Eye of the Storm

The last two months have been a storm, and my mind has been at the centre of it.

I have now reached the eye of the storm. Not because there's peace and calm inside my mind. But because I actually can't get my mind to do anything.

It's stopped really thinking, stopped really feeling. It's numb most of the time now, with peaks and troughs of sadness and happiness.
I think this is preferable to the overwhelming sadness I have been feeling. Sadness that came in waves, gushing over me and ebbing away, only to return once I'd managed to dry my eyes and carry on for a bit.

So this is my diary of depression. 

I don't make my bed like I normally do. 

The curtains don't really get opened.

And the mirror is back to being covered up because I can barely stand to look at myself.

Now, as an adult, I realise that everything I went through from the ages of 8-16 weren't all because of puberty. I have had trouble with anxiety, with expressing emotion, with feelings of self-hatred that go far beyond being a teenager and hating the world because that's the cool thing to do. 

This time it feels so much more like a failure, and there's so much more pressure to get better. No one is directly putting pressure on me, but it's pressure I feel personally because I'm an adult, and I have a place in the world. A place I have been carving out for myself. I have a job, and some responsibilities. Ones I have been struggling to carry out and maintain. When I can barely get out of bed and wash my hair, how can I be made responsible for the duties of my job?

I feel ashamed. I feel so ashamed that it has gone this far. I feel ashamed and guilty that I feel like this when the world is in the state that it is. I feel so self-centred. I feel like I have sunk so low. I feel like I have absolutely failed because I have been put on anti-depressants. Have I not been working hard enough with my counsellor? Did I not keep myself busy enough? 

Why me?

I'm also relieved. I am protected now, in a way. 

Do you know what the last straw was? The tipping point? Other than dragging myself to work and being unable to hold back the tears?
It was not being able to enjoy exercise. Not wanting to go the gym not because I was tired or being lazy, but because I didn't see the point in exercising because my life is worthless.

I've reached my tipping point. Or have I? It could get worse, I know that from experience. It feels right now as though I am in the eye of the storm, and the only thing ahead of me are rocky times as I make it through. Up, not down. Through and out. 

The Oxford Half

Have you ever felt a bit sad, maybe for no real reason? Felt a bit miserable, a bit "down"? 

Have you ever woken up and realised that you've been feeling "down" all week. Or for a few weeks. Or even for a few months.

When you suffer from depression, you don't realise that you're ill. Not initially. You just think that this is the state of affairs. Even once you've twigged you're mentally unwell, that doesn't make it stop. The clouds don't part, the sun doesn't beam in. 

But realising you're not well is the first step to recovery. Recovery won't be as easy as taking tablets or having a chat about it, recovery for depression is life-long. That's not to say that once you've had it you will always have it, but that once youve been there it's easy to find your way back. 

But in that way, it's also easier to stop returning. You won't always be able to stop, but once you've got yourself out you can do it again, and again, and again if you have to. 

Recovery might feel like you're running from that feeling, and that you'll always be running. But the run turns into a jog and then slows to a walk, as you walk through life as normal. 
But when you're running from those feelings there are people that can run with you. There is support out there. 

My sister and I are running to help Samaritans provide that support. So that when they receive a phone call they can run with you, for a few minutes or hours. They are there to help slow you down and turn you around from the face of oblivion. I know because they've done it for me, more times than I can count. They might have done it for you too, or someone you know. 

So please sponsor us, because we're running 13.1miles so that no person with depression or anyone with thoughts of ending their life has to go through it alone. That if they need someone to talk to, to run with them away from those feelings, that Samaritans are there on the other end of the phone. Just like they were for us. 

Morning After Pills

How do you begin to reconcile the fact that, when you went to sleep last night, you were hoping you'd never wake up?
Or that when you did wake up, this nightmare would be over.

But what reason could ever be strong enough to want to not wake up?
Does there have to only be one? Or can several, smallish reasons add up over time?

Why does it become so hard to imagine waking up and being happy about that? Being pleased that you have one more day, as opposed to wishing yesterday had been your last?

Why has your brain made taking too many pills sound like a normal solution to what you're feeling? 
Why, when you know logically, that it makes no sense to want to die, you only want to curl up and give in. Give up. 
Be gone.

How do you go forth into the world and have a "good day", when you didn't even want this day in the first place?

Pushing through (self-imposed) barriers

This weekend I got up and went to a gym class. 

It was so hard it made me cry. 

It made me hate myself, my body, my life. Not for the first time this year I felt like there was no hope. No point. I should just give up. 

I came home afterwards and got into bed, and cuddled my new soft toy Noah the whale. I stayed in bed lying there, listening to the same piece of music on repeat, and did nothing. Did some thinking and some dozing, but mostly I just lay there. 
And when I got up to eat, I told my sister how I felt. I didn't feel much better, my mindset wasn't suddenly "oh what a wonderful world we live in." It was more a grim acceptance. This is life. We are lucky enough to have been given it, and it is ours to do with what we will. My body is damaged and I must do what I can with it. 

That grim reality both fuels and quenches the fire of life within me. It tells me that "this is my life, I can do anything in it, I can be anything." And it also whispers softly, "No. All you are and all you ever will be is a speck of dust in this wide universe."

I felt similar tug-of-rope feelings in the month after my granddad died. "Life is precious", it shouted. "You might die any day so live the days you have with all that you can give them."
"No", it whispered. "Everyone dies in the end, that is the only guarantee in this world. Everything you do is futile."

So these imaginary voices tussle and so I get no further. 

I have aspirations of grandeur. That I will contribute to this world in a way that I will be remembered for. Somewhere, I and my achievements will be noted down. 

Not everyone can go down in the history books. But surely we can all be remembered by someone, for something.

I need to refocus my attention and energy on things I can make a difference to. To the lives of my family and friends, to the local area, the bits of volunteering I can do. And doing my job to the best of my ability.

But that leaves me with no answer regarding my body. It's damaged; is it beyond repair?

I guess I have to keep trying. And I'll note down my achievements so that somewhere, they're written down.

Those Walls I Built, Part 2

Boxes. Lots of boxes. Different sizes. Different weights.

That's how I'd like my mind to be. That's how I would like to compartmentalise the bad memories and the good memories and the grey memories. I could keep the bad memories in a dark corner, hidden from view, gathering dust.

In the same dark corner in which a flame burns. A flame that refuses to be extinguished. A flame that threatens to give life to paranoia, give light to jealousy. It burns bright for self-loathing and held to closely it smokes out my self-esteem.

I am still to work out how exactly I am meant to deal with rejection, and let go of crushes. I feel like every time it happens I haven't learned anything from the last time. Or the time before that, or the time before that. 

So I am a bit fed up of feeling so crap over this one thing. I feel like I'm only focusing on it because I'm bricking it about Australia. But I've got shit to do. So whilst I would love to feel the feelings and work on sorting myself out, I think the best thing to do is keep having the small brief cries, and compartmentalise. Like I said, shit to do man. Shit. To. Do.

Those Walls I Built

It's very easy, when you're overwhelmed by emotion, or when you're feeling something you'd rather you didn't feel, to try and block it out. 

I'm good at steeling my heart against things, against people in particular. Acting cold towards someone is a defence mechanism, that I'm sure they can see through. But it makes me feel as though I'm dealing with it. As if it can't hurt me. I think that eventually it works its magic, and in the end I can deal with it because I've walled it up for so long. In fact, I'm undoubtedly processing those feelings and emotions constantly, and that's what gets me through it.

Whilst I am sort of fed up of feeling things for people and then having to stop myself from feeling those feelings, I guess that is life, and emotion is so important. It's vital to being empathetic to other people, to making friends; it's essential for falling in love.

The walls I try to build around my heart don't stop me crying at RSPCA adverts or the degeneration of an elderly man's - my elderly man's - mind. It didn't stop me crying when I moved house, or when my sister left, or when my mum moved away.

And sometimes it's easier said than done. Even when clothes I like the look of don't look good on me at all (I'm looking at you, blue sequin Lipsy dress) I don't automatically think "oh well it doesn't suit my body shape or my skin tone." I think "I'm fat, why are these arms even here, why doesn't it look on me like it did on the (tall, leggy, well-photographed and well-photoshopped) model?!" Sometimes reason is lost in emotion, and not even the best walls can stop you feeling crappy. 

And then, sometimes, aside from dealing with unrequited desires and not coping with rejection, the walls, and the emotion, are necessary. This morning walking to walk, I had a sense of futility and gloom. And it was confirmed when I got in and I felt overwhelmed, scared, and very alone.
But I took a moment to deal with those feelings. I felt the fear, the terror. And then I walled it up and got on with things.

But with every paper cut, with every phone call made and with the re-tying of my makeshift hairband, I was dealing with the feelings.  Those emotions, and my ability to deal with then, make me who I am. 

I just wish I was able to cope with all emotions, all the time. 
I suppose that's what the rest of my life is for.