Wednesday, 10 July 2013


My life right now is beige. Nobody loves or hates beige, it's just one of those colours nobody much thinks about until they reach their sixties and get all conformist and dress in varies shades of the colour. I'm being pushed towards that eventuality forty years too bloody early. Not in the sense that people make me dress in a way that would camouflage me against the walls of a new build, but in the sense that I'm in an endless beige  tunnel with no apparent light at the end. Beige is, well, beige. It's fine, it's safe, it's inoffensive, it's not thrilling, it's not exciting, it's not interesting. Beige just isn't me. I think I'm maybe the colour at the centre of a flame.

I've gone backwards over the last few weeks; the beige is starting to choke and drown me and I feel like everything that makes me, well, me is being smothered out of me by this achingly beige existence. I knew I had gone backwards this fortnight, and when my psychiatrist brought in up in my ward round yesterday, it sort of made me relieved. I'm not one to shout and scream when I'm struggling. In fact, I'm far more likely to sit in a corner, rocking, if we're really going to use mental health stereotypes. But anyway, it's taken them a long time, given I've been here five months now, but maybe they're finally working out that I'm a bloody great actress, and when I'm too tired to fake being perky, I just hide myself away, rather than let other people see me as I am. I'm tired and I'm bored.

Being bored sounds pathetic, but you really don't know boredom though until you're living in a place where every day is planned out by somebody other than yourself, every day the same- the same routine, the same scheduled smokes, the same people, even the same arguments and drama. That's nothing against the women I'm here with, I love my girls. But it's just the life, the lack of spontaneity and freedom. I know education sometimes feels like that, but it just doesn't compare. Here, there are no adventures- planned or not- or even impromptu trips out, to celebrate a sunny day or life in general. There's no suddenly deciding to go out- leave you've been allowed must be set out at the start of the day- even if just to the corner shop for a paper. There's just no flicker of excitement and no way to create it.

Having no way to channel my usual need for constant movement is making me fixate on various ways to hurt myself, as if that would create excitement. I'm not going to, don't worry; it wouldn't do as I think, in my darkest hours, I know, but it would be something just a little bit... different, I suppose. It's a terrible way to think and it's making my eating suffer, too. God, I just need a holiday from the beige. Even just a bit of yellow.

(Sorry this is so whingy, I'm just proper struggling right now).


  1. It's okay to struggle Rebecca... I go through my days where I am feeling so much pain I just want to cover it with anything...

    I am not beige at all... nor would I ever want to be... I am going to be 50 in less then two weeks... I don't plan to ever wear beige:)

  2. I understand the need for some outside excitement stirring up your life and creating some color. It is a lot easier than creating your own, especially when confined.

  3. Perhaps think about it differently. Beige, the colour of recovery. The colour of sacrifice and boredom, perhaps, but also the colour that keeps me alive and rational and thinking that maybe tomorrow won't be do bad.

    And when you're healthy enough and you're back to being a glowing ember, the colour you can go back to to make sure you stay in recovery; a comfort almost.

    And when you're 56 and deciding which beige cardigan you're going to wear, it can be the colour you look at and think, 'I did it, I fucking survived.'

    You are glorious Rebecca but perhaps sometimes we all just need to be a bit beige.