Wednesday 30 September 2015

Diary of a Depressed Girl (Day 2)

30th September - Balls to it

Payday. For the average brained amongst you this will be a good day. Finances picking up you'll probably already have picked out the new shoes you want online or decided to go to that gig next month with your friends. When you're depressed it's not quite as easy. We all worry about money. No doubt you said to yourself 'well that's already spent' or 'now I'll be living on beans for the month'. But you'll still find a way to go out the Saturday after next or go for dinner with your bestie, to that little restaurant you've been meaning to try for ages because she's got a crush on the beardy guy who works there. You'll worry. Possibly complain to your partner. Make a mental note to start a finances spreadsheet like your dad. But then you'll get a text, or turn on the TV and life will continue. Your brain will move on to the next thought. What shall we have for dinner. 

Just to illustrate the absurdity, this in the space of 10 seconds of logging on to Internet banking is what went through the brain of an anxious person - 'Why don't I earn more money. It's because my career is going nowhere. There was no point doing that degree. You should have known you'd never end up doing anything worthwhile. You might as well just give up now. Is it possible to retire in your 20's. Don't be stupid people are having to work much longer now. There are a lot of people on the street and you are complaining. What bills do I have to pay. I don't know when they go out. I can't face checking it because maybe I worked it out wrong. I'm bound to not be able to pay them. What if I lose my job because of all this going on. What if I can't pay my rent. I'm bound to end up on the street. Would I get killed if I was homeless because I didn't know the 'street code'. Which place in Cardiff would be the safest to sleep in. I'll have to start planning that just in case. Maybe if I make friends with that tough guy with a dog who lives under the bridge...' 

The next obstacle is the shower. I like to think I am a clean person. In fact it sometimes forms part of the ritual OCD to wash my hands. But when you're depressed everything feels like the hardest thing in the world to do sometimes. Today the thought of having to shower is physically difficult. I have to consciously focus on making it happen. I am torn by the want to go out and the need to curl up in a ball and block it all out. 

When I do make it in it's not the most pleasant experience. I marked my skin last night. I hesitate to call it cut because that sounds so bad, so detached from the actual feeling. I wince because as much as I love original source mint shower gel it is not kind to the burning reminders of my feelings on my arms. People do this for many reasons. I cannot claim to know or understand them all. For me it's like a bubbling up. It gets to the point where I cannot feel or think anymore and a purely physical sensation elsewhere is like a release. Luckily I couldn't get the blade off my razor. Well done to the company for making it so impossible. I am going to take steps to make sure it stays that way. I think watching that documentary about Amy Winehouse may have been a bad idea. It was like looking into a mirror at times but then so completely different to what I am going through. I made a mental note to myself to put down the alcohol in my hand. 

The doctor asked me 'Are you suicidal'. And I could immediately and confidently answer 'no'. I don't want to die. I told her. Just sometimes I don't want to exist. I want to cease being. Or rather I want to be, but just not be me. And as long as that distinction is clear to me, I know that I can still be here. 

When I finally make it to the park there is an overwhelming feeling of anti climax. The court is taken so I can't play. I walk to the lakes. It's beautiful. And usually a good place to come and think. But today. Now that I am here. I think 'what now'. I am completely alone and the thought that usually comforts me sends a chill through me. I watch the seagulls on the water and wonder what it must be like to be them. Consumed by the need to survive. To eat, mate, purposefully eat your garbage and crap all over your cars. I doubt a seagull spends hours worrying that it looks too feathery today or that the other seagulls won't like it. In fact annoying your own kind seems a pre requisite for seagull-kind. 

There is something hypnotic about the ripples and I cannot deny that I get the same thought as I do every time I cross a bridge. I just want to throw something. I don't know what or why. Then the thought hits me to throw the ball. The thing that has consumed me to get over the last day was another let down. Now I know what the rational reading this is thinking. Why would you not just go back and play later. Well that's because the depressed mind cannot comprehend a later. Right now there is only the rustling of the trees and a lack of direction. I decide it's probably best to just keep walking. 

On the way back I buy a glass bottle from the shop with some fancy fruit drink in it. I have no idea why I chose it but I become aware of the urge to crush the bottle in my hand. Luckily it passes and I somehow make it back unaware of how I got here or why I now seem to be unable to stop tears streaming down my face. I wonder where my place is in the world and realise I should probably eat something as it's nearly 3. The washing up is looking at me, reminding me that the world doesn't stop because you are struggling with it. The day has passed in a blur.  One more day closer to the meds settling in. One day closer to clarity. I read a quote today from Robin Williams. He said that the saddest people are always the ones who want to make others laugh, because they never want anyone else to feel the sadness they feel. 



Tuesday 29 September 2015

Diary of a Depressed Girl

I am a 28 year old girl. I live in Wales. I go to work in an office. I drink wine with my friends on the weekend. I am a lesbian. I have depression. I have anxiety. I have OCD. I have PTSD. I am a Type 1 diabetic. I really like olives. I do not like spiders. I am not solely defined by any one of these things but the one thing that I cannot get away from on a daily basis is my own brain. I have a mental health condition. I don't talk a lot about it because the stigma is still there and until very recently I did not understand it myself. I may never. But what I do know is that my experiences need to be expelled from my brain in order for me to find a way to be. A way to get through the seconds and hours and days ahead. Writing makes the thoughts tangible and the tangible is much easier to deal with. And this is it. This is my stream of consciousness. I will be blunt and self depreciating because I will not be editing. Not will probably be an uncomfortable read. If anything I hope that it will give some comfort to me and to others going through experiences like mine. If you were looking for something light you might be on the wrong blog.  

Tuesday 29th September - Day 1

I had the thoughts again last night in bed, the ones where I could not stand to be my own body. It became so intense that I had to get up and put layers on so that I could create a physical barrier between me and my own skin. I felt vulnerable and the pangs in my stomach made it impossible to imagine anyone even touching my hand, a friend patting my shoulder or a stranger on the street looking at me. 

I have doubled my dose of prozac. It made me want to walk into the road. Music helps when your brain is full of thoughts about why anyone would even attend your funeral. But I had to take some time away again from work. So this morning it was back to my GP. She's nice and when I tell her about the traffic she doesn't make me feel like I'm crazy. You'll feel worse, 7-10 days but phone me if you make any 'bad plans'. That's what she calls suicidal thoughts and it makes me smile. She kind of reminds me of my friend, she told me that if I were to walk in front of a bus I would probably do it wrong. Not get the right effect. I deal with my life through humour, so why shouldn't I mock this thing that is burrowing deeper into my brain. 

She referred me for counselling which is always an ominous thought and immediately I started thinking about how to lie to the counsellor and whether my eyes would give me away. They tend to change colour when I am sad. Lie detectors are not mandatory I remind myself. But why would I lie. Because being a compulsive liar is not completely unfamiliar. It was a coping mechanism as a child. The early signs when I told my teacher I had seen my friend drown to get attention. One of the least proud moments of my life. I didn't want to tell her why I was really sad. But the cry for help was met with being told to stand in front of the class and say why telling lies is bad. 

I have to come back in 2 weeks. She's put me on to this CBT thing called Mood Gym which asks you all kinds of questions about why you feel like you do. It's meant to help with coping mechanisms. I just like that the characters are called things like 'no problemos' and 'moody'. Identifying with a character helps with perspective. I had blood taken too which is always an issue as my veins like to play hide and seek when it come to giant needles. Sweeney Todd had to dig in 3 places to get it but luckily she did with a smile, a generic question about the weather and didn't have to foray into my wrist, which hurts like a...a lot. 

I always hate when they say exercise helps with anything, because mostly I am lazy. Getting under a blanket with some chocolate and watching repeats of 90's sitcoms is always an instinct in these situations. But I decided to take a walk. And it did help. There are some beautiful houses in Cardiff. Lined with trees. The kind of houses you pass and promise you'll live there some day with your dog and your 2.4 children. But then the thought crosses my mind that I will never be normal. Happiness is for other people who have functioning frontal lobes. I chastise myself for these thoughts. The cycle of doomed thoughts. Social anxiety is manageable today and the walk around some greenery actually helps.

I found a basketball court and spend 30 mins getting lost with google maps trying to find a sport shop. I loved basketball and have the urge to play. I'll have to go back tomorrow though because I have to order the ball in.

Wandering in crowds on a sunny Tuesday afternoon allows me to lose myself a little. I turn off my phone. The feeing of being unreachable coursing through me like adrenaline. Stopping by a stream reminds me of how soothing water is. It reminds me of a happy memory of my gran but a million negatives crowd it and soon I feel melancholy again. Good life choices don't seem important so I have cheesecake for lunch and a can of red bull. It makes me feel guilty but satisfied. 

Sitting down at home in front of the TV when there are a hundred thoughts a minute is difficult and that's when I started writing. The kind of writing where you go all shining-esque and considering scrawling 'all work and no play' on your wall in eyeliner. But then I though of the bond. Logic tried to punch irrationality but missed because sometimes he's got a really bad aim. I had to pace when it was done. 7 laps around the room because 7 is today's number. And now I am tapping. 

When that happens on a bus I like to pretend I am a great classical pianist, practicing my composition. I have the hands for a piano but never had the ability to commit to learning. One of the biggest frustrations of this thing is how it effects your interest in things, your decision making, your ability to focus. I chastise myself for not being better at something. Decide I am going to fail at everything and contemplate going to sleep because it is all so tiring. Luckily I got an e-mail that the basketball is in. Something mundane to walk towards and half way through another day. 

Saturday 19 September 2015

The Endless Mourning

If I told you I missed you, would you come back,
Bring all the emotions I now seem to lack. 
Restart my heart and recharge my soul,
These years without you have taken their toll. 
Would you take my hand and bring back the feeling,
To be able to breathe sounds so appealing.
Take the thoughts from my brain and heal all the scars,
Release the good memories, I keep them in jars.
Dust off the heartache and rekindle some belief,
Give me some hope and vanquish this grief. 
Bring me my innocence, relieve me from the weight,
The hurt is always wanton and never sedate.
Brush away my tears, tangled fingers in my hair, 
Help me find my self worth, my ability to care. 
Tell me white lies, bring colour to the grey,
This is all I ask of you, if only for a day. 

Friday 18 September 2015

Ruby

In memory of Ruby Winter. No greater or more beautiful hedgehog ever lived...


Puckered skin white as snow, 
Nestled in the morning glow.
Sharpened spines on prickling hind,
Shuffling through your daily grind.
Eyes like rubies shining bright,
Gently slumber until the night. 
Through the leaves on dampened ground,
A home for the morning desperate to be found,
Over hedges, streams and trees,
Rain and thunder, a gentle breeze. 
Awake to find it was all a dream,
Walls and sofas, ceilings and beams. 
A sleepy growl as her hand appears,
Her face alleviates all your fears.
Chewing bugs as she holds you tight,
Maybe just another bite.

Thursday 17 September 2015

When did you know you were a lesbian...

When I was Eleven kiss chase was never my thing,
I thought maybe I was prudish, not looking for a fling.
With Thirteen came the discos, dancing at opposite ends,
I was the one sat outside, laughing with my friends.
At Fifteen I relented, he wanted to hold my hand, 
My heart definitely didn't flutter, I didn't understand. 
When I was sweet SIxteen, he asked me to stay the night,
I created a duvet barrier and insisted we keep on the light.
At Seventeen he touched my boob playing football on the hill,
My ninja reflexes made me slap him,
And I went home feeling ill.
Eighteen was the year of house parties and knocking back the drink,
I touched my first appendage and vomited in the sink.
Finally at Nineteen in a dingy gay bar toilet,
It came to me an epiphany it's the man bit that always spoils it.
The Women on my walls I didn't just admire,
The female form, this was my norm, it lit my world on fire. 

Wednesday 16 September 2015

What Anxiety Feels Like

Woke up at three, cramp in my knee, and sat up in my bed, 
Hands are numb, feeling glum, filled with that sense of dread.
Tap was dripping, heart was skipping, looking for the flood,
Caught my reflection, further inspection, no sign of any blood.
Is there a fire, a murderer, a spider crawling up the wall,
Phone starts beeping, I'm quietly creeping,  what happens if I fall. 
What if I die, I start to cry, and sigh at my own sense of drama,
If I try and breathe, will I feel the relief, will it make me any calmer.
Feeling lonely, what if I'm only ever going to be fat,
I'll be found by next door, 'we don't see her anymore' face being eaten by a cat. 
Will I be late for the meeting, stumble at the greeting and get fired by my boss,
Did I lock my door, am I really a bore, will my teeth fall out if I don't floss.
What will happen in Greece, I can hear the police, are there zombies in the street,
My head starts pounding, trying to get grounded, I really do have weird shaped feet.
What if there's an earthquake, did I make a big mistake, am I really late will my bills,
I'm nearly at 30, that floor looks really dirty, did I take too many pills.
Watching the clock, every tick and tock, feels like this night will last forever, 
I thought you were bright what happened to your light, you were always meant to be clever. 
Trapped in my brain, am I going insane, this never ending quandary,  
Morning's here, new things to fear, did I remember to put on the laundry.





Tuesday 15 September 2015

The Missing Page

There's a novel on my book case that has a missing page,
With a broken spine and faded word of an indeterminable age.
I often sit and wonder does it know it isn't there,
If I felt a piece of me missing would I long for it, would I care.
It's somewhere in the middle not crucial to the plot,
But why did fate decided which one should be forgot.
Never to be spoken, never read aloud,
Never to bask in the glory of making its reader proud. 
Did time ravage the binding, was it ripped without consent,
Accidental or with malice, torn, misshapen, crumpled or bent.
Has it been recycled, is it lying in a box,
Burned atop a fire or ingested by a pesky fox. 
I will shed a tear for you, I will mourn your premature demise,
Like a Phoenix from the ashes your unabridged counterpart will rise.
I often sit and wonder what makes us feel complete,
Do we shed forgotten pages, replace them, rewrite, repeat.