2015’s First Chapter.

First, I’ll respond to the messages I have received since my last post. I’m still here. Thank you for your concern, but I’m alive and kicking. The last few months have been interesting. Over the Christmas period I became so down and numb that my boss contacted my parents who in turn, contacted my doctor. In being so busy with work I had neglected to keep on top of my medication and now, I’m on double the dose.
However.
The problems I’ve been having regarding access to my child seem to have calmed down significantly. It’s a lot easier now and I’ll be honest, it has taken a massive load off my shoulders. My second year with the Open University has started so I now have something to work to. I’ve also started attending training courses even slightly related to the degree. Yesterday I took a suicide awareness class and somehow managed to not end up a specimen under the scrutiny of the other attendees who were social support workers of one kind or another.
I met somebody. Or rather, plucked up the courage to contact the One That Got Away. We’ve been together for two months now. I had forgotten what it is like to be happy.

I like it.

Christmas Is Coming.

I hate this time of year. The air is thick with tension as everyone works their proverbial off to shower their loved ones with material possessions because the corporations say so. I’m a department head for a High Street retailer, I oversee the printing and shipping departments. I also play a major part in production. For the last week and the next four, I’ll be working 12 hour shifts, seven days a week. I have no social life, I have no significant other. I’ll be making my employer tens of thousands of pounds, driving myself to exhaustion and inevitably making myself ill for the sake of one day that has little meaning to anyone anymore.

All with a smile on my face because nobody can be unhappy at Christmas.

What do I have to do to tell people that I’m hurting? That I play the clown because otherwise I would disappear into the background? I put a lot of effort into making people feel better by clowning around or playing counselor. Will I ever meet someone who can see past it all, take me by the hand and say “You’re important.”

“Normal Anxiety” Versus Generalised Anxiety Disorder

Chronic Illness Cat

summarised and presented by 

“Normal Anxiety” Versus Generalised Anxiety Disorder

The difference between “normal” worrying and generalized anxiety disorder is that the worrying involved in GAD is excessive, intrusive, persistent and debilitating. With normal anxiety:

1.Your worrying doesn’t get in the way of your daily activities and responsibilities.
2. You’re able to control your worrying.
3. Your worries, while unpleasant, don’t cause significant distress.
4. Your worries are limited to a specific, small number of realistic concerns.
5. Your bouts of worrying last for only a short time period.

However, with Generalised Anxiety Disorder
1. Your worrying significantly disrupts your job, activities, or social life.
2. Your worrying is uncontrollable.
3. Your worries are extremely upsetting and stressful.
4. You worry about all sorts of things, and tend to expect the worst.
5. You’ve been worrying almost every day for at least six months.
Most people with GAD…

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Not now, not in the near future. Eventually.

Nobody I know is aware of the 30 year thing. I haven’t told a soul. I wish I could but… there’s the guilt. I can’t tell them that when I die, it will be by my hand. I can’t tell them that while I appreciate everything they have done for me (and I do, I feel I owe them an enormous debt), that I plan to kill myself eventually. Maybe they would think I was ungrateful or that I didn’t care. Of course I care, about them and how they feel. I just don’t care about me. I’m long out of fight.

All along I thought I was being tortured by something. I thought that my depression and anxiety disorder were changing me into something I didn’t want to be. I didn’t want to be angry all the time. I didn’t want to be consumed by a burning rage that would on occasion, when I could sneak away, leave me screaming as loud as I possibly could just to vent what was building up inside of me. I have lost my voice once or twice as a result.

What I’m trying to say is that I had a realisation today. I realised what my sleepless nights were. I realised what the imagined confrontations were. I’m rationalising my intention. I dream up conflicts with them to emotionally distance myself from those I love. If they hate me, they won’t miss me, right?

I realised that I’m preparing to die.

Rebecca and the Dark Man

I post this on my old blog a year or so ago, I think I’d like to share it with you now. This is a draft of part one in a three-part tale I’m telling in verse.

The thing we need to know, the single point we must address;
the sad and awful fact was that Rebecca was depressed.
Far from simple sadness, what she had was a disease,
a sense of mortal grief would often bring her to her knees.

To her it was the Dark Man, blowing in her ear,
he’d blow away her confidence, all she had to spare was fear.
He’d wash away the colours in the flowers she could see,
leaving the world a monochrome; a wicked place to be.

He traveled with her everywhere, he never set her free,
he was perched upon her shoulders, for all the world to see.
Resisting every step she took, he drowned her in regret,
“You’re alone in the world, you’re a monster!” He’d see she’d not forget.

She’d look to the sky, seeing faces in the clouds,
expressions of contentment, feelings she was not allowed.
The Dark Man took her happiness, her laughter and her smile,
granting her no sweet respite, not even for a while.

She closed her tearful eyes and took a step toward the sea,
searching for a peace that she had never thought could be.
Her feet left the ground and she began her last descent,
the Dark Man raised his ugly head, she nodded her assent.

The Dark Man, her companion, wrapped his hands around her heart,
showing her the twisted love he’d shown her from the start.
Her body hit the water as she took her final breath,
Rebecca and the Dark Man and the rotten life she’d left.

I Turned 30 last week.

When I was first tainted with the brush that is the diagnosis of depression back in my teens, I accepted that suicide was an option. As I began to fight the darkness I knew that ultimately I would lose and that suicide would be me taking control. I kill me, I kill the darkness. I decided that with my head being the way it was and my brain being the enemy that it was, I would not reach my thirtieth birthday. Just a feeling that I had. Anyway, I reached it. Not much has changed, I’m still not recognising what I see in the mirror and I’m no closer to fixing this problem than I was 17 years ago.

I celebrated my birthday alone. I invited twenty of my closest friends and nobody turned up. Of course, nobody knows of the tremendous milestone that simply reaching my 30th birthday was. Should I have to tell all for someone to give a shit?

Is it normal to hate your reflection because you know that there are people out there that are how you wish you could be?

I mean, why me?

I Just Want To Sleep.

It’s strange to realise that; after many years, I don’t have the sense of foreboding that has been sitting on my shoulders. At night I would lie awake for hours thinking about all the things that could happen to people I love and I would go through scenario after scenario, looking for a single one in which the outcome would be that I would survive too. For me, my loved ones are anchors. To lose just one… I would be washed away. I would lose myself to despair and I would either go mad or step in front of a train. Actually, for a while I kept a letter in my pocket addressed to “The Driver”, just in case I did just that. Because a lot of the guilt that thinking about suicide brought upon me, a lot of it was not for my loved ones. They had a different kind of guilt. I was very much aware that by using this driver to end my life, I would be ending theirs too. I carried with me an apology to this stranger for choosing them to be the instrument of my death.
Anyway.
I’m writing this now because this is one of those times that I would be worrying. This is one of those times in which the walls of my bedroom would close around me and I would retreat into my private hell.

Except now I don’t feel anything and I couldn’t be happier. I’d like to go to sleep though…