It’s been a while. A long time, really. I’ve been doing okay but I just haven’t had many words.
I’ve had a few triumphs, but didn’t have the confidence to mention them. I can’t say I’ve achieved something without my brain screaming that I’m a stupid arrogant show-off who’s never really achieved anything anyway.
I’ve had a few challenges, but didn’t have the energy to mention them. With enormous and exhausting effort, I remain functioning, but it doesn’t leave much room for anything else.
I live a life filled with regret. If I could go back in time, talk to my past self, I’d have so much to say, but the gist of it would all boil down to: Do everything differently. Don’t fuck it up.
My life is so small. Markers of time are difficult. Birthdays, New Years. What am I doing? I feel like I’m just idling away time in Death’s waiting room. Surely there is more than this.
I have nothing and no-one. I have a job, but it’d be a stretch to call it a career. I have my family, but they have each other too, and I think they prefer each other to me. I have acquaintances, but not friends. People I like, people I get on with, but no-one I’d ever dream of daring to need.
Everyone I know has careers and houses and partners and children and pets and hobbies and fucking…hopes, dreams and aspirations.
I have nothing.
What the fuck am I doing? It’s too late now, already, to sort things out – even if I had the energy and the money and the know-how – it’s too late to be normal. I don’t mean I’m abnormal in an interesting way. I’m not quirky or creative or inspired. I’m abnormal in that I don’t have a life.
I don’t have a life and I don’t know how to have one. And all I have to look forward to is more of the same.
Gaaah, I am depressed.
Just, awful. Like the ceiling is bearing down on me and I’m breathing stale air in an ever shrinking space.
I went out with some people from work and got a little drunk – not terribly so, just a little tongue-looseningly tipsy. As I head into depression, my sense of humour tends to get very bleak, and combined with the alcohol everyone now thinks I’m hilarious, full of these dark jokes that make them laugh, but I am mortified and can hardly look at myself in the mirror.
I know things are getting bad when I just feel like I have nothing to do. I don’t want to be with anyone, I’m exhausted but can’t sleep, and I just sit here on my computer passing time, but I can’t even think of things to Google. Nothing is interesting.
I’ve been given a bit more responsibility at work and I’m getting hugely anxious about it. I just want to run away and hide in the toilets every day, but I can’t admit that because the responsibility is just my job – either I do it or I don’t, but if I don’t, what is even the point of me?
I feel like I can’t breathe and I can’t move and I can’t think, and this will never change. I’m too scared of everything. Nothing has meaning and there is no hope. I’m sorry. Just how it is.
I’ll be okay. I just don’t particularly want to be.
Posted September 17, 2016on:
When my mother found out I was being treated for a mental illness, all those years ago, she cried for hours. She made some fairly insulting assumptions as to the cause of my problems (“Have you fallen out with one of your friends? Is this about some boy?”), threatened to try to force my doctor to breach confidentiality (“I’m your mother, I have a right to know the details”) and told me that I was ruining her life.
I was 19 years old, suicidally depressed, self-harming, pretty out of it on anti-psychotics, and had no fucking clue about how to get from one day to the next. And she made it about her. About her feelings, her opinions, and her curiosity. In the months and years that followed, she’d bring it up with a callousness I couldn’t believe was accidental. If I expressed an opinion she disagreed with, she’d tell me I was “going mental again”. Once, she casually asked, “do you remember when you were depressed?” in the middle of a family meal in a packed restaurant.
My mental health became yet another stick for her to beat me with. It became yet another way I’d let her down, and something she could hold over me, and bring up in any situation she pleased in order to silence or humiliate me. Maybe it was my punishment for refusing to give her the juicy details she wanted. Maybe it was my punishment for daring, for once in my life, to have feelings, to admit to having a problem, or for confiding at any level in someone outside the family.
I am not an emotionally open or expressive person. If you’ve read any of my blog you’ll be aware of this. People I have considered close friends have often referred to me, without malice, as unhuman and robotic. And, taking into account a number of factors, including the way medication and getting help in general made me feel and the way my mother had reacted, I decided to stop getting help and stop expressing any emotions in my day-to-day life. In making that decision, I closed myself off even further.
There are great black holes of emptiness inside me, where other people would have feelings.
Now, my mother is dying. Or at least, she says she is. To put this in perspective, she’s been saying that she’s dying for most of my life. It’s never happened yet, but it’s the kind of prediction that comes true eventually. And all she talks about is death. How she’s going to die in pain, how terrified she is of death, how this is the fault of everyone in her life, as if we all have magic wands that could cure her of her illness and we’re just refusing to wave them out of stubbornness.
And I feel very little. I’m struggling to come up with any kind of sympathy for her. When I was ill, I was expected to comfort her and look after her and apologise to her. Now she wants me to do the same because she’s ill. And I just can’t find it in me. I just can’t bring myself to hold her hand and dry her tears and listen to her problems. Not anymore.
She says I’m cold and unfeeling and heartless and cruel. I can’t bring myself to care.
There is a distant niggling worry that this is an attitude I’ll come to regret. That she will die and I will be overcome with grief and remorse and wish that I’d done everything she asked and agreed with her more.
But I feel that there is so little space in which I can exist. So much of my life is filled with her and her problems that I’ve had to make my own personality wafer-thin in order to just fit into the family. It just can’t be scraped away any more.
I am anxious, almost to the point of paranoia. It is very, very frightening.
I’m struggling to distinguish between what is real and logical and what is absolutely not.
Yesterday, I took a walk down to the local shops. I thought it would be nice – a leisurely stroll on a sunny Bank Holiday.
Then the ringing of bells. A couple of bicycles passing by, I step to one side and the riders say thanks, then they’re laughing to each other and I know it’s about me.
Then shouting. Some comment from the open window of a passing car and again it must be aimed at me.
A rush of blood, my face red hot, I’m staring straight ahead, there’s ringing in my ears and my hands are shaking but I keep walking, straight line, don’t let anyone see me flustered.
The cyclists stop, they look like they’re about to enter a house, but the idea gets planted in my head, they are going to attack me as I walk past. They are going to hurt me and steal my belongings. I speed up, and grip my bag more tightly.
Nothing happens but the idea is growing and I can’t stop it. Someone is going to harm me. I can’t pretend anymore that I’m just a normal, calm person on a gentle stroll. I’m jumping at every sound, and there are so many of them – voices and vehicles, horns and alarms, a total cacophony and I am so confused and afraid.
Swapping my bag from hand to hand, got to keep it unpredictable and swerve it out of the reach of passers by. Two men cross the street towards me, they’re talking to each other and I think I hear bag and I look up, startled. One of them looks me straight in the eye and I can feel the hostility. I am so afraid and I don’t know which way cause and effect works – am I afraid because people are acting oddly towards me? Or are they acting oddly because I, in my fear, am acting oddly first? Head down, handbag slippy in my increasingly sweaty grip, I scurry on.
I walk past a pub and someone walks out of it and heads in the same direction as me. My head is just ohshitohshitohshit over and over. I’m rushing across roads, hardly looking for traffic, and using the town like a shitty TV spy, checking reflections in windows to make sure no-one’s too close.
I make it to the shop I wanted to go to and I calm a little, feeling safer. But I can’t shake the feeling of being watched. I feel like everyone who walks past me is looking me straight in the eye all the time. I feel like I’m acting differently, moving slower so as to be more understandable to my audience.
I find some clothes I think I like and I go to try them on. The shop has recently been refurbished, the fitting rooms are new and as soon as I’m in there it’s fucking obvious there are cameras and spyholes and it is just plain old not safe or private. I’m in a mirrored box and the feeling of being observed is magnified.
So I leave the fitting rooms, dump the clothes, have a little walk around the rest of the shop. I find something I like and am about to buy it but then I get to the tills and a cashier looks at me with what I think is a knowing expression – so, okay, not safe. I leave.
I’m on my way home when I reach a bus stop. I wonder vaguely when there’ll be a bus to the city centre, if maybe being somewhere bigger will feel less weird. Before I can pass the stop, the bus in question pulls in. This is so obviously a sign – Bank Holiday buses being so infrequent, and one appearing as soon as I think about it – that I get on without thinking.
Every shop I enter, I am followed. Sometimes individuals, more often pairs and groups, always different. They stop when I stop. When I look at something, they’re looking at the thing behind or next to it. When I leave the shop, they disappear into the background and are replaced by others.
Outside one shop, there’s a teenage boy on the phone. He’s saying something – a funny and memorable phrase, something I’d normally be committing to memory for a funny anecdote later. Five or ten minutes later, when I leave the shop, the boy is still there, and he’s saying the same thing. Exact same wording and inflection and it’s like a code phrase he’s saying when I walk past him, alerting someone to my movements.
I try to calm down but it’s impossible. I’m panicking so badly that I can hardly breathe, I’m standing in the street with all these hostile strangers and I’m mentally noting the location of the police officer I can see standing at the other end of the street, so I can shout for his attention when the inevitable terrifying catastrophe happens. And then I start thinking maybe he’s not really police, maybe he’s in disguise and he’s really the one I need to avoid.
I step into another shop and am so overwhelmed by the feeling of wrongness, that I shouldn’t be there, that I turn around and walk straight out.
Straight to the bus station, in the hope that home means safety, and the bus is right there, again, full of people who look like they’ve been waiting for me, and I swear the universe is trying to tell me something, I just don’t know what.
There is a dog on the bus, a calm, old-looking dog with specks of grey in its fur and big, dark eyes, which, I swear, watch me all the way home like the dog, too, is in on the great secret that I’m not party to.
I get home and I’m jumpy and panicky and pacing about my room, then my brother goes out and I am overcome with vivid and horrifying images of him being involved in terrible accidents. I think of what I want for him, how I want him to return home. Safe, healthy, happy. I say it to myself. And then I’m chanting it
Safe, healthy, happy. Safe healthy happy. Safehealthyhappysafehealthyhappysafehealthyhappy.
When I’m with my parents, I can’t say it out loud as they’ll think I’m mad, but I just know it’s important to keep it up, it’s like a prayer or a mantra. So I’m tapping out the rhythm of it with my fingers, over and over and over again.
I go to bed and I can’t sleep. I lie there restless and wide awake until long after my wish has come true and my brother’s returned home.
I’m so on edge, I can’t wind down. I’m living right at the furthest reaches of my sanity and it is exhausting and scary and I don’t know how to make it stop.
I’m just about holding myself together enough to be able to interact with my family and go to work. Occasionally, people are commenting that I’m acting a little differently. I’m giving in to the little things I sometimes get obsessive about, and I’m tapping the rhythm of safe healthy happy quite a lot.
Argh. I am actually going mad, aren’t I?
It’s my birthday and I’m trying not to succumb under the weight of the pointlessness I regularly feel, at every notable marker of the passage of time.
My Facebook profile is full of comments from people who don’t know me, wishing me a happy birthday out of some vague sense of obligation or pity. People I have called friends in the past, but who I haven’t spoken to in weeks, months, years. Let’s be realistic with each other, people – so much of communication is just meaningless words. Why not be honest? Why are we all pretending to know and like and think about each other?
There is a person in my life who I can trust (as much as I’m capable of trusting anyone), one of the few I’d still call a friend. He contacts me when he feels sad or lonely or angry, and I provide him with logic and ethics and distraction, depending on what he needs. He knows I’ll never contact him, asking for him to return the favour. He knows that’s not who I am. There’s no birthday message from him, and I feel more comfortable about that than about all the empty words from everyone else. It may be a lopsided and occasional relationship, but at least it is what it looks like. No-one in that friendship is pretending.
There have been times when I’ve thought myself hideous, disgusting, evil, terrible. And, much less frequently, time when I’ve thought myself dynamic and intelligent and charismatic.
Now I know the truth: I am nothing.
All the things that make people people – kindness, wisdom, bravery, the ability to form lasting and consistent relationships of one sort or another – are things I lack. I’m not wringing my hands or crying about it. It’s just a basic fact.
I am not extraordinary. Not even ordinary. I am barely human. I don’t think or feel like other people, and I lack the talent and commitment to turn that difference into something meaningful.
I have imagined for so long that I might be able to change who or what I am, or at the very least channel it into something. I’ve dreamt about being the kind of person who has some sort of impact on the world.
But I know that I am an empty shell. It doesn’t matter. That’s the beauty of the world – I can be n0-one and it’s okay.
It’s just a matter of finding a way to live as no-one. Finding a way to accept that dreams are for other people.
And as I try to find a way to live in the world, a way that doesn’t make me want to die, time is tick tick ticking away, giving me less and less time in which I’ll have to live.
I am struggling under the weight of the futility of my life.
Yeah, pretentiousness alert.
I’m aware that this is boring. Trust me, I’m living it.
I just keep thinking, when is my life going to start?
I’m paralysed by fear and indecision. I keep thinking of moving out of my parents’ house, but then I get so anxious that I’ll lose my job. I think my job is fairly safe, but who knows that for certain, really? I imagine myself with a mortgage, then being made redundant, being unable to get another job and then losing my home. It makes me feel sick, so I stay where I am.
My life just feels so pointless. Maybe it’s connected to my job -it’s alright, it could be a career one day, but I spend so much time presenting facts that no-one cares about, and I’m not very good at it, really. Every time I think about having to get another job, I try to imagine what my skills are and am faced with endless empty pages. But it’s not so simple as just doing something else. What the hell am I supposed to do? I have no vocation, no path calling out to me. I’d give anything for something to work towards, even if it meant more education and training and interviews. But I don’t see the point in working towards any of the things I could bear or possibly be able to do, because I wouldn’t be any more enthusiastic about them than I am about my current job.
I’d like to have some part of my life where I am successful. Where I matter. Where there are people (or even just a person) who feel glad I exist, whose lives are better for what I do or who I am. And if it’s not my job then it’d have to be my private life. But that’s no good, either – I will never have a significant romantic relationship and I will never have children. There is no-one to be glad I’m here. Maybe I matter to my parents and brother, but only as a witness, or a weapon they can use against each other, or a companion in troubled times.
As for friends, I don’t really have any. I’m alright with people. It feels arrogant to say it, but lots of people like me. I have many, many acquaintances. We say hello to each other if we pass in a corridor or on the street. If we happen to be in the same place for any real period of time, there is perfectly pleasant chatting, and often some laughter. Sometimes they tell me about their lives and their feelings. But friends? No. The people I call my friends in order to be polite are just the people I happen to have been in the vicinity of most often lately. There is no binding or lasting connection. We don’t miss each other when we’re apart.
I don’t know when I’m going to feel like my life means something. Probably never.
I feel like I am observing myself, and from my observations I can tell you that there’s a reasonable chance I am vaguely depressed. I’m always sleeping but I’m never rested. The people I know have started complaining that they don’t know what I’m saying – my voice has become so quiet, my body language restricted. I’m hesitant to communicate at all, hovering for minute after minute over the send button for perfectly straightforward emails, anxious about sending them but not sure why.
I don’t cry. It’s been a long time since I cried. My emotions are even more muted than my voice. They are folded up as small as they’ll go and locked inside a box somewhere very deep inside me. They try to get out but I feel them only as a dull, distant ache. More the ideas of feelings than actual feelings themselves.
I’m treading water with no hope of rescue, in the knowledge that sooner or later what little energy I have left will be fully gone and I will be pulled under the surface to drown.
Posted May 13, 2016on:
I self-harmed tonight.
It’s been such a long time. I can’t even remember when I last did it. It hasn’t even properly worked – I feel a little calmer but haven’t been able to flip that switch that turns off my feelings and puts me in a trance for a few hours. It used to come so easily, but maybe now I have to work harder for it. What I wouldn’t give for some unfeeling blankness right now.
I am fucking angry. Fist-clenchingly, heart-pumpingly, eye-wideningly livid.
My mother. More and more I find myself thinking she’s actually evil. She hates me. I know she hates me because she tells me so. She says such terrible things.
I know that I am not perfect. In fact, I’m a pretty awful person. I do try to look after her, but it’s never enough because opinions are forbidden. I am very, very bad at not having opinions. At not intervening when she says something I disagree with, or when she’s verbally attacking my relatives. I can’t hold back and I always get such horrible responses, about how stupid and fat and ugly and worthless I am, about how it’s not my house, it’s nothing to do with me, I don’t understand anything.
Today she made a hurtful and untrue accusation about me, and I called her a liar and left the room immediately before I could say or do anything else. Blood rushing through my ears, I could have torn down buildings.
I have some very ugly and unpleasant feelings about her. I’m torn between wanting to avoid the hypocrisy of pretending to love her when it’s really so much closer to the opposite feeling, and wanting to hide out of shame and embarrassment. It feels like everyone loves their mother and has a close relationship and it’s just not normal to fantasise about punching her in the face.
I know there are other people out there in the world who have the same sorts of problems as me. I just don’t know any of them. I feel like a freak.