Stim

I remember the day I first learned how few of us could live in a world without civilisation. I was fifteen at the time, listening to my biology teacher talk about things that had nothing to do with our exams. Without farming, he’d said, the number of people in the UK would be unsettlingly low – fewer than in a small city, more than in a large town. There would be about as many people as seals, because we were more or less the same size. And I remember feeling disconcerted by that, like I’d never thought of a seal as the same kind of creature as me.

I take out a notebook and write down all the things that made me sad yesterday:

– The glimpse of a stranger’s shoes.
– Imagining love lost.
– An unreturned message.
– The inertia of January.
– Having to leave the house and go out into the cold.
– A lost book.
– A half-remembered line of poetry.
– Catching sight of a photograph of my children when they were small and knowing that stage of their life is gone.
– Not being able to imagine the future.
– Watching a politician give non-replies on the television.
– Reading a friend’s tweet.

Meanwhile, the world outside goes on.

I think I have only ever felt four emotions: the good feeling, the bad feeling, the neutral one and fear.
The good feeling happens when I am absorbed in something outside myself. I get it when I’m writing, reading or baking a cake. It washes over me when I’m in the company of someone I don’t need to work hard with. I get it when I look at pink things. The good feeling is pink. It is a pink cashmere cardigan. It is candyfloss. It is blonde hair that has been dyed the softest shade of rose. I love the good pink feeling.
The bad feeling comes in from nowhere, like a sudden storm. It sits heavy on my chest and it is all kinds of wrong. It makes me feel the world is wrong. That I am wrong. That there is so much wrongness that things will never be right again.
Fear is more like fog. It surrounds me and makes it impossible to see a way forward. It paralyses me, like a rabbit seeing a fox across the field. You can’t outrun fear. When it has you gripped, you have to sit still until it moves on.
Neutral is my second most favourite feeling. There is nothing bad about it. My husband – who likes life to be big and loud and exciting, full of new sights and tastes and sounds and experiences – calls the neutral place ‘living in the grey’. He cannot understand what it is like to be me and not feel excitement. He is older now and his need to chase highs has diminished, but he still has such capacity for joy.
If I had to pick one feeling to live with all the time, it would probably be the neutral one. It is comfortable. It is a warm bath or tea and toast in front of the AGA. It isn’t exciting, but it is reassuring and safe.