A blast from my past....
At the moment life is treating me well, after my last blog in August where everything felt it was falling apart, I found the support I needed and the strength to see myself through that bout of depression. The good news is I also finally got myself HRT and the results have been dramatic! I know it doesn't work for everyone and not everyone can take it but certainly for me it has been a revelation. Some things haven't changed but my fatigue, the brain fog and the feeling of being out of control have all gone.
With that has become confidence in my abilities at work again, a freedom to express and connect with others through the support of ongoing therapy and an understanding that my past pain no longer defines me, in fact it is my superpower. I can use it to help me embrace the darkness and see the beauty around me. I can start to believe I am loveable and maybe one day turn the ship around completely.
Which leads me to the rest of my blog. When we are in deep darkness we are often incapable of sharing the truth, it is impossible to articulate the depth of despair and lack of hope. And sometimes only by understanding how deep that goes can others realise how much it takes to leave that place. Today whilst sorting my files I found something I wrote in April 2019 right in the midst of my breakdown, the month I ran the London Marathon, the month I met my new family, the months I never thought I would survive and without friends, my wife and a great therapist I may not have been here now.
I wrote these words thinking no one would ever read them, but actually I've decided to be brave and share them here. All of them. It fills in some parts of my story and it gives an insight into what depression and suicidal thoughts are. I know who this person is, I can see her, I can see the scared, lonely, frightened child and I can remember the pain I was in. I am not there now. But people you know may be. You may be. But you will not be there forever either. You can hold on as I did. You can reach out for help. At the end I will share many of the resources that saved me.
There is a trigger warning on this post as I talk about suicide, abuse and I was in the darkest place of my life. This may well be one of my bravest posts ever. But I hope it gives some insight for you all.
Ramblings of a
Depressed Soul (10 April 2019)
It’s late at night it really hits. When you should be going to bed, but realise however tired you feel, however much your eyes droop from a day that you’ve fought every moment to get through, you just can’t sleep. Your mind has entered overdrive and inside your heart is heavy with the pain of what may never happen, or worse – what already has. So finding a quiet spot, hoping loved ones won’t notice “no, not coming to bed just yet, won’t be long” – knowing that they’ll fall asleep and never know what happened to you – you settle down to wonder how to fill the endless hours. Too late to reach out to friends, or too scared that they won’t reach back. Turning, instead to mellow music, the kind that you think is filling your soul with what it needs. Whereas all the time it is screaming back at you all the things that are wrong. Perhaps sneaking off to pour yourself a drink, ‘just the one before bed’ – wracked with guilt as the vodka sloshes into an empty glass, topped up with the smallest amount of Diet Coke. Just one.
I guess they call this wallowing, self pity, it feels like it is good for your soul, when actually it’s what’s crushing down on you with such a force by morning you have to dig yourself out. If you’ve fallen asleep, if, finding a way to wake up is nearly impossible. The thought of getting out of bed and entering a new day – with all the fear it contains. Instead you’ll toss and turn until the sun burns through the curtains, teasing you into thinking it will all be okay. But that’s a long way off. Instead, it isn’t even 10pm and here I sit, wondering if writing is the best thing. Wondering if anyone will ever read this. Wondering where it all went wrong. Or wondering if perhaps this is the right place after-all.
All my life I’ve felt alone. Unable to reach out to those around me. Even those who are closest to me are closed off from the darkness in my eyes. I’ve blamed myself. I’ve blamed my family. I’ve blamed genes. I’ve blamed the Catholic Church. I’ve worried that actually this is just me. Who I am. Destined to live a life wondering what it could have been, all the while missing what was right there in front of me. That this is my life. That complex, difficult, messed up world is what makes me, me. There’s nothing missing. Nothing other than what I imagine is missing. All the time, forcing myself back into a corner that I can’t get out of. But the only person holding me there is me. And then I wonder if I’ve done all this, if I’ve made this, constructed a world I can’t live in but can’t get out of. What is there left?
Too difficult to live with. Too difficult to help. Too difficult. But actually who is ever too difficult? Who is ever beyond the reaches of someone. By pretending this is me, perhaps I’ve just made myself safe. My very own ivory tower. When I was a teenager I began to build a wall around myself. I was obsessed with it. All my doodles and ramblings were about The Wall. Maybe I never stopped doing this, maybe I just kept putting in the bricks piece by piece, but always with a rational, obvious reason as an adult. Too complex. Too damaged. Too far gone. Brick by brick. Cutting myself off from, well me. An ego that needed to feel it was untouchable. All the while feeling guilty for thinking it was all about me. Wrapped in the idea that I was somehow too good for this world, by simply being too bad for it.
The ultimate fucked up paradox. What if this is true? Where am I now? Reaching out for help, crying into the sleepless nights that actually I can be saved. I can save myself. I don’t have to die. I don’t have to think that suicide is the best thing for me. I can have a new plan. A better plan. A plan that actually happens. Or do I dare myself to die. Do I try it, just once more to see how it would feel. Every other time I’d stopped, I’ve lived. But what if actually I don’t live. What if this is just a long, rambling, self pitying suicide note? What if I could end all this pain and it isn’t just a dream, an idea that is out of reach yet comforting? I got through another day today. I did good things. I told people it’s step by step, hour by hour. That I’m struggling but getting there. But what if I could see if I’ve got there?
Guilt has stopped me from throwing myself into traffic. Guilt prevents me running my car off the road. Fear means the tablets I sit before me I never swallow. Fear means I can’t put a bag over my head and inhale helium. But what if someone handed me a shotgun right now and I could blow my brains out? 1.7 seconds I’d be dead. No mistake. No return. Blood everywhere, unlikely an open coffin – pain and agony for all those I know. Or is that vanity too? Maybe they wouldn’t care? I wouldn’t care – I’d be dead. Gone to the grave with guilt, knowing those left behind have to pick up the pieces or let them all fall away. It’s so fucking unfair. I’m trapped. Trapped thinking there has to be a better plan. Until the next drama. The next trigger. The next thing.
It’s okay, I’ll get better, it will pass. There are brighter times. You’ve had good times. You’ve felt joy. You’re just ill. Like a broken leg. I’ve never broken a leg but I’m pretty sure 6-8 weeks in plaster and you can walk again. I feel like I’m paralysed. I’ve broken my neck. Pressure sores are bursting out all over my body and no one knows as I can’t tell them. Cause I’m also mute. And deaf. Can’t hear a word. It doesn’t matter what anyone says to me “I CAN’T HEAR YOU!” – A shake of the head, that’s all I can do. And I’m lying here weeks, months, years. Sometimes a smile passes my lips, could be wind. But that’s a sign it’s okay. Look she’s smiling. And you know, medical science is improving all the time so before you know it she’ll be up and walking around. Like none of it any happened. In fact, we can send you on a 6 week back to walking course. Where you’ll learn all the things you need to walk again. But if it doesn’t work, we’ll just send you on another. Oh and take these tablets. They won’t make you walk again, but they’ll help you forget you can’t walk. Actually they’ll help you forget everything and if you’re really lucky we’ll let you keep taking them forever and ever. No, they aren’t painkillers. Actually we can’t stop the pain. You’re paralysed after all, so we just assume you don’t feel it.
A good day comes and goes. Like today. A good day. Then something, barely perceptible shoots me in the heart and here I am. Writing. Writing. Writing. This will make me feel better again. Writing words that no one will ever read. Pretending every second I’m not thinking of pouring a drink. I could open the front door and walk away. Far away, into the night, or drive off. I’ve an endless fantasy of getting in the car and driving away. Putting my foot down and plummeting off the cliff, like Thelma and Louise. There it is again that ideation of suicide. It’s a fantasy. Daring myself to make it real. Is this all about some fucking ego?
I’m so full of hate right now. Hate for myself for making this mess. Tricking Keeley into falling in love with me, when all the time I was a powder keg waiting to explode. Hate for my mother, fucking total hate for her. Fucking me up with her paranoia, self loathing, vicious words that I carry around on my shoulders. Hate for Daniel. For not showing up. Pretending I didn’t exist and when I did exist pretending it didn’t matter. Hate for my Dad, for never stepping in and saying enough. Fuck my siblings fall in to that category too. Hate for Kathy for waking up and telling me it was all over, without a second thought on how it may change me, no sensitivity or making sure I could be okay with that news. Hate for myself. Fuck me I hate myself.
All this time, I’ve been so fucking proud ‘I know myself inside out’ – ‘I’ve survived so much’ – but I hate who I am. I hate the words that come out of my mouth, that they never really say what I mean. That I can’t tell people ‘no wait, this is me’, ‘this is what I meant to say’ – that I’m once again making a crisis into a drama. Me, me, me. That I was so fucking unloveable that all my parents hated me. Which considering I have three is pretty good going. And that now, after all this drama I can’t kill myself. I can’t even do that. I can’t get it right. Instead I just keep getting it wrong, over and over again. Pulling people in, pushing them away. Nowhere to go. I have nowhere to go. So is this a suicide note. Could I drive off tomorrow and die. Who would know? The ultimate ruse. And who would that help? Could it help me?
It hurts so much. I don’t know how I make it stop. I’ve never known. These words. This music. It’s been the same for 34 years. A 12 year old child, who was already being suffocated. Told they didn’t matter. Surrounded by lies. And in walked someone who cared. A 13 year old boy, on a holiday camp. Having a bit of a fun. Normal, ordinary behaviour. Yet this 12 year old girl wasn’t ordinary. Already damaged. Already falling through the cracks. She grabbed hold of this affection and ran with it, suffocated it, snuffed it out. So when the inevitable happened and it went away. It killed her. Tears. Pain. No one there to say ‘it’s okay’, ‘you’ll be okay’ – ‘this is normal’. Instead, alone, alone, alone and angry. Full of hate for a world so full of pain. So full of lies. So full of shit. Internalised, buying a knife, cutting to see if you bleed. Cutting to see if you cry. Does it hurt, does actual pain take away the pain. Friends who don’t understand. But they are your friends. They’ll be there for you. Even if you don’t see it. Until they aren’t. Why? Because you are taken away from them…in an instant any chance you had is gone. Removed in the blink of an eye.
14 years old and all alone, in a strange school, a strange town. Full of anger, hatred. Ungrateful as now they’re paying for it. Confused. Confused by what you feel when you start meeting beautiful young women. Something inside sparks, feels….what? Love, attraction. NO, this is wrong. Guilt. Anger. Hatred. Fear. No one to talk to. No one to explain. Always alone. Forever alone. The only person you can rely on is yourself. And even that no longer makes sense as somehow you know its warped, broken, wrong. Everything is wrong.
18 years old and the chance to escape. A big city. A new life. A new start. Perhaps friends. Perhaps love. Perhaps a chance to express those desires that feel so wrong they must be right. Nothing goes to plan. The anger. The pain wells up inside. However much you try to hide it a few drinks and there it all comes. Unstoppable. Unbearable. But not everyone runs away. Some stay and hold you, help you. This could be a chance. First encounters with services that are meant to help are confused, blame, those deep dark secrets misunderstood. So you run, hide, keep playing the game. Desperate for someone to love. For someone to love you. No one has ever told you “ I love you” – 20 years old and you don’t know what those words mean.
Then it happens. Someone as fucked up as you who can take it. And you fall in love. You cross over the threshold and share a moment. You even end up having sex. But it’s all wrong. Broken. Mixed up and messed up. Neither of you really happy, both pretending. Looking for something else. But it gives you solace. So you hold on to it as tight as you can. Hoping, that against all odds it will last.
Until it doesn’t. No drama. No big break up, just fizzled out like a firework – blooming for a moment and then falling to the ground, in pieces. No one can see what happened to it. Just gone. But the memory remains and that’s enough, somehow. Friends. Forever. Plus he was a boy. You had sex. That was a sin and now you’re free. Free to realise you love women. Beautiful, funny, sexy women. Even if you’re too scared to tell them. Or god forbid, sleep with them. Until it can’t be hidden anymore.
A few years of being me. Being happy. Finding love, happiness, a way through the darkness. Even going to talk to someone about the darkness. Someone who seems to understand, teaches you ways to move on. Put it all behind you. Then a moment. A weird. Fucked up moment changes everything. The life you knew is a lie. The person you know is a lie. The parents you had, are liars. All lies. All gone. All there in the mirror, forever staring back at you a truth you can barely fathom and don’t understand. May never understand as once again someone else holds all the cards, all the answers and won’t ever share them. All that and still – no one says ‘sorry’, one one says they care. Instead it’s all about, what? I don’t know. I may never know what it’s all about. Apparently it’s all about me. After-all this is my ego talking. I make it all about me. And again I’m alone.
This time I really want to die. I’ve had 2 years to not understand who my father is. A love that has died, because she’s woken up one day and decided she doesn’t want to be with me. I’m back to being alone. Worthless. Not worthy of love. Drink is my new best friend. Sex with strangers in dark corners. Driving. Drunk. Reckless. Careless. Hoping it all looks like an accident. Walking into the sea on a warm August night. Knowing it will take it all away. Why did I come back out? Why didn’t I let myself drift away on the tide. No one was there to save me. No one to care. No one would have questioned why back then. No partner. No lover. No home. Family spread to the wind. I could have died that night. I should have died that night. It would have saved all these years of pain. Saved me meeting someone who loves me, someone who will now be hurt if I try again. Saved me making the mistake of 2 years of wasted emotions on my then ‘saviour’. She held my hand. Smiled. Gave me kindness in the darkest of times. I gave her money. A home. More money. Self-esteem. All my self-esteem to make her feel good.
If I had died then. If at 29 years old I wouldn’t have needed an epitaph. I wouldn’t have had wasted dreams. There would be no collateral damage. Only those who helped create the crisis. If I’d laid back in the sea, looking up at the stars, drifting into a place of peace. If. If. If. There I go again. Idealising suicide. I didn’t die. I walked away. I saved myself. I stopped.
And now here I am. Two relationships later. Happy years. Marriage. A life. The death of a father. The discovery of family. The questions still alive, the doubts still current. Writing. For who? For me? For you? Full of questions, it feels like I’m 17 again….I need to go back further, to when I was 12. To where it feels like it all started and piece it together. Bit by bit. What it felt like. What it led to. Who I am. But will I like what I find? Will others like what they find? Does that even matter?
Face it, I’m scared of being alive. And I’m scared of dying. Paralysed. Not a broken leg. Stuck between two worlds, never quite sure which one I’m meant to be in. All I know is I can’t do it anymore. I’ve run out of gas. So I sit here, late at night. Terrified who may see. Terrified I’m not at work. Terrified they’ll make me go back to work. Terrified of telling the truth to my counsellor, but terrified she won’t want to see me anymore. Another failure. Put in the too difficult pile. Ego. Again. I don’t understand any of it. Life. Feelings. Emotions. Love. Hate. Happiness. Sadness. I want it all so much and yet want none of it. Then it sweeps over me and I can’t cope. Impossible to put into words. Embarrassed to say the words.
Help me. Someone. Me. Help myself. Or not. Run away. Hide. Disappear. Die. I don’t want to die. I really don’t. I just don’t know what else to do. It seemed the get out of jail free card. A way to get attention. To get help. To wake myself up. I don’t understand who I am. I don’t understand these emotions. I don’t understand why I wasn’t good enough and now why I am good enough, for so many people. But never myself. It hurts a lot to know that as a child no one loved you. So you spend your adult life trying to capture that moment back again. Letting all sorts of pain wash over you, in the desperate hope those people will say they were wrong. ‘Nope, we DO love you after all, ignore all that before, our mistake, whoops’ – but yet dreading to hear those words as love and hate are now the same fucked up emotion that you don’t understand.
And there it is. That’s it I guess. I won’t die. I won’t run away. I won’t get what I want. But maybe I’ll become good enough. Just for me. Maybe that will be enough. You have to hope so.
Big hugs and much love sis x
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