At half one in the morning today, I was sitting on the balcony of an 11th floor flat, looking out at the world. Glasgow, like most places, is prettier at night. But I barely noticed that. I was thinking about the fact that seven or so months ago, I was sitting on that same balcony, in the early hours of the morning, when I should have been sleeping on the couch, drunk, wondering what had went wrong. And just over half a year later I had come full circle. Mourning that relationship all over again.
As I sat there, in the dark, watching the odd car pass by, I contemplated falling.
Not jumping. I'm not a suicide type of chick. Death scares me too much.
But for the last six weeks or so, I've felt like I've been in some sort of a freefall, and not a good kind. I feel like I've fallen eleven floors, hit the ground, broken my bones, and continued to fall. To where? I don't have a fucking clue. All I know is my plunge downwards is ongoing. I'm finding it increasingly hard to deal with everyday life. I'm counting the moments virtually until I go away on holiday, until I can escape my everyday life, such as it is, for a mere week. Once I come back, things will probably feel even worse. Post-holiday-comedown, they always do. But at the moment, I have that to look forward to and it's the one thing that keeps me going.
So anyway, I was sitting on the 11th floor looking down, despite my fear of being in tall buildings. As a kid, my grandparents used to live on the 19th floor. They had a verandah and I LOVED it. I loved to throw paper aeroplanes off it. Now I think if I was that high up I'd be whimpering and holding onto the railings for dear life. The idea of falling terrifies me. But I'm already on the ground, feeling broken. Impact has already taken place. Who knows where I'm going to end up. Or whether I'll ever be fixed.
At the moment, I'm not particularly hopeful. . .