A freaky phone call, what's new?

So last night I had a call from a blocked number, now it has to be who I think it is, but their references to my name as "Thomas" and who would say it and why, not to mention that they named different people in my life from different aspects confuses me slightly. The evidence suggests it is just that ugly shelf-butted bitch, but something tells me whoever it was wants me to think that. It's bizarre and bares too much resemblance to something else, something I'll get to shortly.

Begin at the Middle

I feel like I'm documenting a tiny portion of my life, whilst at the same time writing to myself, like I want myself to understand and remember how I felt at certain time and what I felt was significant. It's best to begin at the middle, I'm 20 now and 11 is roughly around the middle. 2004 was a bizarre year, it was the beginning of an era I'd still like to believe I'd live in, but bizarre events preceded it.

Ok, so it was March, I was 12 and I was in a play. There's the context set. So anyway, I was at a rehearsal for Oliver Twist, and the children's rehearsal had just finished, but, because my mother was in the adult section of the play I had to stay behind and wait for her. I'd waited outside with all the other kid's who one by one were picked up sporadically, and then it was just me, alone in the car park, bored and waiting. Suddenly I heard my name called from a distance, I turned and gazed out of the car park and across the road where I saw a slightly plump woman gazing back at me. She called again,
"Thomas!"
No-one used my full name except for close family, and just who the hell was this woman anyway. I turned around to see if there was someone behind me she was calling, and assumed was just a very coincidental mistake.
"Thomas!"
Her eyes hadn't left me.
"Get inside Thomas!"
"Who, me?!"
 I was defiant with my words, confident she was mistaken.
"Yes you, who else?!"
What was going on, just who was this woman and why was she so desperate to tell me to go inside? It's not even as if I wasn't allowed to be outside. I turned around once more to see if there some vein chance of another Thomas being behind me, but to no avail. I turned back and she was gone. I looked at where she had been stood only moments before. How on earth did she run around that house and escape from view so quickly I thought to myself, it surely wasn't possible. I never did find out who she was, but it set the tone for the inexplicably bizarre feel to the year.

I don't even want one

Jobs are impossible to get these days, unless you're an idiot. A good CV gets you absolutely nowehere, but slap a load of trademark lines like these and jobs become readily available:
"I work well as part of a team"
"I'm skilled with my hands"
"I have no GCSE's"
"I love shelves"
Because it seems no-one wants to employ you if you have any aspirations of furthering your career because lets face it, shelves won't stack themselves. Who's skilled with their hands anyway? I'll tell you who, wankers. Wankers are skilled with their hands. And I don't even want a job, I need one, I mean who wants a job? I hate when people announce with great disappointment that their children "don't want a job". Of course they don't, we're only here for 70 odd years, no-one wants to waste 55 of those years working in some mundane, dead-end, soul destroying job. What will I do at the end of my life, sit and reminisce about the time I stacked that shelf in Sainsbury's, or the time I cleaned up that mess. If everyone's gotta do it, and it's paid on merit, sure, why not. But if it's barely enough to live on, and other's are paid more for something half as hard, nah.

What a 24 carat plonker

Wednesday 19th December 2007

It has a degree of irony to it that I remember so vividly the day I forgot everything, well I think it is, it doesn't matter. So, anyway, in the midst of my uprising from a terrible year, I went to John Henry Newman, the school whose astro turf we regularly used, whether they permitted us to or not. Before I got there though, I was at school for the day, which I had begun to enjoy recently, and I had English, but it was in the IT room, and I remember changing my password on my school account. School finished and I made my way home to Berwick, and as I entered through the front door my gaze was stolen as my subconscious ascertained a difference I hadn't realised yet. The carpet had been transformed from white to beige, no real point of significance, not yet anyway.
 Chris knocked at the door and we made our way to Rhys's who agreed to meet us at John Henry Newman. We walked to Sainsbury's which was a mere stone's throw away from JHN, and I purchased some hair dye. It was brown, dark brown, a little too dark, but I'd been ritualistically dying my hair every two weeks to transform it from the absurd colourless blonde it had been previously. The girl at the till smiled as I paid, glanced up, her eyes then met my hair and she commented:
"Why do you dye it, I like that colour."
I thought little of it, I was very stubborn. I liked the colour I was dying it, it didn't matter what any girl at the till said about it, but why not? She was pretty and polite and perhaps she was right.
As the doors opened as a result of our motion, Chris said with an eagerness entrapped in his voice,
"Don't dye your hair, some well fit girl just said your hair was..."
Suddenly I was blurry eyed, confused and bewildered by my surroundings. I could hear my mother's voice, see Christmas lights, and smell disinfectant.
"Where am I?" I pleaded.
"We told you before, you had an accident."
My Mother's reply was clearer than the murmur I heard moments before, but I was convinced I was in a dream, it just had all those cliche qualities of a dream, the blur, the confusion, the strange surroundings. It's not Christmas, but I could make out a tree with tinsel and lights, and hospital beds decorated in a similar manner. I was sure it wasn't Christmas, but I couldn't ascertain or even guess at when it might be. How old was I? Panic overpowered me and I realised I didn't know, and I just kept asking for the date, for what happened, for what was going on. My eye stung.
I took all the information in I was given, and my Mother seemed to be surprised I was able to repeat this information back to her and ask further questions.
"Haven't you forgotten?", she asked, very matter of factly.
"No, why would I have forgotten?"
My Mother smiled and explained that every 30 seconds I had forgotten what I had been told and kept asking the same questions again. It turned out we had got to JHN, Rhys had met us down there, we played football, and Chris had finished his sentence. Unfortunately for me, it had been very dark and very windy, and as we were playing football the goal had collapsed and hit me in the head. It tore my eyelid, robbed me of my memory, and was starting to become vividly painful.
I ventured towards the toilet in the children's ward, and once inside my gaze was stolen for the second time that day. I didn't recognise myself; I was now able to hold information, but I still had to recover it first. I dyed my hair, I now knew that. My eye was almost closed.
I still struggled with memories, the last I knew of it, I was in my English class. I didn't remember the changed carpet, my new password, or the girl at the till. Eventually my memory returned, but from Chris' sentence to the hospital is a permanent blank.
The next morning I had surgery to repair my eye, and a man dressed as Santa came round the beds offering presents. He was disturbed by the state of my eye, and my unusual height that separated me from everyone else in the children's ward. He shook off his novelty voice, lent in and said gently:
"Get well mate."
 I went about seeking information from Chris and Rhys of what happened. I had forgotten everything straight after the accident, I kept asking for the date, and when I was asked what I knew, I would recite the Only Fools and Horses theme tune, and tell them I was a 24 carat plonker. To think, my entire knowledge of my life at one point was sitcom quotes.

P.S. I never remembered the new password on my school account.

The story is incomplete, it's out of context, but for a reason, there's a bigger meaning behind the story, which one day I will get to.

Context

I toyed with the idea of potentially posting stories on this blog, but who for? For me? For someone who maybe accidently stumbles on this page one day and cares enough to read? Anyway, I felt it would help to contextualise what's being written, and I have this irrational fear of losing all my memory, so maybe one day I'll need this to recover my memory, but then how would I know about it? It makes no sense, maybe someone else would know? Well, maybe the fear isn't so irrational, and I think I'll post things in some sort of coherent chronology, but not yet. First I'll explain my fear, that should clear up this at least.

Just About

So I go to John Henry on Tuesday, and the astro turf has been replaced by a swimming pool, there's no squash courts at the gym, nor courts at the tennis place, so off to town me and Chris went to the gym, only to find we'd have to wait an hour, no worries, we'd just go ASDA and play the FIFA 12 demo, nope, there was some man playing a racing game, would be winning the race by some distance, then stop by the finish line, turn around and let all the cars smash into him and pass him by, repeatedly! I assumed he was mental, it was only when I asked him if he was nearly finished did we discover that he was completely sane, just mucking about on the game, and was waiting for his wife to finish shopping. Eventually we got to the gym and played squash, and I felt fine, so there was some hope.

Another Twist

So yesterday was a good win, a much needed win, and unexpected also. A voice from the past warned me of my evil mother's intentions, and, considering I've had to lie my way through everything lately, it wasn't difficult to put on an upset face and record the information I needed. It's difficult, I hate my mother, but she has the house I grew up in, the house I loved, the house she ruined. I want that house, and one day I will get it, I must. So, potentially I have all the evidence I need to prove my innocence in relation to the "harassment" my mother would like to claim I've been giving her, and at the same time she thinks she's won and got one over my Dad. But she's wrong, I was their pawn for so long, why shouldn't I use them in the same manner, my Dad's a conman and my mum's evil, why should I take sides, neither of them care what I'd really like to do. The keylogger I put on their computer before I left is still there, brilliant, it proves I am still capable, 3-2.

I can't lose!

I just won't give up, I just won't, fuck this, I'm sick of this rut, I have to get out of it, it's been far too long, I won't do this any more, I've had enough. I still remember the promise I made myself, I still intend to fufill it, there's no way I can just sit here and allow my life to just fade away into obscurity. I'm still here, stuck inside myself, I'm a shadow of my former self, but I'm still here, I'm still the same me I was when I was 15, and I always will be, I don't want to change, I like that me, it's a good way to be. I've listened to what everyone else thinks I should be doing, and how I should be thinking, and that's it, no more. I live by my own philosophy, I'm not having my actions dictated to me any more. First I have to get healthy again, then fit again, then confident again, but I have to adapt. My world has changed and I cannot ignore that, but I won't allow my life to be complete devoid of the excitement and purpose which once surrounded it, no, that time is over. However unlikely it is, I must win!

Try and sort this one out Tom, go on, I dare ya

Now what, I'm a far cry away from where I sat two years ago, logistically and metaphorically, I have had to leave Berwick, and it's somewhat dramatic irony that I reference it in the earlier blog. Should I start blogging again? Why should I when I'll be looking back on horrible times, on a time when I'm powerless. There's something wrong with me, the chest pains, the palpitations, the lump on the back of my head, these weigh me down and hold me back. Can they really be nothing? Gerrard's the best metaphor I can use, he epitomizes what I feel right now, what I am right now. Pace, passion, pride, determination, glory, the driving force, that's what he was, and he's past it, or passed it, for some reason I keep arguing which one it is, not that it matters. He came so close to the title, so close, agonizingly close, so did I. He was renown for his passionate, never say die attitude, so was I. Are my best days really past me? Lately I watch and hope Gerrard will score an absolute screamer and convince me that you can retrieve what you lost, but week after week it doesn't happen. To think, a 3rd depression, one worse than the 2nd, and leaving Berwick, that's bitter, that still hurts everyday, and then I'm given the advice of those consumed by cynicism who say, "All good things come to an end y'know". Fuck that, I never reached my zenith, and if I did, it wasn't enough, I never won the title, and now it seems I never will, just like Gerrard says, it will be my biggest regret. Hindsight is brilliant though, allows me to see opportunities I never realised I had, things I was close to achieving but didn't realise. It's unreal to think I was nearly relegated, 23rd July and I returned to the house and the door was locked, the key wouldn't open it, and then when I'd finally given up, the door opened, and I knew I had to win every day for the rest of the season to keep my metaphorical status as top flight. And I did, well one was a draw but it was enough. The last day was huge, I showed I still existed somewhere inside this shell, and I was still capable of great things, but since, I've done nothing, again my fears of illness hold me back. I couldn't win the title back in 09/10 and the 7th January was damaging, even though I'd like to think it wasn't, hindsight again. What a great campaign though, my last great campaign, where I took every day individually and attacked it, even if I was terrible away, what does it matter now, I have no home.