The One Big Lie

You lie to them all. Oh, not about everything, but definitely the one question; “Do you ever consider harming yourself - do you have suicidal thoughts?”

You shake your head and say no, perhaps you acknowledge your awareness that this is part of your condition. You say “The thought may have crossed my mind, but I dismissed it immediately. I don’t think I’ve ever seriously considered it.”

But that’s not true is it? You have considered it. You’ve researched different methods and gone as far as planning where to do it to cause the least mess and problems for others. Everything from sitting in bed, to the more fanciful trip to Cambodia for a final long holiday, then hands full of barbiturates on a beach. 

Maybe you’ve even updated any financials, such as a will, or made plans for your funeral to ensure you don’t put a burden on family.

In fact, you think about everyday - EVERY FUCKING DAY!!!!

That little voice in the dark fog of your depressed mind whispers, nudges - and sometimes shouts - “No one cares, no one would really miss you. Do it! Stop the pain and misery!

It reminds you why you feel so bad. “ Do you want to spend the rest of your life living this life? You’re getting too old to change - things are just going downhill. There’s no future in which things get better.”

And you believe it. You know - really know - deep in your heart, that it’s telling the truth. Despair rears its head again “What’s the point???” it cries. No answer seems to appear.

Sleep, that safe refuge from life, evades you - you toss and turn through the night, unable to get the peace and respite you so desperately need. So you start the new day exhausted and emotionally drained.

Alcohol offers a solution - drink enough and oblivion beckons. A night’s sleep offered. But not rest, Drunken sleep leaves you tired all day. But sleep still refuses to come. More alcohol at least allows a few, comatose, hours of mental silence. And so the cycle continues, exhaustion, drunken sleep, exhaustion. 

The other downside to the alcohol, is the emotional rawness it causes. Despair while sober is bad enough, but when drunk it becomes total hopelessness. That nasty little voice becomes a roar. “Get on with it, you pathetic wanker!”

You look around you, tears running down your face, as you try to find a rock to cling to. Anything to help you stay on the shores of the living, before this terrible dark wave washes you away and death embraces you.

If you’re lucky, you find something - perhaps a child, or loved one comes to mind. Someone you know will suffer greatly if you leave them this way. 

Perhaps you are alone, but find the will to live is still strong enough to beat back this desire for an end to the turmoil. You decide to live another day and see if you feel different tomorrow.

You carry on, you work with others to get better and you push that little voice back into a room in the depths of your mind. The voice almost silenced…

You slowly recover. 

Or perhaps you don’t…

Not everyone finds that rock to cling to. Some are so damaged by the mental anguish of their condition that they cannot find a way back from the edge. They may feel there is no option open to them - no ‘cure’, for want of a better word, that will ever enable them to see a way back. 

Perhaps they’ve lost everything; driven everyone away.

Because that’s the thing with this illness - it’s hateful, filled with anger. Anger that’s often directed at the people most vulnerable to it - those who love and care for you and who can’t understand why you have turned into such a horrible version of the person they love. You see all this and the guilt makes you feel even worse. The depression feeds itself on your misery.

It destroys you from within your mind. And you can’t run away from it - it’s you. 

Which is why some people come to the realisation; the only way to end this situation is to kill the problem.

So, they do. 

And depression claims another victory.

Get back to that keyboard

Well, it's been a while since I wrote a proper blog (no developments on the attempt to earn from it as yet) and I thought it was time to start up again.

The last few months have been a little difficult - my depression makes it hard to find the enthusiasm to do anything - and as a result my writing has stopped completely. 

It's a bit of a vicious cycle as I feel even more down when I stare at the screen and can't even write a simple piece.

Anyway, my wife has finally convinced me to pick up one of the many part written/half conceived stories and have a serious go at finishing it off. 

At the same time I'm also looking into putting together a few of my short stories and creating a Kindle book. If nothing else, it will keep me occupied and might even be enjoyed by at least one person...

The hardest part for me now is deciding which story I feel most comfortable in trying to develop into a book. They say you should write what you know which has reduced it to two choices. I love sci-fi, so that offers one of my routes, but I have started a book with hints of self biography (only in so much as the main character has led a similar life, but without all the cock-ups) and a list of characters drawn from real life.

To be honest, the sci-fi feels a bit of a shambles (different parts seem to be different books) so I suspect I will be writing option 2.

I'm going to try to blog as much as possible, as well as work on the book every day. Maybe the last few months will prove to be the push I needed to actually finish writing at least one book.

Thanks for visiting

Neil

Writing for therapy?

Some years ago I was having a very difficult time in my life.

I was, quite honestly, falling apart. I was drinking to excess, experiencing panic attacks and severe mood swings. Friends and family begged me to seek help, but I refused to do so.

Like many men, I considered mental health issues to be a sign of weakness. I didn't need help, I could cope...

Until one day, I finally admitted to myself I was in trouble.

I was at university at the time and, after a number of false starts, went to see the counselling services. The counsellor was exactly what I needed – she listened, made suggestions and provided a 'safe' place. My six sessions became several months as she assessed me as suffering severe depression.

Along the way, she convinced me to seek medical assistance and I visited my GP. Unfortunately, not all GPs regard depression as worthy of their time. My GP prescribed a course of Seroxat and sent me on my way. The drugs left me numb and served only to cut me off from the world even more. Eventually I chose to stop taking them and experienced a few weeks of side effects.

After the best part of a year I felt much better – able to deal with life again.

What nobody told me is the fact depression can return.

Last year I was diagnosed as suffering from moderate depression after an extended period of high stress. My GP is a far more understanding person than the previous one, which meant he listened to my concerns and prescribed a suitable medication. He also informed me I may need a very long term prescription to help me remained 'balanced' chemically. This was not exactly good news, but the truth is I am much more relaxed than I've been in years.

Which brings me to...

I have written since childhood but lost the habit a few years ago. Since I have had time on my hands I have returned to writing on a daily basis (although as we all know, that's not always easy!), even if it's only this blog.

I have read that writing can be therapeutic and I must agree. I had forgotten how good it feels to complete some work and read it back with the satisfied feeling of having created something. My wife encourages my writing as she can see the therapeutic value, as well as the (extremely optimistic) hope it may develop into something more.

Many blog writers seem to have personal difficulties - or just stressful lives – and I believe many of us gain great benefits from our daily outputs. I know I certainly enjoy both the reading of other blogs and the writing of this one.

Perhaps the GPs should add this to their list of therapies?

Why can’t I write?

I seem to have run into a brick wall this week.

My novel is at a standstill, a couple of short stories I've been working on are just sitting there and daring me to try to move them and I've even struggled to blog this week.

What's happened to all my momentum???

I'd like to blame my cold, but that's never stopped me before. I usually find it useful to take my mind off of things by writing, so I can't blame distractions.

The beautiful weather is not a particularly good incentive to stay indoors, but I have a laptop I can use in the garden. So no use blaming the sunshine...

Last week I had the news about my piece being published which should have been a boost to my writing but wasn't.

I have suffered from depression on and off for some years and have always found writing to be quite therapeutic. Perhaps that is my problem. I'm fairly at peace with myself at present (which is quite surprising, to be honest) and maybe my mind is holding on to all the 'good' writing until I need it again?

Whatever the reason, it has provided an opportunity to catch up on my reading (those who can, etc...) and revisit one or two old favourites. I just wish I was producing my own stories, rather than reading someone else's.

Perhaps I'll try a few flash fiction stories – they might be written before inspiration deserts me...