As well as feeding off the therapeutic qualities of offloading my epiphanies, I try use these daily narratives as a diary. A literary journal of this current existential rollercoaster ride; an unwanted journey that I sometimes wish I’d failed the height restriction meaning I’d have been stopped from climbing aboard.
To be clear, I don’t expect never to have things go wrong for my family or me. In fact, I find nothing more annoying than self-entitled people who deem that they should never be inconvenienced. Members of a seemingly ever burgeoning club that are selfish, bereft of positivity; perpetrators of toxic thought and deed.
Living for over a year with two close family members who’re afflicted with incurable illness is emotionally challenging, That being said, I fully accept this ride as part of life, acknowledging that over the last 12 months the rollercoaster has given many peaks as well as the odious troughs.
There have been many situations where our outlet in chez Strachan’s senior and junior has been laughter. Occasions ordinarily provided by my mother or I in an attempt to lighten the darker times. It certainly isn’t a case that the scene played out is one of constant sorrow and a maudlin demeanour.
I pen these diary entries to record this journey, offload thoughts light hearted and bestowing an understanding how we approach handling the turgid moments. I’d like to think on some level my prose maybe aid people dealing similar situations.
I’ll openly acknowledge I’m no Samuel Pepys or Anne Frank. I think of myself more like a fictional diarist such as Bridget Jones, although without the big knickers and lusting for Hugh Grant. Or even Adrian Mole (aged 11 & 3/4), only with lower testicles and less spots.
I’m currently working on a draft of A Diary of Gary Strachan (aged 54 & a half). However, as I’m procrastinating with said project, it’s more likely to have the published title of A Diary of Gary Strachan (aged 66 & a half). Or possibly A Diary of Gary Strachan (via a medium).
Although, to be honest, having my diary published isn’t my literary priority; the current objective of this project is for my own self-care. Getting my epiphanies and troubles off my chest, along with recording happier memories, are on occasion the only outlet on this emotionally challenging segment of my life….. Apart from perhaps my mater’s penchant for lightening the atmos with one of her off the wall quips that never cease to raise a smile.
On a different note, in addition to today’s distraction of my daily penmanship, I’ve occupied myself by commencing autumnal garden maintenance this afternoon. As a result our spring bulbs have been planted, the spent bedding plants have been put to bed (well the garden recycle bin) and numerous climbing plants have had a much needed haircut.
The coiffuring of the Russian vine and jasmine trailing plants was thankfully more skilfully undertaken than when I cut my dad’s hair a few weeks back. Although in my defence cutting his hair with a hedge strimmer takes altogether more forensic precision than what’s required for horticultural creepers.
