Black Dog

I used to think that the surest way to kill a conversation was to announce "I work in Computing." Panic would grip my respondent and their eyes would dart around the room like a trapped animal.

"Err, I'm just going to get another drink," they might say after hastily draining their glass. They would slope off before latching onto someone (anyone) else.

I was wrong. There were occasions where somebody had a problem that they thought I might be able to help with so we would talk for a while at least.

In my last blog entry I described how Parkinson's was affecting my concentration and how that was making it difficult to do my job. At the time I was hopeful that I would be able to push through those problems and persevere but it hasn't turned out that way. I've been off sick for some time now as we seek a resolution.

I keep busy by doing stuff around the house and garden (you probably would not believe me if you saw our house or garden), writing blogs, making music or playing football. I enjoy them all but it is quite a solitary existence. I guess we all like to talk about our recent experiences when we meet with others. It has taken me a while to realise that there is quite a shallow reservoir of patience for talking about one's solitary pastimes.

I get it. No one asked me to write a blog or make a new tune and the music or reading we enjoy is highly subjective. Conversations are uncomfortable. People are already busy without the prospect of wading through some amateur writing or music. Perhaps they have already read something or listened to something of mine and just didn't like it. Perhaps they even did like it but they have had enough for the time being at least and have given as much feedback as they are comfortable with. I keep doing it because I like it and it helps me but pained expressions and muted responses remind me that I drained the reservoir long ago. But what is writing without a reader or music without a listener?

I use Twitter quite a lot to see if there is any interest in what I do. I have a few profiles reflecting my different interests. I have made what I consider to be good friends there without having met them. I have hundreds of followers but if I post new content there, I know from experience that there will be zero response. Perhaps there are too many producers and not enough consumers in the world.

A few years ago this unimpeachable anonymity would have suited me down to the ground but then I had friends and a social life that brought with it anecdotes that would bring smiles to people's faces as I recounted them. This new me carries with it an odour that hangs in the air, stifling conversation. No wonder I'm not high on anyone's invitation list any more.

And so it falls to my close family and friends to keep me company. But they have their limits too and their patience inevitably wears thin. The last thing I want to do is make my loved ones miserable. I feel hopeless, useless and lost.