Castles

"If I don`t write to empty my mind, I go mad." - Lord Byron





I feel far less bonkers today, which is good because I scared my grandad.

I was going to tell you about the antique chair we just bought for the living room, he emailed me half an hour after I posted, but I don`t think I should now. I`m worried it`ll tip you over the edge.

Worse: mum has yet to respond to my tirade against her sugar bowl, but I`m already feeling guilty. I feel I`ve repressed her ability to talk about it - or the matching cream jug - and I`m therefore a horrible and selfish daughter, as well as a mad one. She should be able to talk about any sugar bowl she has as much as she wants without me screaming stop talking about sugar bowls! I don`t care about sugar bowls! into the webcam, and then bursting into tears.

The irony is, of course, that I got out of bed at 2am last night in a fever of tossing and turning and sweating anxiety to write about how crazy I was becoming, and when the confession was made I fell straight into the deepest, calmest sleep I`ve had for weeks. It was a Catch 22: convinced that I was mad I refused to write for fear that the world would know it, and unable to write I got even crazier. And then I realised that in the two years since I started this blog I`ve been in every mental state under the sun, and a little bit of bonkers wasn`t going to bother anybody: or, for that matter, surprise anybody either. So maybe I should try and write my way out of the craziness, because it`s the only way I ever seem to get out of anything.

A reader suggested this morning that the route to happiness (and therefore, by implication, out of craziness) is being at home, surrounded by a constant, supportive circle of friends and loved ones. They`re totally right, of course. I know enough about life to understand that genuine contentment comes from loving and being loved: of feeling settled, and building a solid life around you that doesn`t fall down with one shake. I know from the way I feel when I`m with my family, and with the friends who genuinely adore me (and don`t wrestle on me naked while unconscious), that this is the ultimate goal. And, frankly, in my head, I`ve often compared my life to the metaphorical equivalent of Disneyland: pretty, exciting, but totally empty and devoid of any meaning. It`s like contrasting the Tower of London to Cinderella`s castle: I can create as many turretts and flags and stained glass windows as I like, but it`s not really a palace and there`s nobody living in it so I`m fooling nobody, and even I don`t care much if it burns to the ground. So of course I know that happiness - the kind of happiness that lasts - means leaving my made-up kingdom and starting, very very slowly and with a lot of hard work, to create something real. A world that actually means something, instead of just looking nice on the outside and entertaining for about three minutes.

But it`s not that simple for me. The desire to run away - to flip my life over - is still there when I`m home and loved: my craziness and hunger for the world still reers its ugly head. Sugar bowls scare me, because they`re sugar bowls. Sofas, mortgages, paint for the living room walls: they all terrify me, still. I`m not at the stage yet where I have learnt how to quieten down my fear of staying in one place, or of caring too much, or of promising anything to anyone. And my rented fairytale castle might be fake and lonely and empty, but I can`t build a real one until I`m ready. Until I have all the bricks, and I know what it looks like, and where it is, and who is in it. Until I have the energy and the desire to give myself to it properly. I can`t give up my fake plastic life for a real one until I find the one I`m looking for and know that it`s right.

Plus, let`s be totally honest: my CV is not exactly a shining example of employability, in that it works backwards. I started with responsibility and gradually decreased it to nothing: my return to the UK is going to herald the doll queue and serving drinks for the rest of my life. It`s not a prospect I feel any desire to rush home for.

Essentially, I`ve been waiting my whole life for the point where the balance tips: where staying and building means more to me than the freedom to run, and the desire for genuine happiness outweighs my hunger to see the world and live as I want to. And I`m not there yet: not quite. I`m damn close, though - my Tower of London gets clearer every day, and my desire to start living there increases - which is why my craziness is getting more painful: the internal voice calling me home gets louder and louder, while the voice calling me away fights harder.

But I`m not there yet. And until I`ve seen enough, and collected enough bricks, I know that I can`t start building. There`s a difference, after all, between settling down and just settling, and if I do the latter the castle I build will be no more real than the one I live in now. And it will give me no more happiness.

I know the life I want, and I know where I`m going: every day I know more about the life I`m heading towards. I know that it has a career I love in it, and people I love: a partner I love, a home I love, and children I love to match the family I already adore. And I know that it won`t involve running.

But until the time comes and the balance tips, all I can do is try and make this plastic castle life as pretty and as interesting as I can: as full of as many turretts and stained glass windows and flags as I can get my hands on. Keep moving, and collecting, and living, and understanding, and exploring, and - quite possibly - crying, until I know what my real life will look like.

And - writing - alleviate the madness.