I’m annoyed at myself for posting up that Facebook status, but it’s usually when I put up crap like that when I realise that I’m in a bad way. Because I’m usually pretty good at keeping it all under the surface, but in recent weeks it’s been harder to keep up that facade. More to the point, I don’t know why I insist on acting like I’m okay when I’m not. I know that immediately people might have picked up on a suicide-y vibe with that statement, what I actually meant was something far more literal. With my decision to drop my education for the foreseeable future, along with the halt that has happened in my work life and the uncertainty that I’m facing with regards to a possible paid job in the near future… there’s nothing to look forward to.
I’m seeing friends buy their first homes, go on adventures, climb up the ladder in their careers, having babies and extending their families… and I think, I wish I had that. And then I focus on the lack of income that I have, the amount of planning that has to go into any excursion due to my anxieties and neuroses, and not forgetting the chronic mental disorder I live with. I know that these sorts of things don’t just happen for anyone, everything had to be worked for, but I feel like I could work myself to the bone in every way and it would still never be enough for the life I want. Sometimes I just want to bury a hole in my bed and just stay there for all the good I do in the world. Am I deluded? Am I just rambling depressive nonsense? Maybe I’ll look back on this post in a few weeks and want to hit myself in the face.
Thanks to all the lovely folks who commented and tried their best to put a positive on my positively MySpace-esque status update. I really do appreciate it even when I can’t show it.
It’s like a bizarre throwback to my teen years at the moment. I’d wake up every morning feeling sad and empty, go on with my day feeling sad and empty – though, no-one could tell because I was so fucking good and pretending I was okay – and then I’d go to bed feeling sad and empty. Even now I joke that I go to bed when I’m depressed so I can pretend to be dead. It’s not really a joke though. Nothing is helping my mood right now, I don’t even know where this gloom came from. I thought I was doing alright. Hell, I was at Open Mic once again last week where I read a short horror story I’d written with support from my friend Kaveeta. But it’s been there at the back of my mind, the static. No colour, no hope.
I’m pretty sure I’m writing bullshit at this point, nothing I write seems to make sense at the moment. It’s all just lines.
Tomorrow morning I finally have my psychological assessment. Probably going to be an hour and a half, I have no idea what to expect from it. I suppose the one good thing about feeling so low is that I don’t have the energy to pretend I’m okay, so the psychologist will actually be able to find the right therapy for me. Hopefully. The Husband will be there with me anyway, and he’s really good at saying what’s really going on even when I’m in full hedgehog mode when I come into contact with professionals. I’ll try and write about it if I feel up to it.
I’ve been invited to a Think4Brum meetup, but I don’t know if I’ll be up to it. I’ve put myself on hiatus from Slimming World until I can face people properly again. All I’m doing right now is surviving, occasionally working (in the hope of getting a paid role… it’s a very faint hope but somehow I’m still going along with it) and playing FFXIV when I’m not lying in bed. I want to write, I want to draw and paint, I want to do things with my Husband as it’s the summer holidays…
Mental illness is fucking ridiculous.