The Absence Of Sleep

Sorry für den Titel, aber es kommt nicht oft vor, dass ich ein Album einer obskuren Bostoner Punkband auf den Namen überprüfen kann!

So begann ich meine 30er Jahre damit, in einer Innenstadtschule in Nordengland zu arbeiten. Ich trank, aß ziemlich schlecht und machte keine Bewegung. Der Stress hatte begonnen zu steigen und ich verbrachte einige Tage damit, darum zu betteln, nicht zur Arbeit gehen zu müssen. Ich habe als Lehrer versagt. 

Der Schlaf wurde immer unruhiger – ich wachte ständig auf und brauchte die Toilette mindestens einmal pro Nacht. Es war auch um diese Zeit, als OCD (Zwangstürung) und soziale Angst begannen, sich auf mein Leben auszuwirken. Es begann subtil. Die ersten Anzeichen waren: Ich habe meine CDs nicht nur alphabetisiert, sondern konnte sie auch nur in der angegebenen alphabetischen Reihenfolge anhören; ich habe meine ganze Kleidung angeordnet und musste sie in einer bestimmten Reihenfolge tragen – egal bei welchem Wetter UND ich begann zu vermeiden, ans Telefon zu gehen oder Termine zu vereinbaren (“Können wir es online machen?”). 

Andererseits war mein Lieblingsteil der OCD der Weinkauf. Jeden Tag eine neue Flasche, die nächste am Regal im Supermarkt. Eine Bestellung für Rotweine, eine Bestellung für Weißweine. Wein war uns ein Vergnügen. Die Frau war jetzt auch Lehrerin und es gab nichts Besseres, als nach Hause zu kommen, den Wein aufzubrechen und eine Pizza zu essen…….

Neben unserer Taille wuchsen auch unsere Gewohnheiten der Mittelschicht: Angestellte, ein Auto, ein Haus im Peak District und Ferien auf dem Kontinent. Was kommt als nächstes? Eine Familie? An diesem Punkt weinten wir stop! Wir hatten den Wunsch zu entkommen; uns nicht anpassen zu müssen, aber vor allem nicht mit anderen Menschen zu tun zu haben. Wir wurden Lehrer an internationalen Schulen und arbeiteten in Deutschland, Portugal und dann wieder in Deutschland. Plötzlich fand ich heraus, dass ich doch ein vernünftiger Lehrer bin. Ich liebte es, im Klassenzimmer zu sein und kam wirklich gut mit meinen Schülern zurecht – es waren nur Mitmenschen, die das Problem waren. Wir würden eingeladen werden, aber wir würden uns einfach entschuldigen und für eine, vielleicht zwei Flaschen Wein nach Hause gehen. Das Schlafen wurde schlimmer. Die Frau fing an, sich zu beschweren, dass mein Schnarchen sie wach hielt. Ich wusste nicht einmal, dass ich schnarchte, aber schon bald schnarchte ich mich wach oder weckte regelmäßig Husten und Ersticken. 

Um diese Zeit herum begann ich mit der Einnahme von Promethazin. In Großbritannien ist es als Phenergen bekannt und soll bei Heuschnupfen eingesetzt werden, aber viele Menschen haben seine schlaffördernden Eigenschaften erkannt. Schritt für Schritt wurde ich immer abhängiger davon. Diese Wunderdroge würde mich länger unter Wasser halten, oder wenn ich aufwachte, war ich so “glücklich”, dass es mir egal war und ich wieder einschlief. Ich bräuchte noch das Badezimmer während des Nachtwanderns in einer geraden Linie auf Promethazin war immer interessant – und okay, ich wäre am nächsten Tag ein Zombie mit Kopfschmerzen, aber wen kümmert’s, ich bekam etwas Schlaf und am Ende des Tages gab es immer Wein und Schokolade, damit ich mich besser fühle.

An den Tagen, an denen ich keine Pillen genommen habe, war der Schlaf ein noch größeres Problem. Ich wachte jetzt 20-30 mal pro Nacht auf und wurde wirklich, wirklich müde. 

Mir wurde für eine Weile ein tricyclisches Säurederivat verschrieben, um beim Schlafen und meiner aufsteigenden sozialen Angst zu helfen. Es hat nichts bewirkt. Ich wurde dann zu einem Lungenspezialisten geschickt, der nichts Falsches finden konnte, also leitete er mich zu einem Schlaf Labor weiter. 

Tue etwas für mich. Halten Sie den Atem für 60 Sekunden an. Nein, tu es wirklich. In einer Minute zurück……

Wie verzweifelt warst du, nach der Minute zu atmen? Wie unwiderstehlich und unkontrollierbar war der Drang, einen riesigen, tiefen Atemzug zu machen?

Also stell dir vor, du würdest versuchen, nach Luft zu schnappen, und nichts wäre passiert. Stell dir vor, du könntest nicht atmen.

So ist ein Laryngospasmus.

Also, ich näherte mich 30 und alles war relativ in Ordnung mit der Welt. Ich hatte die Tatsache akzeptiert, dass ich ein “leichter” Schläfer war; ich hatte zum ersten Mal nach 8 Jahren Abstinenz mit dem Trinken von Alkohol begonnen und war bei meinem ersten Lehrerpraktikum (wo der Schulleiter bemerkte: “Sie werden die zukünftigen Diebe und Mörder von Insertnamen der Stadt unterrichten” – was für ein Willkommen in der Welt der Bildung).  Aber dann geschah es zum ersten Mal – ein Ereignis, das in meinem Leben so wichtig war, dass es zweifellos ein ganzes Kapitel in meiner Biographie einnehmen würde oder andernfalls ein paar hundert Wörter in einem obskuren Blog!

Ich hatte einen Erkältung gehabt, die Kehle war wund, aber ich ging wie immer ins Bett und hoffte, ein paar Stunden Schlaf zu bekommen. Irgendwann gegen Mitternacht wachte ich hustend auf und bevor ich wirklich wusste, was los war, konnte ich nicht mehr atmen. Panik. Ich sprang aus dem Bett. Ich versuchte zu atmen, aber es würde nichts passieren. Es fühlte sich nicht an, als würde ich ersticken, es gab nichts zum Aushusten. Ich konnte einfach nicht atmen. Alles, was ich tun konnte, war schlucken, und Junge, der Zwang, dies zu tun, war endlos. Luft strömte in meinen Darm, aber nicht in meine Lunge. Schließlich öffnete sich ein winziger Spalt und ging hinein, was ich jetzt weiß, ist die Stridor-Phase (liebe diesen Namen, war er nicht in He-man?). Schnappt nach winzigen Luftmengen. Dann zurück zum Nicht-Atmen, dann Stridor und so weiter…. Mein Herz raste und war leicht das lauteste Ding im Raum. Ich fühlte, dass der Tod gekommen war, mit scharfen, spitzen Zähnen. Das war wann, wie und wo ich sterben würde. 

Ich schüttelte die Frau wach, und wir starrten uns an, beide hilflos. Was sollen wir tun? Macht der Heimlich? 112 anrufen? Aber dann ließ der Stridor nach. Ich schluckte immer noch viel Luft, aber zumindest ein Teil davon erreichte die Lunge. Alles beruhigte sich, aber es gab immer noch eine Irritation im Hals, die dazu führte, dass er ganz leicht zurückkehren konnte. Das Ganze war in 60 Sekunden vorbei. 

Jeder Laryngospasmus ist so. Man gewöhnt sich nicht daran. Jedes Mal, wenn ich das Gefühl habe, dass es das erste Mal ist, aber auch, dass es das letzte Mal ist, wenn du meine Abweichung verstehst.

Ich habe ungefähr 5-6 vollwertige Fallen pro Jahr und viele kleine Vorfälle jeden Tag. Es hat mir eine ständige Angst vor Husten, Schlucken, Heuschnupfen, Erkältungen, Halsschmerzen, scharfem Essen, Kreide, Schlafen, Reden, Trainieren und Atmen gelassen……………..Es ist jede Sekunde des Tages bei mir und ich hasse es.

Wenn ich meine Top-100-Krampfanfälle zusammenstellen würde (und da ich OCD bin, habe ich es definitiv), dann fanden meine beiden “Favoriten” seltsamerweise beide im Theater statt.

Der erste war an der Schaubühne in Berlin. Ich kann mich nicht erinnern, was wir gesehen haben, aber es war etwas Ernstes. Ich fing an, in der Mitte der Leistung zu husten, geriet in Panik und geriet in Krampf. Der Klang des Stridors erfüllte den Zuschauerraum. Die Menge, die Schauspieler, alle konnten mich hören. Glücklicherweise war “Die Frau” an meiner Seite, aber in dieser kritischen Situation mit hohem Druck wandte sie sich einfach an mich und sagte “Ssshhhhh”! Das waren möglicherweise unsere letzten gemeinsamen Momente und es sollte mit einem “Ssshhhhh” enden. Um es noch schlimmer zu machen, begann sie dann unkontrolliert zu kichern. Wir taumelten durch den Notausgang hinaus. Wir sind nie zurückgegangen……..

Die zweite fand in einem Operationssaal statt. Ich hatte eine Operation, um mein abweichendes Septum reparieren zu lassen (mehr davon in einem späteren Blog). Die Betäubung wurde verabreicht, ich zählte von zehn zu eins, als es gegen neun passierte. Ich konnte nicht atmen. In Panik versuchte ich aufzustehen, aber ich fing an, unterzugehen. Zumindest diesmal fühlte sich der Tod entspannend und einladend an (Lachsmaus irgendjemand?). Das Letzte, was ich hörte, war: “Entspann dich, es wird alles gut….” 

Später sagten sie mir, dass sie Schwierigkeiten hatten, mich zu intubieren, und von nun an muss ich eine Karte mit sich führen, die die Ärzte wissen lässt, dass ich bei einer Narkose gefährdet bin.

Ok, so sometimes in life one website isn’t enough. So I have put together a site to handle the music side of my life. It’s a work in progress and the learning curve is steep

Ok, also manchmal im Leben ist eine Website nicht genug. Also habe ich eine Seite zusammengestellt, die sich mit der Musikseite meines Lebens beschäftigt. Es ist in Arbeit und die Lernkurve ist steil.

https://dvhancox92.wixsite.com/mysite

Schlaf: mein bete noire, mein Enfant terrible, mein, mein, mein, mein, mein, (Verdammt!) Ich brauche noch einen weiteren, um der Dreierregel der Autoren zu gehorchen, Vorschläge auf einer Postkarte an……..).

OK, streichen Sie die Einführung, fangen wir noch einmal von vorne an.

Ich beginne mit einer ungeheuren Behauptung: Ich glaube nicht, dass ich jemals eine ganze Nacht in meinem Leben geschlafen habe. Nun, zumindest, wenn ich es täte, ist es schon sehr lange her. Aus irgendeinem Grund möchte ich anfangen, den Refrain von Comfortably Numb zu singen, der eigentlich ein ziemlich gutes Lied ist, um meine Existenz zu beschreiben, aber ich bin mir selbst voraus……. 

Ich habe tatsächlich ein sehr schlechtes Gedächtnis meiner jüngeren Jahre, also kann ich es nicht mit Sicherheit sagen, aber als Teenager erinnere ich mich, dass ich mehrmals in der Nacht aufwachte. Um ehrlich zu sein, ich fand das nicht seltsam. Ich habe nie mit jemandem darüber gesprochen und dachte nur, dass so der Schlaf für alle ist. Es machte für mich Sinn, dass wir alle ein- bis zweimal pro Nacht auf die Toilette gehen mussten und dass mein Aufwachen die Art und Weise war, wie mein Körper mir sagte, dass ich gehen musste.

Ich war definitiv die meiste Zeit müde, ich hatte nie das Gefühl, dass ich viel Energie hatte, die oft als allgemeine Faulheit im Teenageralter abgeschrieben wurde – sogar von mir!  Ich bin nur oft aufgewacht; keine Dramen, kein Ersticken (noch nicht).

Aus Schuljahren wurden Universitätjahre. Die Müdigkeit hielt an, wurde aber durch den Lebensstil der Schüler (schlecht essen und gut trinken!) noch verstärkt. Zu dieser Zeit teilte ich mir ein Einzelbett in einem gemieteten Raum mit der zukünftigen’The Wife’ und natürlich schliefen wir schrecklich. Dies schien nur meine Vorstellung zu bestätigen, dass Schlaf eine Reihe von Unterbrechungen sein sollte und dass wir zwischen den Wachmomenten alles packten, was wir konnten. Ich sollte hinzufügen, dass diese Situation nicht dadurch verbessert wurde, dass ich mich nicht der baldigen “Die Frau” stellen durfte, da sie jeden hasst, der auf ihr atmet – ich sage jeden, es könnte nur ich sein……… Wir müssten regelmäßig die Seiten des Einzelbettes die ganze Nacht über wechseln. Wie sehr ich diese Tage vermisse.

Etwa zur gleichen Zeit meldete sich die Band, in der ich war, Kerosene, an. Das bedeutete, dass man oft auf kleine Touren durch Großbritannien, Europa und sogar die USA ging. Ich hasste es, auf Tour zu gehen. Ich fand heraus, dass ich nur in meinem eigenen Bett etwas Schlaf bekommen konnte. Auf dem Boden zu schlafen, 3 in einem Bett in Hotelzimmern oder auf der Rückseite des Vans macht einfach keinen Spaß. Jedes Mal, wenn wir aufbrechen, scanne ich den Zeitplan und suche nach Möglichkeiten, wann wir für eine Nacht nach Hause zurückkehren können. Außerdem hatte ich Angst, dass wir irgendwann einen Unfall haben würden. Die Idee, im Kofferraum eines Transitwagens mit einer verstauten Ladung Ausrüstung zu liegen, als wir in der Nacht nach Hause fuhren, verfolgt mich immer noch. Es gibt nur eine Sache, die schlimmer ist, als die linken Handreifen über die Rüttelstreifen zu hören. Ja, du hast es erraten, es hört die rechten Reifen! Früher blieb ich die ganze Zeit auf und saß bei der unglücklichen Person, die die nächste Fahrschicht machen musste, nur damit ich mit ihnen reden und sie wach halten konnte.

Der Schlaf wurde zu etwas, das mir ein wenig fremd war, etwas, worüber man sich Sorgen machen musste.

Die Band ging zu Ende und das Leben ging weiter. Ich war zwischen dem Alter von 20 und 28 Jahren Straight Edge gewesen, aß relativ gesund und genoss sogar den Luxus, ein Doppelbett mit The Wife zu teilen – ja, wir waren jetzt verheiratet -, aber der Schlaf hatte sich nicht wesentlich verändert. Ich bin immer noch mehrmals in der Nacht aufgewacht, aber ich kam zurecht. Ich würde darüber jammern, müde zu sein – weißt du, wie die meisten Leute es tun, aber diese Leute haben keine Ahnung. 

Ich machte endlich meinen Mathematikabschluss und schrieb mich, ohne zu wissen, welchen Job ich eigentlich machen wollte, als Lehrling ein. So weit, so gut. Aber dann kam die Nacht, die mein Leben veränderte: mein erster Laryngospasmus……………….der fortgesetzt werden sollte.

Force majeure! Aber ich schätze, es ist jetzt zu spät…..

Hallo. Mein Name ist David. Ich wohne in Berlin. Ich leide an Depressionen, sozialer Angst, zwanghafter Persönlichkeitsstörung, obstruktiver und zentraler Apnoe, Schlaflosigkeit, Kehlkopfkrämpfen, eingeschränkter Beweglichkeit in der rechten Schulter und im linken Knie, Spreizfuß und ich bekomme wirklich schlechten Atem, wenn ich Weetabix esse…..aber, hey, es ist nicht alles Spaß und Spielchen!

Vor kurzem habe ich 14 Wochen in einer Tagesklinik hier in Berlin verbracht (einer Klinik, die verschiedene Formen der psychologischen Therapie anbietet). Während dieser Zeit bemerkte ich, wie hilfreich und unterstützend es war, mit Menschen zu sprechen, die unter ähnlichen Bedingungen leiden, und unsere Erfahrungen zu teilen. Ich war auch erstaunt, wie wenig Männer die Klinik besuchten (ich war der einzige Mann von 21 Personen!) und ich begann zu überlegen, warum. In diesem Sinne und nach einem “Road to Damascus”-Moment begann ich mich zu fragen, ob es eine Möglichkeit gibt, mit anderen Menschen Kontakt aufzunehmen, um Geschichten und Theorien auszutauschen.

Ich beginne auch diesen Blog (und die Instagram, Facebook, Twitter und Youtube Accounts – voll mit Social Brand Building oder was?), um mir etwas zu geben, worauf ich mich konzentrieren kann. Ich hoffe, dass es hilft, meine Tagesstruktur zu verbessern und mir (ohne zu dunkel klingen zu wollen) einen Grund zu geben, morgens aufzustehen. Ich bin ein absoluter Social Media-Neuling (OK, ich hatte eine Facebook-Seite für eine Weile und war einmal auf Friend’s Reunited………), also könnte es eine Weile dauern, bis die Konten Gestalt annehmen und ich meinen Blog “voice” finde.

Mit dabei ist auch meine Chefwissenschaftlerin AKA TheWife, die sich im Laufe der Jahre nicht nur das Jammern eines Ehemannes gefallen hat, sondern mich auch als Laborratte benutzt hat und deren verschiedene Beiträge in den Abschnitten “The Wife’s Experiments” und “Food for Moods” des Blogs zu finden sind. Ziel ist es, dass wir auch eine Gemeinschaft für Freunde und Verwandte aufbauen können, die dann auch eine Plattform haben, um miteinander sprechen zu können.

Es gibt auch einen Bereich namens Musik, denn ohne ihn hätte ich wohl einfach aufgegeben. Musik war schon immer ein zentraler Bestandteil meines Lebens (hey, ich war einmal sogar auf Platz 79 in den Charts) und ich beschäftige mich immer noch mit verschiedenen Projekten. Sie erlauben mir wertvolle Momente, in denen ich vergesse, wie müde ich bin. Gelegentlich werde ich Links zu einigen der Projekte setzen, aber nein, Sie müssen nicht zuhören!

OK, das war’s für meinen ersten Blog – ich denke, das ist das längste Stück, das ich seit dem Schulabschluss geschrieben habe – und ich plane, nächste Woche ein weiteres zu schreiben, wo ich anfangen werde, über meine Schlafprobleme zu sprechen. Hoffentlich, wenn ich meinen Kopf darüber strecken kann, werde ich anfangen zu versuchen, ein Forum für die Seite zu finden. Bis dahin kontaktiere bitte, schreibe eine E-Mail, eine Nachricht, poste entweder hier oder auf der Facebook-Seite, Twitter oder Instagram.

Day 9

9, 19, no! 18, 41, 131, 11, no! 131, 10. She pressed the huge flat buttons on the ground. Like the keyboard of her laptop but it took both her hands pressing down, with all her weight pushing through. And then she had to move to the next one. It was like doing CPR on a giant’s computer.

“It has to be the right order!”

“I know. I’m trying. I just keep forgetting.”

“The door won’t open if the order’s wrong”

“What door? WHAT DOOR?”

Gretchen slowly focused on the light shade but was completely unable to recall who she was, where she was and what day it was. She was, however, aware that she should know these things and the fact that she didn’t was a sign that all was not well. What was good though, was that she nearly got the numbers right and would have been able to open the door. Next time, she promised herself. She’d known that there was an important reason for remembering the numbers. She had to open the door, didn’t she. Didn’t she? She sighed, recognising that the threads were pulling apart and she wouldn’t be able to form anything coherent now.

She was Gretchen. She was in her house. It was Saturday.

The notebook was back in her home, on the bookshelf. It sat there like a malignant tumour, gently sloughing off metastasising cells which infiltrated anything and everything. She’d read the 2 pages for today but was no further enlightened. It seemed to be about films, which she’d assumed were made-up but it turned out they all existed. She then entered a paranoid state of finding herself to be lacking in any cultural identity. If you don’t have a favourite film, do you even exist? This led her down a rocky path, where she couldn’t recall the names of any films, so she decided to stop thinking about it.

She did on the other hand remember the name Finn. It was in the earlier section of the notebook but she’d let that one escape. Maybe that was why her bells were ringing yesterday. Mmmm. No. That wasn’t it. But still. Maybe it’s another clue. Gretchen felt a rare surge of energy and took advantage by grabbing a pad of A4. On it, she wrote:

Finn       Lezka        Maja         Combat woman        Underpass woman

She stared at it with her pen poised. Ready to make some genius-level connections. Did they link up with the numbers? Seconds ticked by and…nothing. She swore, ripped the paper off, crumpled it up and threw it across the room. She tolerated it for 18 seconds then picked it up and put it in the bin.

On the plus side though, it did give her an idea. She’d heard nothing about this woman’s mysterious disappearance even though it happened just around the corner from her. Did she live in a hermetically sealed box with no interactions whatsoever? She picked up her phone and the internet didn’t let her down.

The first CCTV shot was of the High Street. A relatively clear image from quite a high angle. Gretchen recognised the antiques shop next to the butcher’s. A figure strode into shot. Back towards the camera, walking with an almost jaunty sashay. Long, dark hair swinging from side to side. The person—it had to a woman—was dressed in black. She zig-zagged along, skipping from pavement to road but not in a drunken stagger. It looked playful, as if she were dancing or toying with the notion of whether to go one way or the other. She turned the corner.

The second shot was grainy and poor quality. One of the peripheral fields of the dual-carriageway cameras included the path leading down to the underpass. She came into view—a staccato blur. And yet, she was different. Gretchen brought the phone closer to her eyes, squinting. Her hood was up now. Up and hanging down over her forehead. Even if the resolution could be improved, you’d never be able to recognise her face. She looked like Death. Without a scythe.

The last shot was from the underpass itself. As any subway is a beacon for nefarious activities, the presence of CCTV was unremarkable. She had her head hunched down and hands tucked into her pockets as she walked purposefully towards the entrance. Not a hint of nervousness. No looking behind to check if she was being followed. No holding keys in her hand as a futile yet comforting weapon. And just as she disappeared into the tunnel, she looked up directly into the camera lens and smiled.

Gretchen went back to the article with its click bait headline: WHO IS SHE? and the screenshot image of her smiling face and read on, searching for more details. It turned out that an elderly man had been out walking his dog—of course! Who else?—when he found something lying on the damp floor of the underpass. Something strange enough that he told his neighbour, who told her son, who just happened to be a police constable, who craved excitement. After checking the footage they realised that the woman had gone into the underpass but hadn’t come out. Which meant they had not one but two mysteries.

1. Who was Underpass Woman, where had she gone and how had she vanished into thin air?

2. Who had left the guitar case with the Fender Stratocaster on the ground in the middle of the tunnel?

So, a new section. Thoughts, reviews, rants and raves. Why? Because it’s incredibly important for you that I share my opinions on such matters. Really? No, not really, David. Still, to misquote Pink Floyd – as I’m too lazy to look up the lyric – it helps to tick away a few moments from a dull day…..

The inspiration for this new section? I’d like to say it was something that deserved it but it was actually….

We lasted 2 minutes of Baby Driver (who is responsible for that name?). It was the most self-satisfied opening sequence I have seen in a long time. Italian Job to infinity and beyond. I got so angry. I wanted to give up after 30 seconds but TheWife made me prevail. Thankfully I did, as I managed to win the next round of our ‘Spot John Hamm’ competition. Style over content can be good (I’m a big fan of Dario Argento’s classics after all) but when it’s so in your face and so hackneyed. All the good faith in Edgar Wright has been lost. I just want to quote THAT Jeff Goldblum Jurassic classic line at him….

On a slightly positive note, enjoyed listening to the first 2 Morrissey albums – Viva Hate and Bona Drag –  while undertaking a long walk. It’s hard to separate the man from the music these days now that he has become everyone’s favourite racist uncle – and no longer the cute consumer monkey (what would Reeves and Mortimer do now). Still those albums were good. Ok, so the production is a bit 80s with those gated snares but his work with Stephen Street was pretty decent. Great photos on the 12 inches too. He also managed to get one of my favourite words into a song title – maudlin. A word used far more up north than down south. That run of singles was magnificent, especially the 12 inch of Everyday is Like Sunday. Every track on that one is a classic. I must admit, I was not a fan of The Smiths as I was growing up, I was far too metal and punk for that kind of thing, don’t you know. It was this 12” – owned by TheWife – that started to turn it all around. Thanks Moz for accompanying me on my walk, now return yourself to your American home, you naughty migrant you (or should I say ex-pat).

And finally, I received the best compliment of my entire life the other week. I didn’t even get to hear it! I was on stage with Moto, pulling off some sort of guitar wacky hi-jinks while TheWife was watching from a carefully placed sofa at the side of the stage. The aforementioned better half was approached by a slightly strange British woman, who asked, “Do you know any of these?”, whilst pointing at the band. Vic replied with a pointed index finger and the words, “I’m married to him”. The woman then gave TheWife a high five. What a catch I truly am. Said woman (or is it sad) then said she loved how TheWife watched me in awe. Oh yes!!!

I based my life on the films of Peter Greenaway. I adore lists, collections, systems and rules. I strayed across the end of a film in ’88. It changed my life. Bravura (in the face of grief) was playing. A man was being relieved of his eyes. The following week I watched animals and plants decompose as twins sought out the meaning of life and death. Later, I counted from 1 to 100 while playing Hangman’s cricket. Male leads that thought they were cleverer than they actually were (oh, the irony), but dying with a weak sort of heroism. Water tower conspiracies and the like. Nyman’s music pounding out, repetitive, mathematical. I am counting to 92 now. The mocking of that late show brought it all to an end. All you need is a panning shot. I see that panning shot everyday. I view every moment as a Vierny composed scene, with Balanescu and Leonard giving their all. 

I had no emotion before Greenaway. I had an ordinal based system thereafter.

Lezka, is that all I am? A sum of someone else’s parts. I need to know exactly what I should have done. What I could have done. I never saw it in a movie.

As you know already, music has played, and continues to play, a major part of my life. There is nothing like ordering your collection. Row upon row. There is nothing worse than disorganised vinyl. Now look for the last band under the letter F.

I based my life on the music and principles of Ian Mackaye. Admittedly, I wear a belt more often than he, but hell, the stature of that man in front of his amp, letting the cartwheels roll by. Belligerence pure. I don’t drink, I don’t smoke, I don’t fuck, but at least I can fucking think. 10 years I lived it. 10 years we lived it. Never ate meat again. A simple code. You really don’t have to be caught up in trying to be fashionable. T-shirt and shorts. I still dress the same today. 

I am life imitating art.

I was now complete(?). I went forth into the world. Well equipped. 

Imagine a writer saying these words. I was leaning at the bar. Nursing my drink, a pint of some sort, in a plastic glass. I was gazing across the dance floor. The smell of dry ice combating the smell of alcohol and young lust. We wanna get loaded, have a good time. Motown horns blare. This song would normally get me on the dance floor. Not tonight, never leave your beer unattended. Not because somebody would spike it with acid, but some scally would lift it. The smoke clears just for a second and across the dance floor our eyes lock. How can I use mere words to describe what happened? A bolt of lightning and all that Jilly Cooper crap. They were the most beautiful eyes I’d ever seen. Electric blue. I sensed it was one of those life changing, life affirming moments. I knew this was the woman I was destined to be with forever….And standing behind her was my future wife……(and then I got off the bus…….)

Bullshit. I have told this story so often. All bullshit. A cheap laugh from a contrived Lee and Herring pastiche. My Stan Boardman lips quivering as I tell the punchline.

I did meet her at a club though. Loaded did become our song. But other than that, pure bullshit. Somebody who enjoyed the same snide remarks. Someone who needed loving, just like I did. A simple nod, while sitting on my knee and we were together. Lypsyl kisses dry cheap and they are the ones that help me sleep. We struggled at first. I was too busy playing out my film roles to know how to handle a relationship but in a short time we were living together. Actually, it was really easy. Together forever. 

The ring cost a tenner from Argos. We refused to do the first dance. Pissed off the proles by playing Glass and Nyman.

I based my life on her.

I think this is the kind of stuff you really wanted, Lezka. How it all begins, how it all ends. A man can be summed up in very few words. Which is how it should be, we are each our own pigeon-hole.

CROSSED OUT

A confrontation was coming. They knew it couldn’t be avoided. There was still a couple of minutes walking time to get to the safety of the crowd. The snarling voice was now just over their shoulders. As one they decided to turn, still walking, but the man was in striking distance, so it was better to have eyes on him. He was becoming more agitated now that he had reached them. His words were still unclear. There was the classic wild look in his eyes. He had the demeanour of someone that had mental health problems and had taken something too. He was out of control. Perhaps if they sped up they could get to the light quicker. Even with the hindrance of a guitar on his back, he decided they should make a break for it.

Sorry, L.I. you got a lot from me today. Give me a break if I leave the last couple of lines blank. I could draw you a picture if you want……

With the aid of Dr Frank and TheWife, I managed to get through the Autumn months. There were some bleak moments and some feelings of guilt – I felt bad that I was letting the school and my students down. However, I was taking 30mg of Citalopram a day and it was definitely beginning to have an effect, as I was now capable of making phone calls and going to appointments. We reached Christmas with the news that I’d be starting at the Tagesklinik in January.

TheWife took Xmas off and we had a great break actually. We were both heavily involved in various artistic endeavours: me, writing the music for what would be the 2nd ‘Unreal Book’ podcast and she was finishing off her book ‘Nightshift’  – which BTW is actually going to see the light of day soon. We ate a lot and drank like fish – every day – for about 2 weeks.  It was way too much. Sleep problems don’t matter so much when there is the promise of wine, port and chocolate at the end of the day. I knew it would be so easy for me to carry on like this – alcohol, unhealthy food, pills – but I also knew it wasn’t good. Time to change. And on December 29th, a date that is more commonly known as my date of birth, I/we decided to give up the booze. We’d been teetotal for 8 years in our 20s, so we knew it could be done, plus, they won’t let you into the Tagesklinik if you are drinking.

It’s really hard to explain the whole Tagesklinik experience. It’s just strange. Knowing me, as I try to describe it in this blog  it might sound a little negative and that I’m mocking it, but for all its quirks, it was a very positive experience for me. A place where I felt safe and it came just at the right time.

One thing you have to get used to is the routine and, for an OCD junkie like myself, that wasn’t a problem. You had to follow the rules too and you had to accept that both the routine and the rules can be bent or broken, but only by the staff. It was like being in school in that respect. In fact it was interesting how much all of us patients seem to regress into a kind of child-like state during our time there. It’s as if we’d learned how to cope with school and this was just a past memory triggered back to life. Lunch was at a set time and looked like school dinners. We had break-time and then, at the end of the day, we had to put all the chairs up onto the tables. We called each other by first names – the patients, that is. The teachers, sorry, the medical staff were referred to as Frau und Herr, thus underscoring the balance of power, as if it were in any doubt. This reduction to our teenage selves actually helped take a lot of the pressure off: we didn’t have to make the decisions; we were not responsible.

Ok, so we didn’t have to make decisions, but there was something we had to make….and that’s pottery. Most of your time was spent preparing, making, sandpapering, firing, painting and breaking pottery. I was very, very crap. I don’t use the word ‘crap’ that often, as there is something archaic and slightly naff in its usage (just like the word naff), but it sums up my pathetic attempts at creating something, One of the strange things about the pottery class is that you are not allowed to say anything negative about these ‘works of art’, Now, I can understand this viewpoint when it’s concerning somebody else’s work, but surely you can slag off your own. I would try and push my fellow patients as far as I could with “What do you think of my decision to paint everything nut brown?” or “You say this cup is nice. Would you have it on display in your house?”. My proudest moment on this course was that yes, I did actually paint everything nut brown for the first 10 weeks, in deference to The Fast Show (except they used black) and that 70s Coventry City away kit. When I decided to break the mould and use other colours – I repainted everything because I was bored – it was thought that I’d had some sort of positive mental breakthrough.

Then of course there was dance therapy. I loved it! Especially those moments that resembled a junior school pretend-you’re-a-tree-in-the-breeze meets an avant-garde Bowie dance project. For a man who is totally inflexible and has no sense of rhythm, boy could I put on a show! It really helped to bring us together as a group…..

Music therapy was harder. It was 6 individuals battering the hell out of their percussive instruments while I tried to keep it together and bring some sort of order on a cheap acoustic guitar. It actually became one of my goals given to me from the music therapist to try to not take control and lead the others. We sounded like an insane Captain Beefheart – I wish I had recordings – Sonic Youth would have loved it!

Of course, there was individual therapy, but the group option was always fun. The session started the same. It was like the gun fight at the end of The Good, The Bad and The Ugly. Eyes furtively looking around the room. The silence was deafening. Who would break first and speak? For the first couple of weeks I found this excruciating, as I am the kind of person that has to fill a gap in the conversation, but with time I began to get a perverse pleasure from the discomfort all of us were feeling. It was actually a safe place and what’s said in therapy stays in therapy, although the language barrier could be tough. Obviously, when someone is emoting they start talking in really thick German. They pour their hearts out, maybe even cry and then they turn to you for support and you haven’t got a clue about what they’ve just said…….Would you like a tissue?

The only real thing I can complain about is the food. The food wasn’t bad, it was just that there was just too much of the sweet stuff. Lots of communal baking sessions. Lots of cake. Lots of biscuits. As one of the side effects of citalopram is weight gain (and I was now on the maximum dose of 40mg), I put on 7kg. Mostly thanks to the Tagesklinik sugar excess!

Getting up early everyday and forced community spirit was hard to begin with. I was very depressed. But with time and thanks to the dedication of the staff there (a big, big thank you to my therapist!) and wonderfully supportive co-patients, I felt positive and, after 14 weeks, ready to begin to take on the outside world again……

I reached up, teetering on tiptoes and balancing on a chair—an office chair, no less, with wheels and rotation—and knew already what a bad idea this was. It was bound to end in tears, but I’d started, so I’d finish. It’ll be OK. Besides I really needed to reach it. My fingertips prised the corner towards me, fingernails gaining some purchase in the cardboard and then…. Like a cascade or avalanche, the entire shelf of records fell off. One by one, as the momentum of the first created the movement in the next; they just all slid off. A waterfall of vinyl. I perched there, frozen with a grimace of horror on my face. I am in so much trouble, I thought. From whom? Good question. Don’t know. And then I was on the floor sweeping around in the carpet of albums, picking up broken black plastic and creasing treasured covers. Which ones? Don’t know. I then sat back on my haunches, hands on hips and thought crossly, ‘Why are you even bothering? It’s a waste of time.’

Gretchen opened her eyes and reached equally crossly for her phone, turning off the alarm that was due in 2 minutes. After lying awake for the rest of the night, she’d just drifted off and then had that stupid dream that didn’t make sense. She’d never even owned any records. And then she paused. Was that right? Didn’t all children and teenagers affiliate with some music as a way of establishing identity? So who did she like? Which songs did she dance to? Pretend to sing to? Which bands did she have crushes on? She lay there, trying to peel back the shutters that held her memories away from her gaze. But it was no use. Not a single melody, lyrics or album sleeve popped into her head.

‘I’m tired. Neurones are not firing, not connecting. It’ll come back. It’s just that stupid book’s fault. All that talk about Slayer!’

Gretchen looked at the book balefully as she ate her poached egg. It was still on the sofa where she’d left it at 3:49. It didn’t belong there, which was annoying her—it’s very presence was upsetting the natural order of things—but she didn’t want to touch it either. Still, reading those 2 pages was useful in as much that it confirmed that this Lezka person was real and if she stuck to just 2 pages per day, then that would fit in to a routine. She could make it fit in.

‘I thought you were taking it back’

‘I don’t know what I’m doing. I need to work first.

‘You said you were going to see the Tea Room Girl. That was the plan.’

‘I know what the plan was’

‘What if Tea Room Girl is Lezka Ivkam?’

‘I know what the fucking plan is!’

Gretchen jolted, eyes snapping open as the coffee slipped in her grasp and sloshed onto the table. She swore and slammed the cup down, wincing as the ceramic shattered and hot liquid splashed over her arm.

At 12:00, she saved the document she was currently editing, locked the screen and swung her legs out from underneath the desk. She’d made her decision.

It was raining and she didn’t want to take too much time away from work, so instead of walking to the village, she waited at the bus-stop. The number 18 was due at 12:41.

She was lucky at the tea-room. The rain had made it an oasis for the tourists, so it’s small room with steamed up windows was packed. Gretchen just managed to snatch a chair at a small table, which had been placed as an after-thought next to the fireplace. The warmth was welcome for about 30 seconds and then she could feel the skin on her face crinkling with the hot dry air. She saw the Tea Room Girl as soon as she’d entered but hadn’t yet decided on the best way to broach the subject. She’d have to do something soon though; she couldn’t stay here all afternoon.

However, the Gods were obviously smiling down on her, because when she went into the hall to find the toilets, she glimpsed Tea Room Girl exiting a side door, presumably for a quick cigarette. Gretchen followed her.

‘The toilets are back in and down the hall’ muttered TRG with an exhalation of smoke, not even looking up from her phone. Unexpectedly, she spoke with an accent but Gretchen couldn’t place it. East European perhaps?

‘No, I wanted to speak with you.’

That got her attention. TRG looked up with a mixture of panic and confusion, a million responses being tested then rejected in her cerebrum. Gretchen decided to forge ahead, taking advantage of momentarily having the upper hand. Not being naturally devious though, she cut to the chase immediately.

‘I was at the gym yesterday. You left this behind.’ And with a flourish, she brought the notebook out of her bag and held it up like a trophy. The rain had stopped now, so she didn’t have to worry about it getting wet and the ink running. The effect was both dramatic and unnerving. TRG went pale in an instant, her hand pressed against her mouth with the cigarette still smouldering away between her fingertips. Her eyes stared with utter horror at the grey cover.

‘No…’ Gretchen heard her moan and started to feel scared herself. What was so wrong with this book? She put it back in her bag and held her hands up to show that she meant no harm.

‘I’m sorry. I just wanted to talk to you about it.’

TRG just shook her head back and forth and Gretchen sensed that her window of opportunity was closing. She decided to place all her cards on the table.

‘I just want to know who wrote it. Can you tell me whose book it is? And then a thought hit her. East European? God, her brain was so slow these days! ‘Are you Lezka Ivkam?’

‘What? I don’t know what you’re talking about. I’ve never seen that book. Leave me alone!’

Gretchen went back to her seat and sat there staring at the leftover crumbs on the porcelain plate. She hated conflict and this encounter had left her feeling shaky. After pushing past her and running back into the building, TRG seemed to have vanished. Gretchen kept replaying the entire conversation over and over again in her head, wondering whether she should have said something different, whether that would have altered the outcome. A voice to the right cut through her musing.

‘1.31’

‘I’m sorry. What?’

‘That’ll be £1.31, Madam. Unless you’d like something else.’

‘Oh no, no. I have to get back to work,’ said Gretchen, searching for her purse, unusually flustered. She found it and handed over the only money she had.

‘I’m sorry. I only have a 20.’

The waiter gave a tight sniff and regarded the note with pursed lips but managed to insist that of course, it wasn’t a problem. Obviously it was a problem, but Gretchen couldn’t process that right now. And there was something else…. Something important that she should make a note of. But, no. Whatever it was, it skipped out of reach. The waiter headed to the till, bumping into TRG who had just emerged from wherever she had hidden herself.

‘Maja, are you OK?’ she heard the waiter ask. ‘You know, you can’t just disappear like that’ Gretchen couldn’t hear her reply but saw her shake her head then head back to the kitchen. She got the feeling that she would stay there all day if needed. This was a fool’s errand. She was wasting her time. Well, maybe it wasn’t a complete waste. At least, she now knew that TRG wasn’t Lezka. Unless she was in hiding or using a code-name. Having to be satisfied with those theories, Gretchen collected her change and left the café.

At the bus stop, an old woman informed her with some Schadenfreude, that she’d just missed the bus and as they only come once an hour, Gretchen had quite a wait ahead of her.

‘They come at 11 minutes past the hour. Or is it 10? I can’t keep up. Bloody council.’

Gretchen clenched her fists and turned away. She’d just walk then. It’d stopped raining so why not? Without any clear idea of direction—what she needed right now was to be as far as from that old woman as possible—she set off, finding herself in the alleyway, which led to a side street, which led to a path alongside a brook.

At the edge of the village, Gretchen arrived at the T-junction whose left turn took you further and higher onto the moorland and heading right would eventually lead you to the nearest city and so-called civilisation. She was about to turn left when she realised that something unusual was happening ahead of her. A commotion, a slight frisson of excitement and purpose. Crossing the main road was not a dangerous manoeuvre—you could see for a mile in each direction, so it was highly unlikely that a car could catch you unawares. However the path ahead of her led its winding way down to an underpass which took you safely underneath the dual carriageway that thundered continuously between this village and the adjacent one. There was a crowd of people and equipment gathered around the entrance to the underpass. Gretchen could recognise lighting and cameras, so, curiosity piqued enough to overcome her usual reticence in speaking to strangers, she asked the small group of spectators what was going on.

‘It’s one of those crime scene reconstructions. It’s going to be on the TV.’

‘What was the crime?’ Gretchen could now see an actor pacing up and down with a coffee cup in her hands.

‘You must have heard about it. It was all over the news!’ exclaimed the nearest person, before his companion butted in excitedly, ‘It’s about that woman. You know, the one that disappeared. Just gone. Went into the underpass and never came out!’