Somehow I make it through the day and get home. The others are out, so I’m left with only my thoughts for company. Maybe I’ve got a problem. Maybe I should sort my head out. So, no more drugs and no more drink. I’m going to change my life for the better. I’m going to stand up for myself and take what I want from life. Tomorrow. For today, I just need a bit of comfort. I need to build up gently to going cold turkey. I’m not going to smoke any more dope. But I’ve got some left, and unless I smoke it now, it’ll just tempt me later, and I can’t throw it away, because that would be a waste. I’m worried about my drinking, so I open a can of beer to help me relax. I’m worried about my drug use, so I roll a spliff and chill out. My drug use! What the fuck does that mean? I make it sound like I’m an opium fiend. But I think I do have a problem. What is it they say? Realising you’ve got a problem is the first step to solving it, or some such rubbish. OK then, here goes: My name is Richard Wallace and I am an alcoholic. No I’m not. Who am I kidding? I’m not an alcoholic, I’m just a drinker. I’m not damaged enough. To be a fully-fledged person these days you have to have a personal trauma or two under your belt; an eating disorder here, a suppressed memory of abuse there. Everybody’s at it – empathising, sympathising, making themselves feel important by the size of their problems. Alcoholism has become something to aspire to, a badge to say you’ve been through something. I’m not there yet. I’m too normal for my own good, lacking in the kind of suffering that builds character. But something is wrong. I’ve got a problem. It sounds ever so grand. It should be in capitals, really: I’ve got a Problem. But I’m not the sort of person who has Problems. And maybe that’s my problem. I don’t want to burden anyone with my petty crap, so I bottle it up. I stay silent, because I don’t want to be the kind of person who bores everyone shitless by going on about their Problems all the time. How the hell do you tell someone that you think you’re cracking up without them thinking what a cunt you are? I felt as if I was fighting against London itself, struggling not to be pushed under, joining the scum in the scrum on the Central Line each day. Every month, my wages kept me just within my overdraft limit, give or take the occasional borrowing of a few quid just before payday. I wasn’t getting anywhere. Too much of my energy was being spent on surviving. Too much of my money, as well. It felt as if I was sweating money out through my pores. I wanted to get out, find somewhere else. London held no appeal for me, and I knew what it meant when a man was tired of London. I thought about getting out of town for a while, maybe for good. I felt that I had to get away, to the country, to my friends, to my parents, to clean air, to a slower pace of life. I wanted to be somewhere that wasn’t so dirty, so noisy, so dangerous, so expensive; somewhere that the people aren’t so rude. But something held me there. I didn’t want to be beaten. I wanted to leave on my own terms, with my head held high and other defiant clichés. I wanted to move forwards. Still, Christmas was coming up. That would be an enforced escape. I would see small town life again, and be reminded of why I’d come to London.
the whole world is an enigma - a harmless enigma that is made terrible by our own mad attempt to interpret it as though it had an underlying truth
Foucault's Pendulum