The F-word

Here's an excerpt early in my story (March 05) of going from self employment to no employment.

'Walking home from my shopping spree -- porridge, tea, pears, two bananas and no flowers despite the cheapness of daffodils, I cry. I know I'm crying because in the neutral rain, I taste salt. I hope to see no one I know. When I do, and she asks how I am, I avoid eye contact. An F-word comes out: fine. Just fine. How do you tell someone that you've been blubbing in the bathroom, the dining room and the stairs in between. That the phone doesn't ring. And my only e-mail is asking me to contribute to a charity fun-run. I leave off the make-up. I do eat lunch, though, and that must mean I haven't reached absolute rock bottom with depression. I can't exercise. Can't fill out the numerous forms that await scrawls. No one comes. No one goes. I'm going to lose the power of speech.

I've cleaned the crumb-tray in the toaster. Aired the mattresses, changed the sheets, bagged twigs from various pruning forays. Wiped off years' worth of finger staining on doors where the handles are never used. Mopped the floors. At least that's one task that bears infinite repetition, so I need not be without anything to do.

Benumbed. Becalmed with an occasional storm of anguish. Then the placid surface reforms. My head is down. My spirits too. How long before I can have another cup of tea? How long before I can switch to a glass of wine? How much longer can I afford wine? Should I start going to mass for the teaspoonful I'll get in the Eucharist? That's not enough. At 50+ you're thick-skinned, hard-bellied, bitter and it takes adulteration to keep that slippery smile. Without the addictions, the smile might not even appear. So far, I can still smile. But, joy? I feel joy as an absence. I've lost her. Sometimes I call to her.

I turn on TV. It is sometime past noon. This is another blip. I don't do this. I sit. I watch the news three times in patches on three different channels and in between inhale the many aroma advertisements. Air fresheners that last for hours and days, ones that spurt on opening and closing the toilet door. 'What does your loo say about you?' I turn off the TV and listen to the news on Radio Four. Jamie Oliver is on every programme. He's a fine chap. A wife, two children, a heart, a soul, a mission and a money-generating empire. See, he's a success.
I am not. I am an F word.'