Wrote this last Monday, but never got round to posting it... didn't want to post again until I had shaken off the depression. But fuck it, sitting on thoughts is like mental constipation. I got to get it out and move on!


In the past few days I've received a lot of emails... some offering comfort, some offering criticisim, and yet others offering news of normal life.

I guess something I've written lately has been intepreted as a call for help. Or perhaps it is simply proof that strength does lie in collective love and respect.

People outside my close group of friends have felt compelled to tell me that they've been reading my blog. I should be shocked... violated perhaps. But instead I only feel the shadow of surprise... the feeling that I should be surprised. At the back of my brain, there's a curious cat that wants to play with these strangers, to discover the impression they have built of me, from reading my blog...an outsider's view of inside my head.

I find it comforting that my words are being raked over the coals, all around the world. I am fascinated by the thoughtful responses I have been getting. One of my unseen readers has warned me not to withdraw from the world, not to lose my sense of self, like they did. There is no question that this is what is happening to me. I have withdrawn from the world. My contact with it is now sporadic and dreamily removed from tactile response. I have overrused the word surreal in this blog, because of this strange experience of dislocation. I find myself zoning out in the middle of meetings or conversations ... someone will ask me a question and I'll suddenly realise I've been thinking about her and us and them again. It's like the rest of the world has moved on around me whilst I am stuck in some temporal distortion. When I do snap out of it, I feel left behind, sometimes to the point where it feels I don't have a right to my own grief.