What Even Is Harmony

The week after I went to the doctors—and spent the morning with my book in the beer garden—I’d tried to get my sleep back in order knowing there were no appointments or calls on my time demanding I struggle through tiredness. It worked, to a certain degree. It was Tuesday I’d woken around 4am, a manageable hour especially with the determination I’d gained, and saw myself through the dawn with the realisations I’d found the evening before. My rearranged living space had taken on some order after I returned from the early morning pub, with prospects of a new, second-hand armchair from Pete distracting me from my texting of Marta. It was almost two years without contact.

Tuesday afternoon, loosened with alcohol, I’d merrily washed, hoovered, wiped and dusted all through my home. Every cupboard was addressed with thoroughness, every surface disinfected, all corners swept for cobwebs. It wasn’t so much cleaning my small bungalow as it was clearing out the cruft accumulated in my thoughts from years of inattention. With each organised cubby hole, every batch of clean clothes—most not fitting me—rehung in my wardrobes I felt my body attune more and more to the possibility of a fresh start.

During my seven or eight weeks at the day hospital I’d tried to do this but, looking at the handprints left in the grime on the window frames I could tell that while there was energy and determination behind the cleaning, my ability to work with concentration and closeness to detail was far away. Clearing the marks left from the lacking probes of my wipe-holding fingers I saw how my ambition at the time was intent but the method in my efforts, the hold I had on my energetic attempts, was lacking. I’d vividly felt direction in my life but any homeward pointing needle had been madly dancing with insanity’s magnetism.

Knowledge of that time, of my life’s fractious drive was part of my recall even though every attempt to examine those memories was as though I viewed them through closed shutters. I knew I’d tried to make good on the episode of psychosis I was, at the time, laying behind me but my ability to achieve such a goal was low. Those still-born recollections of a disordered clamouring for health weren’t clear in my mind, more present as an impression in my thoughts, so seeing evidence of what I had done laid in the cleanliness, or lack of it, was a physical indicator to highlight how far I’d come. I was renewed and the attention in my cleaning was evidence. Time had brought me to a clarity a year on. I was changing my world, and reconnecting with the parts of it that had, at one time, proved valuable if then difficult. That day I felt bathed in a crystal clear pool, refreshed and urgent, and a life of simplicity, and to-the-point satisfaction had been met at a horizon I’d somehow passed over.

As I cleaned, remembering the half-thoughts I still held of that time, there was a rising urge to dwell on, to inspect my actions from then. Instead I worked harder and faster. With each swipe of a cloth I wiped away the parts of me that lacked consideration and detail.

I didn’t realise that day, until I lay in my bed, that I was trying to clear away the worries that were building over my texting of Marta. She hadn’t responded by the time I was ready for sleep and despite being tired, despite my arms, legs and back aching, I couldn’t find anything to draw me to rest. Beneath the sheets of my bed I squirmed and itched.

At first I thought it was that I hadn’t changed the sheets, waiting as I was for a full day to get them hanging and dried in the fresh air. Then I thought it was the sweat I hadn’t showered off.1 I tried to burrow into my bed, into my body, telling myself more cleaning would follow the next day, along with the washing of sheets, and I would shower off, put on fresh pyjamas, and recover myself entirely renewed the next night.

I spent hours squirming in that bed, coming close to sleep at points but my thoughts would always realign with my consciousness giving me something pointed and hard to worry on. I began to scratch at my arms, my legs, my stomach. I felt a layer of grit surround me as though I was sleeping on flattened, tilled soil.

After two hours of trying to convince myself sleep was close, and knowing it wasn’t, I eventually gave in. I desperately hoped hot water would tire me. That a shower would cleanse me of my clinging mental dirt. I went to the bathroom and stripped. The shower began to steam the room and thoughts of me standing naked, water streaming over me, hair wet and taking hours to dry, held me back. It would be a commitment to a night of waiting, with no hair drier, a night awake when I desperately needed sleep.

I sat on the bathtub, undressed, for what felt like an age but I know my decision was quick—it was the night I’d spent already that was long. Really it was a giving in. A necessary adjustment in approach to my situation but still a failure in living a regular-health life. I took a loofah, and wetting it, began to wash myself over sitting next to the falling water from the shower.

At first I felt hesitant putting what I expected to be cold, somehow thin water against my skin. As I slowly doused my body I grew further and further into the ritual of what I was doing. An ablution, a cleansing, whatever it was I couldn’t get clean enough. The loose heat of the water slopped through the loofah was a relief on my body however it was only temporary. As soon as I moved it beneath the shower, to clear it of washed away dirt and sweat, I felt my skin’s clawing return. I was surrounded by a thick grime growing on me, dancing, crawling wherever I didn’t look at myself.

Catching myself in the mirror, seeing my body dimpled, stretch-marked and raw, I could see how this was a barely acceptable, medicalised, almost hospital routine. It was for those who couldn’t manage themselves.

I stopped what I was doing. I stood in the room—door left back knowing it was a way of saying my entire house was mine and unwatched—and felt myself both hot and cold: a rolling density of warm moisture in the air and a chill in my being. A second skin of fear surrounded me.2 I walked through the door to the bathroom and soon the cool breeze of the hallway—and me walking between it, my bedroom and the kitchen—had me mostly dried. I felt a little cleaner, as I paced contemplating all the ways I was outside the regularities of normal behaviour.

Lying back in bed I felt soddenness on the pillow despite not washing my hair. I clutched onto a clump that fell around my shoulders expecting it to be damp, feeling it as damp but I was just feeling my hands still slick from the bathroom.3

I lay back thinking on how I would properly wash myself after I cleaned more the next day, then my mind turned to dreams of a holiday, spa-days and bathhouses, and soon I came to real dreams as I drifted off distracting myself from the realities I had made for myself.

It was my phone chiming that woke me the next morning, or at least I felt it was morning. I woke sharp and clear as though I had taken only the necessary amount of sleep and my phone was the gentle nose of a pet awakening me. If I had slept too long I would be hot and clammy and my mind would be slow and thick. Turning towards my mobile I knew Marta had responded to me. I smiled as I lifted it above my face and opened the lock. Going into my messages I wondered how many coffees we’d have when we met. Two, at least, maybe three, even four was a possibility. If we stretched it to three there’d be cake and I’d be so satisfied from the simple meeting of a true friend that I’d forego drinking that day, with half-known acquaintances, I might forego it for a whole week, potentially even two.

I slid back my messages and saw the notification from my network. My plan was up and due for re-billing.

My first instinct was to watch my feelings, my own thoughts. It was a separated looking at myself as though to observe my reaction to such disappointment, although I didn’t come to think about how it may have been detachment to keep me from feeling my deep sadness at the loss of a friend. What I saw of myself was someone who didn’t care.

At some point I remembered it had been twenty-four hours since I’d texted, with Marta normally responding within an hour or two, but I knew there was still time. I knew her life may have changed. I knew I wasn’t abandoned.

Deciding to make the most of my day, and convincing myself I wasn’t waking so as not to miss another text, I got out of bed in that instant.

I looked at my phone again almost willing myself to have missed a second text. It was a quarter past two. My early day was no such thing. I had slept through the entire morning and almost half of the afternoon.

The strangest element of the beginning of that day, late as it was, was that I didn’t go straight to the kettle to put on a coffee. I didn’t even have a cigarette; standing outside the front door hoping no-one saw me mussed up and sleep-racked. Instead I went straight to my living room, where the couch was still standing upright against the wall, and began to deconstruct it.

All I had were a few small tools, especially the small screwdriver with changeable heads from my computer-repair kit. At first I was hesitant, not wanting to damage the wood frame of the couch. I stopped after every screw, inspected my work, then checked on my phone. As time went on I would stand from my crouch, muscles releasing, and go to look at the phone, but not to check messages instead I forced myself only to check it was charging. Eventually I was so caught up in taking apart the couch, so I could move it on elsewhere, or dispose of it slowly with my bin collections, that the world tunnelled around me and I lost track of any sense of self (I was incredibly sweaty,) any noise from the outside world, or the silence or not of any calls.

When I had finished, planks of wood haphazardly resting against my desk I stood and stretched feeling every pressure-position ache in my back and knees. I looked at my phone and saw no message had come. I dropped it on the cushions I had taken from the couch and turned to look at the struts, armrest and slats I had taken apart. I expected my work to be neat and tidy, my control to be precise and so the evidence of it the same, but instead saw gouges around most screw-holes, and a disordered stack of wood half falling from its resting place leaning on my desk. I felt sweat slide down my back, arms, legs and noticed the salt from it sting against my finger as I rubbed my hands. Inspecting the pain I saw numerous small strips of skin tearing away. Ignoring the sear of discomfort I returned to my cleaning more frantically than ever.

Again, that night, I lay in bed realising I hadn’t showered, or washed the bedclothes. I had been active until almost eleven pm when the dark of the night was just established. I told myself if sleep didn’t come I would stand beneath the shower-head, for as long as I could manage, and let the hot water wash away all the aches and pains twisting as my limbs and joints. Yet, it was the aches and pains and feelings of achievement that were the lullaby that brought me to sleep. The soreness singing in my muscles spoke to me of how hard I’d worked. Dreams came easily.

Waking again the next morning I immediately thought on my phone but refused to look at it. It was a deep slumber I’d fallen to and I felt it still hanging over me. Walking towards my computer to start it as I readied for my day I saw the coffee cup I had abandoned the previous evening during my cleaning. It was half filled, meaning one cup of instant couldn’t hold my attention such was my dedication to occupying myself. I wondered if it was that or the activity that saw me so easily to sleep.

Sitting down with the new mug I made for myself I heard my phone bleep. All parts of me would like to think I was calm and reserved, for the possibility of a casual meeting with a friend if not in facing up to the possibility of disappointment, but I more-or-less leaped for the phone.

Unlocking the screen I felt a swing of emotion and thought, wondering if it was Marta responding while calmly telling myself—to stave off another failed hope—that it was just another automated message. I felt sick.

I held myself in contemplation thinking on what I would do with my day if it wasn’t Marta wanting to meet up later on. My house was cleaner than it had been since the first few weeks after I moved in. The couch was disassembled and the space ready for my coming armchair. My hopes were riding on finding activity to keep my burst of energy—and distraction—sustained and there was more excitement in bringing that energy to an hour with a friend over coffee than there was to, maybe, scrubbing the mildew out from the grout in the bathroom or continuing, in solitude, my attempts to type up my journals.

I opened the text up. I saw Marta’s name.

— It’s so good to hear from you. I’m free at the weekend if you want coffee. Let me know what time. Saturday is good.

Saturday, sometime, was when I was expecting the armchair. Without thinking I texted her back saying I was having some furniture delivered over the weekend but maybe another time, over the following days, or maybe the next weekend, or something could be better suit us both.

Again I watched my feelings having sent the text but my mind instead turned towards Pete delivering the armchair. If he came Saturday morning I might be able to meet Marta that afternoon, if she was free, and on Sunday I could visit my family and tell them about the new working space I’d arranged for myself.

With possibility infecting me I, first, organised all my books in the order I’d want them on the bookshelf I was going to get, then began to type up my journals.

Friday I spent mostly in a state of anticipation. At the time I didn’t realise it couldn’t last.

Saturday morning the anticipation had worn off, leaving me only with anxiety for when Pete would arrive, and if my plans with my mother would have to be postponed the next day. Sneaking into my thoughts was the formation of a new worry, old and storied in its regularity to me, that Marta hadn’t responded to my text. That no new conversation had started. That there was no rekindling of even an offhand friendship.

Sitting on a cushion on the floor as the afternoon progressed I felt increasingly hollowed out. I wondered what I’d say to Pete when he arrived with the armchair, if he’d even come that afternoon or whether he had to push it to the next day. If he’d come at all. I worried that the connection we formed in the pub wasn’t anything more than simple chat and I was expecting more from the people around me than I’d ever give them myself. I worried that I gave into my hopes too quickly, and then I worried that I gave over to my skewed thoughts too easily.

I hesitated from cooking my lunch should Pete be at my door midway through, and even from going to the bathroom should I not hear his knocking—and if I did I couldn’t respond quickly enough. Thinking of the doorbell that wasn’t working and how he wouldn’t know I left the front door opened back, then I closed it again when it appeared as though I was opening myself to the passers-by on the street.

By the time the wizening of the evening was approaching I had resigned myself to simply refreshing the same web pages, over and over. I had almost given up and was worrying about how I’d get to sleep when I lay down, mulling over another day of anticipation, when Pete did arrive.

He was gone again moments later, my new-old armchair sitting in its spot. I didn’t know what I was expecting, what kind of social moment, but it certainly wasn’t the quick formality of him saying hello, asking where it should go, then unloading the chair from a van, before departing without me offering him a tea or coffee, just my ineffectual thanks.

I didn’t sit in the chair. I was afraid of it losing its fresh appeal, and I just wanted to bask in my admiration for a wholly-my-own piece of furniture, so instead I sat at my desk occasionally turning to be surprised at the small creation I’d made of my relaxing new room.

It was far from relaxing. I was far from relaxed. The energy I’d felt throughout the day, despite being a nervous energy, had departed me. I texted my mother to say I was too gassed to meet her that Sunday, to which she just responded — ok

Finally sitting in the armchair on the following Monday I realised I’d never suggested a specific new time to meet up with Marta.

I told myself I’d text her before the next weekend, when she was free from work, and ask about another Saturday afternoon date.

As the week progressed I tried to continue on with the same forthrightness in my life that had been there the previous week. I thought on waking early and going to the early morning pub to maybe run into Pete, then told myself this was desperate. Instead I slept every day until after two.

By the end of the week I was still in the clothes I was wearing on the Monday. I was telling myself—trying to convince myself—a walk would help clear my thoughts, but they were too saturated by the nothing, empty situation I was trying to fill my days with. A nothing, empty situation where I couldn’t tell what I’d done with the hours, only wonder if I had ever been productive in anything, or if I would be again. I yearned for it again.

The weekend passed and I still hadn’t texted Marta. I knew it was me wanting to return to her life and it meant nothing to her. That it was up to me to make the effort but I could barely make the effort to rise before noon.

Two weeks passed and I finally managed a walk but it was a short walk, with me out of breath fifteen feet into the first hill, so I turned for flat ground and sat on a bench for an entire three minutes before giving up and returning home.

After a month my new room became tired and familiar again. Thoughts of Marta were more an annoying prick on my days I had to dismiss. Then yet more months passed as my life rounded out to the same empty routine.

Index - Moment 8