The Lowest Point

Sometimes I get incredibly scared. Scared not only of the world, but of myself as well. It is not an easy place to be, and it makes me reassess what I am doing, where I am going in quite a frenetic and frenzied way.

The world intrudes on life every day, that is only normal and expected, but at times it becomes pervasive, influencing and integrating, harrowing and hassling every action I try to undertake. What do I mean by that? Sometimes I lack the skills or inclination to shut out the world, and I can't make decisions without trying to take into account everyone and everything. I get scared that my actions have a far more dramatic effect than they could ever do, that my actions might set in effect a chain reaction that has a terrible and unforeseen outcome. The nasty trick that my OCD is able to pull is that I also become convinced that inaction would be equally disastrous.

Of course, it is ridiculously easy here in the comfort of a quiet January evening to set out the issue, and explain the mental meaness and trickery behind it, almost brush it off as an affectation, a 'thing' to be owned and ordered. Oh were that the case when I am in the moment though. When it strikes, it is not easy at all, it is terrifying, seemingly inescapable and very, very real. Even the most logical and obstinate part of my mind caves in under the pressure and accepts the gravity of matters. I have to do something and I have to do it right now, but what? What do I do, and how can I live with the consequences if things go awry? The mental gymnastics I go through trying to extrapolate the consequences are exhausting and rapid. It matters not that the downside risks do not appear, I have merely been lucky, once again amd next time I better get it right or there will be a price to be paid.

That's the world, but sometimes it is me that I am scared of. When it gets dark (and by that I mean dark for me), I go to places I don't want to be. This is very hard to write about as the me that is constructing this blog entry barely recognises the me I can become when suffering a severe bout of depression. Sometimes I feel ashamed of myself, unable to accept where I am. I find it a matter of great personal embarassment that I have never married, nor had a family, that it is weakness in my character and my mind that prevents me from finding love again. It hurts to write those words, but not as much as it hurts to feel those emotions. I taunt myself, parading failures like tickertape heroes and holding out unreasonable goals as what should constitute my proper expectations.

Taunting oneself is a terrible place to be in, the last trustworthy champion of the self is the self, and once that goes, it is a rapid and bitter decline into misery and the all-encompassing bleakness. That is when I reach the lowest ebb, the nadir, and where I face my greatest fears. I am not sure I have the strength to write about them openly, nor the desire to. This is the point where reality fades into insignificance and what remains of Dave begins to pose questions that I am too afraid to answer. It is a place where I am utterly alone and nothing can reach me or comfort me. Family, friends, loved ones are so far away that I fear I will never get back to them, and if I do I will be a shell of the man I was before. It is a place I have been to twice and somewhere I would fight any battle, face any demon, do absolutely anything to never have to go to again. There's fear, and then there is this place, beyond fear, beyond despair and I am terrified of it.