I’m forgetting how to write. It’s not that things don’t come into my head to blog about, but there’s no real impetus without audience. I used to think about things like what was the best time to post – Sundays are far better than Saturdays – no one’s online for any length of time on a Saturday. Fridays aren’t a great day to post either. I’d try to avoid posting in the middle of the night, because no one would be awake. I’d tailor how I’d present the post when I linked it to Facebook and Twitter depending on who I wanted to read it. Now none of that matters. After posting, I’d check the blog’s stats constantly for at least 24 hours. And I mean constantly. I wouldn’t be able to sleep for hours after posting. I’d bring my phone into the shower with me so I could check the stats. The audience numbers and the audience reaction mattered an awful lot to me. I’d be much happier and better able for life if a post got seven likes on Facebook, as opposed to the typical three or four. The audience was everything.
Now, I’m the only audience. I’m shouting down a hole. And echoes are nothing as satisfying as readership stats.
I’m writing to say that I’m not great.
Some things are great. I continue to love Trinity Hall. My PhD is going far, far better than at any time last year (though if I think about it for any length of time, I get panicky). I’ve even started seeing beyond the PhD and I applied for a permanent job in Los Angeles for after I finish. I got a very positive response to my application. Unfortunately, it looks like they’re not willing to sponsor a visa for me. But can you imagine Connor moving to California. Is there any better place for re-invention of the self? I lie awake at night squealing with excitement at the thoughts. I’ve mapped out a whole life for myself there and I’m not really willing to believe that a visa won’t let it happen.
And unfortunately, not everything is going well.
My current financial state is literally giving me chest pains. I think about money more or less every three minutes. And I get upset. I’m maxed out. I owe money to everyone in my life.
What am I spending my money on? Nothing special. Yes, I’ve spent a few euros on hair dye. Last Saturday, for the first time ever, I bleached my hair. Then I dyed it red.
Mainly, the money is going on food. I’m back in a place where I’m eating myself into submission. I’m eating myself sick. I’m eating so much that sometimes I fall asleep, into a food-induced coma. And sometimes it’s the opposite. Sometimes I eat so much I can’t sleep. I’m feeling unwell more or less all the time. And personal hygiene is getting more and more difficult. I’m sore all over, all the time. Bending over is difficult, so I can’t really clean my own house. I have even considered asking friends to clean my floors. But I still have a bit too much pride for that.
And at least four times a day, I swear to myself that I’ll take control. That I’ll stop eating so much. That I’ll be a normal person and stop committing slow, greasy carbohydrate-laced suicide. Because that’s what it is. I’m killing myself, or at the very least severely disabling myself, and I’m doing it with food.
And I’m swearing it again. I took action. I wrote a blogpost. Now I’m going to take action again. I’m off to the shops to buy SlimFast with my last tenner. I hope against hope that I don’t end up buying a frozen pizza, a chocolate fudge cake, a carton of milk and a bottle of Diet Coke, like I did the last time I went to the shop with my last tenner and good intentions.
Keep your fingers crossed for me, Empty Black Hole of No Audience.