork, enjoy my new looking living space and chill the heck out.

I need some thinking time anyway. Yesterday’s session with the new therapist went well but we didn’t cover all the ground he wanted to for an introductory session so we’re meeting up again on Monday and I already have a lot to reflect on just from what we’ve already discussed.

The most important thing and the most surprising thing to hear myself emphasise is that I am sick of kowtowing to my health issues and I want to discover whether I am physically and mentally strong enough to reclaim some of the life I left behind ten years ago when I interrupted my doctoral thesis. I wanted to become a lecturer and teach, specifically I wanted to move over to America to teach at some stage. And I do still want those things. I may have reached greater acceptance about some aspects of my health and my own emotional limitations but I’d be lying if I said I don’t still mourn the life I was hoping to lead.

Or, as I said to the therapist yesterday, you know that bit in Bladerunner where Rutger Hauer grabs his creator by the throat and says “I want more life, fucker!”? Well that’s where I’m at right now. And yes, I am overlooking the fact that Hauer’s character was genetically designed to stop functioning after four years. It’s a metaphor.

Whatever comes up in the therapy and wherever the conversations lead I already feel I’ve learnt something I was not fully acknowledging prior to yesterday. A few more mini epiphanies like that and it will certainly feel like time well spent. Don’t expect to find me dying on a rooftop with a dove inexplicably about to be released from my hands, though. That’s just melodramatic bullshit.


About S

Human boob
This entry was posted in academia, Education, Film, health, History, Life, Literature, mental health and tagged , , , , , , , , , , , , , . Bookmark the permalink.

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