I am part of a circle. It is a bit of a straggly circle outlined by professional stragglers — the kind of people who get left behind or forgotten or both. There are three types of Stragglers: there are the Slow Runners, the people who try their best but never win, no matter what they do; then there are the Resigned, the ones who have realised their fate, had a marvellous moment of revelation that if we don’t do something then we’re going to die; and finally there are the Quitters. I don’t think I need to expand on them.

What am I? Well I was a Resigned, then I became a Slow Runner. It has recently struck me that just being a part of this circle means nothing. It’s all talk. But talk is how we express ourselves. We need to talk to become healthy. Looking at us you would think we had sewn our mouths shut — if talking was healthy, then why do we look like zombies? Brain-dead shells that need our deadly fix to live. The irony leaves a bitter taste in my mouth. It tastes like almonds. The kind they give out at weddings and christenings, you see them dotted across the tables, all sugar-coated and colourful, then you bite into them, eagerly, only to find yourself chewing over the personification of disappointment. No melting chocolate greets your tongue, no caramel washes down your throat — just disappointment.

I get hefty doses of disappointment here in the Straggler’s Circle. In the beginning, it was the sinking feeling that, the moment I got out, I would find myself headed to a dark corner store for a new bottle of medicine. This circle radiated a different kind of poison: boredom. It wrapped its slimy tentacles around my brain and squeezed the capillaries closed, cutting off my oxygen.

I was pulled into the circle by the magnetic force of its leaflets — and the threat of requiring a liver transplant — with the hope that some mystical, exotic Witch Doctor would breathe a lungful of fresh air into me and stimulate long-forgotten grey matter into action. I imagined I would suddenly feel wide awake and free, as if the whole thing was a trance. I saw myself dancing down the street and, in a fit of wakefulness, buying a new house and applying for good jobs. Of course, the Witch Doctor turned out to be a charitable I-Survived-Heroin do-gooder. His breath, by comparison to my fantasy, was about as fresh as a mummy. If anything, it killed whatever neurones I had left.

Despite my new-found acquaintance with a member of the Ancient Egyptian civilisation, I still found myself power-walking down the two streets from my crappy little flat to the Church — or, as I like to call it, the Hearse. The building itself has a large clunky door with nails around the outside, as if they just can’t wait to get their hands on a fresh one. Their cement garden is coming along nicely; each bloom sprouting awkwardly from the soil, adorned with names. We are nothing more than seeds to be planted — sacrificed in the name of some 2,000 year old dead guy.

Unless you’re lucky enough to become the new Mister I-Survived-Heroine. I could probably recite you his biography better than my own. My story has blank chapters and scribbled out names coursing through its pages. Mister I-Survived-Heroine, on the other hand, has a complete trilogy with at least five re-releases and a sitcom; on which, I am one of the Star Guests. When the credits roll, at the end of each week’s instalment, I am probably listed as InMemoryOf. I guess that’s the disadvantage of these meetings: they’re all anonymous. Nobody meets up for coffee (coffee’s too weak for our tastes) and nobody exchanges numbers in the hopes of hearing more about each others’ enthralling lives. They’re like flash fictions that we’ve read again and again every week for two years — the excitement starts to wear off after about week one.

You wouldn’t believe it, would you? Hollywood has probably taught you that hiding amongst the addicts and homeless there’s an exciting plot just waiting to be picked up from between the dirty syringes and empty bottles, and unravelled in your greedy hands. Sorry to disappoint but we’re all just a shabby collection of losers: runaways, alcoholics, immigrants — collect the full set and you get a free soup kitchen!

Surprise, surprise: circle time doesn’t help. It’s shit. Maybe it does with other leaders, maybe my fantastical Witch Doctor is out there in a different Church, breathing life into other people. I guess I’ll never know. Because I don’t care anymore. Who am I doing this for in the first place? My parents are disgusted at my fall from grace, my sister claims she knew this would happen (hey, a heads up would’ve been great!), and I’ve no soulmate to speak of. I had a cat once, it was a stray but I liked it enough. At least until it buggered off when it realised it could get better free meals elsewhere.

My point is: nobody cares. I don’t care. They don’t care. The only thing that will one hundred percent fix my problem is if I drink myself into a coma and, if my plan works, nobody will find me and I’ll soon be planted into the rich soil and allowed to grow into another monstrous cement flower. Maybe my name will be written across the centre, perhaps — at a push — “Beloved sister and daughter” will be scrawled underneath as a half-hearted apology. The Straggler’s Circle will see my empty chair, think “Oh poor, InMemoryOf”, and get on with their own pathetic lives. The circle cannot be escaped. And so I may as well go while I’ve got enough spare change to afford something at least half-decent. Classy.

So there we are, you have witnessed the (brief) explanation of what I’m about to do. I don’t care if you don’t agree — you’ve found me too late to do anything except plant me. Reading back over this, I realise I should revise my earlier statement: There are three stages of being a Straggler: the Resigned, the Slow Runner, and, finally, the Quitter. I alone am the sole witness to my transformation. I haven’t sprouted wings or become a beautiful swan, I’ve become something better: free.

– InMemoryOf 

 

Photograph: Heather Lukins