I feel so overwhelmed by life.
My husband has been off work this past week and it’s been wonderful. But now Tuesday is looming (the day he goes back to work) and I feel like I’m falling back into that pit of despair filled with restless ghosts that won’t stop whispering at me.
What is the point of life?
What is the point of you?
You don’t do anything.
You don’t mean anything.
Life is monotonous and pointless.
Etc etc etc.
It’s just so exhausting. I just want to curl up so tight and small that the negative thoughts bounce off me when they try to attack. Like I’m an armadillo or something. A creature with an in-built defense mechanism, a tough exterior to protect the sensitive interior. But here’s the real question: how do you curl up and hide from your own mind? It’s inside of you. You can’t exactly remove your brain temporarily whenever it gives you trouble. You can’t shut it off when it’s malfunctioning. Not without shutting your entire self off irreversibly, of course. Which isn’t an option for me. I won’t give up.
But I hate this mental illness crap!
It’s like a weight pressing down on me, whispering hateful words and cruel judgements, accusing and condemning.
You’re not good enough. You’re a disappointment. You’re always a disappointment. You’re fat and you’re ugly and who could blame people for not loving you?
It’s voices in my head repeating vicious mantras, voices of the enemy, except if I listen closely I realise it’s my voice and I am the enemy, my mind, my self, my very essence.
How do you kill the thing that’s killing you if the thing that’s killing you is your own mind?
I hate it and I despise it and I defy it.
Depression you do not own me. You do not control me. You do not define me.
I am me and I am not you. Leave me alone. I will win.
I will win and you will die because I am more than you will ever be.
I love good days. They are worth living for. And they remind me of what it means to be happy.
I love laughing and I love that I am married to my best friend, who is great at making me laugh.
Today was good.
A day when things seem to be getting a bit better. I’m well aware this is probably just the upward slant of the eternal up-and-down wave I’m living called anxiety and depression, but there’s no doubt the upward slant feels a heck of a lot nicer than the downward one.
I’m kind of afraid of this kind of thinking though; the past few weeks have been so dismal, and what if I’m not really on my way out of this horrid low? What if it will just keep on going, and going, and going…?
Argh. I hate the way toxic thoughts circle like vultures, sensing a weakness in my mood and attacking it mercilessly. I was feeling okay when I started this post. Now I’m tense. Welcome to depression and anxiety! It’s nothing new really.
I’ll just keep taking deep breaths to help dispel the knot in my stomach and distract myself with other thoughts.
My Dad said something to me the other day that made me think a lot. He said that while some people do recover from mental illness like this, some don’t. But sometimes they learn to live with it, and they learn how to live with it. As in, they learn how to grow accustomed to the fear and the pain and the despair and still exist in spite of it. And more than that, they find ways to exist almost outside of it. They can enjoy life.
I don’t know if I’ve ever really believed I’ll recover fully. I don’t know if ‘full’ recovery even happens. And that’s always panicked me. I hate the thought of living like this forever. That thought sparks panic and all sorts of dark feelings. But anyway. Thinking of what my Dad said about not recovering but learning to live anyway gave me hope, in a weird way. Because that’s something I can actually aim for. Full recovery is a bit farfetched for me to envisage, at least for myself. It seems so far off that it’s unreachable. But I can learn to face my demons and laugh at them. I can feel the panic in my stomach or the hollowness in my heart and live on still. I can do that.
And hopefully I will.
A more positive day, even though it didn’t start out so well. I guess it goes to show what a difference simple things can make.
I’ve had a tough few weeks and this morning I was quite touchy and emotional. So my husband decided to tidy up the house a bit before he left for work. It worked wonders. Getting rid of mess and clutter makes such a difference to my state of mind. And he did it for me to try and make my life easier.
Life is hard but I realise I have a lot to be thankful for, and top of that list is my husband. He’s awesome.
You scream but no one hears you.
You laugh to cover up your agony; why can nobody tell how fake it is?
You smile a smile that feels like a grimace, but it must pass off okay because no one rushes to your side.
You feel ashamed of your own weakness.
Your eyes are open but they might as well not be, because the colour is leeched out of everything.
You look in the mirror and see a stranger. A stranger who looks like a dead girl. She terrifies you. You cannot see yourself anywhere in her grey features. The death in her eyes is the death of yourself.
Who are you now?
You are empty. A shell. An automaton going through the motions of blinking a breathing, but not really knowing why.
You are mentally ill but your mind is you, so every piece of you is defined by your illness.
You are shakiness and panic attacks and lethargy and fear and despair and apathy and hollowness.
You are depression.
I haven’t posted in a very long time. I’m not going to do an update in detail because I doubt it matters.
If anyone reads this, just know this:
I am still depressed and I am still anxious.
My life has changed in various ways and I’ve had ups and downs. But the point is I’m not better (yet?). I’m still climbing this damn hill and I’m not entirely sure why I haven’t fallen to my death yet. Well, okay, I know why. Because I’m a freak and I guess somewhere inside me I know things can get better. And I suppose evidence speaks for itself because in this impenetrable blackness that is mental illness, I catch glimpses of light sometimes. Or maybe glimpses of grey. Something not quite as black.
I read a book called ‘Reasons to Stay Alive’ by Matt Haig. It’s good. Read it if you’re suffering with depression or anxiety or a mixture of the two. Read it if you’re suicidal or self harming. I read it and it helped me. I’m not better, but it did help. Just the way he managed to put into words my feelings. Anyway. Give it a try. It’s short, easy reading. The chapters are generally short too so you can read it in small segments.
Anyway. I’m blogging again. I’m the same as before but different in small ways.
Today I cut myself with a knife because I want someone to care.
I told my husband I needed him to be with me today but he went to work anyway. So I cut myself. It’s the first time I’ve done it.
I just want him to care.
For the record, the cut is pathetic. It barely broke the skin. But I see pinpricks of blood so in my head it counts. Is it sick that I’m actually proud of it? I’m so afraid of pain I thought I’d never be able to bring myself to self harm. It’s an achievement really. A sick, twisted achievement. But it’s all I achieve in my hell of a life other than existing so I think it deserves a mention.
I despise myself so much.
The answer is to kill myself.
That’s it. Simple, really.