Stockholm Syndrome

A few cracks started to appear today. Thin, barely perceptible cracks that I’m not at all worried about, but they’ve knocked my confidence a bit, and I’m starting to regret all that bravado yesterday.

The crazy came from a different direction than I expected. Starz in Their Eyes isn’t annoying me, not at all – I feel a sort of intimacy with it, an intimacy that lets me overlook the song’s flaws and lovingly embrace all that’s beautiful about it. My housemates tell me that these are classic symptoms of Stockholm Syndrome, and that’s true, I suppose: I do empathise with my captor. I feel a strong connection to Just Jack because I spend eight hours a day with his voice in my ear – because I’ve heard more words from him today than I have from my Mum this year. (That’s not a knock on my Mum, by the way. She’s one of my four or five regular readers and I probably shouldn’t discourage her.)

I don’t half resent Just Jack, though, or, if not him, then Starz in Their Eyes, or the whole experience, or everything and everyone. I didn’t start listening until two in the afternoon today, which meant an end-time of around 10pm. Fine, I thought, I can handle that. But at around mid-afternoon I started to feel a bit drowsy – whether from reading about the editorial difficulties of the three Hamlet texts or from the inevitable hypnotic effect of listening to one velvety voice all day, I don’t know. The upshot was that my housemate caught me napping and told me that this was cheating, and that if I didn’t replay what I’d missed then he’d comment on the blog telling everyone.

I have plans tonight. Real, actual plans, with people, rather than a disembodied voice. I don’t want to listen to Just Jack while I socialise, mostly because it’s pretty rude but also because my friends say that when I’m listening to the song and don’t think anyone’s watching, I glaze over a bit, do a funny little half-dance and mutter the words to myself. This isn’t something I know I’m doing. So I’m either going to have to show the world this version of myself, this antisocial, unwashed (because a shower takes away precious listening time) bleary-eyed version of myself, or cancel my plans.

But – and this is probably the most disquieting part of it – I still don’t hate Jack, even though he is, right now, actively detrimental to my relationships. I hate myself. I hate myself like a housewife whose husband snaps at her when she overcooks the macaroni cheese again. This isn’t Stockholm Syndrome, it’s a (very much verbally) abusive relationship, and if that’s a bit of a dark note to end it on then at least you have an understanding of my mental state right now.