I have come to the conclusion that it will be more conducive to my sanity and overall sense of contentment if I never ever take a holiday again.
No more days off. No more long weekends. No more weeks luxuriating in the otherworldliness of not being at work.
No more day trips, no more travelling abroad, no more completing lengthy DIY projects at home.
Just work work work from now on and forever. Ad infinitum without a break, pause or cessation.
I realize this new ethos of mine will be hard on the wife and kids but for the sake of my fragile mental health it must be so.
My reasons are thus:
I am back on an even keel. I’ve re-established that balance of ambivalence, insensitivity and self-delusion that enables one to get up every day and go to work and kid yourself that life is fine and dandy and you can keep this up forever and ever amen.
It wasn’t easy. I had a wobble. I teetered on the slippery edge of the pit of depression. I felt it’s cold, merciless maw sucking at my feet on Tuesday.
I had a lovely day off with my wife on Monday to celebrate our 7th wedding anniversary. We spent the day in Stow. We pottered about without the kids. We had a gorgeous meal at a fabulous eatery (The Talbot for those of you close enough to investigate for yourselves). We found a terrific vintage / antique shop wherein I bought a classic leather jacket that fit me perfectly (I am now waiting for the temperatures to cool again so that I can wear it). The sun shined. We were happy and at peace. We got to thinking that this is how life should be always. It was perfect.
And then I returned to work and the whole happy-shiny facade came tumbling down around me. Reality bit. I tasted dust and ash. I had to turn my face away from the sunshine of freedom and press it back against the iron-pocked grindstone of earning-a-crust.
It nearly destroyed me.
It’s the drop, you see?
The screaming descent from that wonderful carefree high to the brimstone earth’s-core low of back-to-workness.
It’s one hell of a mood swing. And I just don’t think I can cope with them anymore.
If one day can do that to me, imagine what a more lengthy period of holiday will do?
I’ve got 2 weeks off in August! It might just kill me!
So I’ve decided. No more putting myself through that cold hard climb to recovery. No more dragging the comatose corpse of my vital mind back out of the darkness of post-holiday-induced depression.
I’m on a even keel right now. I’ve hauled myself out of the bottomless waters of the ocean onto my fragile little raft. I’m nicely afloat. I’m flat-lining; avoiding the peaks and troughs of fortune and misfortune. I want neither too much wind nor none at all. An eternity of white skies with just a touch of breeze is fine.
No more holidays. No more living life the way it ought to be lived.
It’s a matter of survival.
It’s a matter of staying alive.
Wish me well. Maybe when I retire we could risk a visit to the pub for a celebratory drink?
However, I’m not promising.