Messy mind, it tortures him, thoughts stretched to ruin on the rack,
Hopes, contentment crucified, the future hides in black.
Just live for now, or perish here, the drink decides your fate;
Mortal man, undignified, filled with spite and rage and hate.
Back over shoulder, mesmerised, the lies of years ago,
Downfall brought to memory, reliving blow by blow.
Trapped mind will wilt in feedback loop, the shattered mirror falls,
In pieces for another night, ‘To Oblivion!’ he calls.
And grasping now the bottle neck, to incapacity he’ll sink,
Swill it back, erase the pain, become one with the drink.
And so to wake another day, regretful and ashamed,
On shadow men, and broken heart, is all his folly blamed.
Wednesday, 23 May 2012
Thursday, 10 May 2012
Another evening, another day
Its the slow intake of breath and it's regretful expulsion through the nose that gives it away. The semblance of calm breath when inside there is utter turmoil. Right now I am not sure how many days I have been passing it all off as tickety boo, but it feels like it has been forever. The only option is to write about it, hope that the process of delivering words to paper (or rather their HTMLisation) will help force me out of this funk.
I want to run from now. Now is bad, now is the wrong place and the wrong time. I want to flee to beauty, I want to see beauty, feel it, hold it in my arms. Things here are not beautiful. The world is grey and I find myself reading poems I have written of muses or otherwise and I cannot bring those feelings to being, they seem alien, as if I have never experienced love, gentleness or wonder.
I know that I have, I was after all there, but it is as if a screen is between me and the memory, the sensations of the memories. I've loved, I know I have. And what's more, I meant it, but now there is no love, there is helplessness. There is need and there is regret that I am so. And guilt....guilt at being a net drag rather than a net gain. And where did this timidity come from? I am afraid to ask for help, for love, for affection, wary that I am an anchor threatening to halt your progress through the tempestuous seas we sail.
So I write it all down, in the hope it will make sense, but, in truth, it never does. I have never fitted in with any world view I can conceive. I have always been an enigma to myself. Capable of emotions that literally rip me apart at their intensity, and yet incapable of placing them correctly in my timeline that the results make sense. Too early,too late, I have been both in my time and I have been both at the same time.
I'm tired. I've seen a lot, and experienced a lot, I have done things that no one knows about but me and some of them shame me. I've lived in squalor and splendour emotionally, but I am no closer to resolution or becoming complete.
Perhaps for me there are no answers, merely questions and my life will be all quest and no rest. Thanks for listening.
Thursday, 19 April 2012
Wishing it was different
First of all, I should apologise. I haven't been in a blogging frenzy lately, so updates have been few and far between. I have also been busy. However that is not the point, the point is I have been trying to pretend everything is OK, when everything is patently not OK. So I am back in the blog, and there are lots of things I want to say, quite a few I need to say and somewhere between the two, things I will say.
On the plus side, I achieved one of my life goals last week in that I did a stand up comedy routine in front of an audience (albeit a small audience). I just want to say that I am extremely pleased with how it went, it is definitely something I will be doing more of and, importantly, nothing I am about to say alters that, or diminishes my enjoyment of and pride in that box being ticked.
Having said that, I have been trying to use the high from that event to cover up the disturbing realisation that I am not OK, but today the tide broke over it, washing away any pretence of OKness. I guess it has always been this way for me, pulsating highs and crushing lows coming one after the other. I have been telling myself that I SHOULD be content, happy, on a high and therefore that I must be on a high. All evidence of my heart however was telling me otherwise. There's a terrible feeling of emptiness in me at the moment, a dread of each day being hollow, purposeless, aimless, wandering. I guess I have come here to talk about it because that is what I do, write about things. Here I can type the words out and know that you will read them and I don't have to subject you to the mess I am in as I press each key, living out the misery I am typing, wincing as I draw the words out of myself, crying as I read it back.
And right there we have one of the major problems. I cannot bear the thought of being burdensome on loved ones, on my friends. I hate the thought of being weak, of being a net 'need' upon people I care about. I have only ever wanted to make you proud of me, proud of knowing me, relaxed around me, happy to be with me. I want to be a giver, for my friendship and my love to come with benefits, not costs. Totally irrational of course, for everyone comes with both benefit and emotional cost, but that is how it is with me. Because I struggle with mental illness, I am determined it shall not affect outside of me, that I contain the negative aspects inside, so that none have to pay in any way for my suffering.
It is a literal insanity, because I am ill-equipped to nurture myself, and nurture surely is a natural thing to expect or hope for from friendship and love? The bleakness I struggle with will not allow me to believe I am capable of giving you the love and tenderness you deserve, and therefore that it would be selfish of me to expect it in return. The ridiculous thing is that however logical it all seems to see it in words, the experience is very different. The actual wrench I feel all the time, in every way, that I would rather rip out my heart and throw it away than let it poison someone else's life. The sheer terror of reaching out, of being in need, of expecting you to meet that need.
What has hit me, and why everything is not OK, is that I have realised I am only ever giving a part of myself to you, only the part I like to think of as relaxed, happy, loving, fun. It means you don't know what it is to be loved by me in totality, and that is an awful thing to realise. Perhaps writing this is the start of a different approach, certainly something needs to change. Perhaps what I am saying is that soon, somehow, I will need to reach out. Because it cannot go on like this, it has done so for far too long.
On the plus side, I achieved one of my life goals last week in that I did a stand up comedy routine in front of an audience (albeit a small audience). I just want to say that I am extremely pleased with how it went, it is definitely something I will be doing more of and, importantly, nothing I am about to say alters that, or diminishes my enjoyment of and pride in that box being ticked.
Having said that, I have been trying to use the high from that event to cover up the disturbing realisation that I am not OK, but today the tide broke over it, washing away any pretence of OKness. I guess it has always been this way for me, pulsating highs and crushing lows coming one after the other. I have been telling myself that I SHOULD be content, happy, on a high and therefore that I must be on a high. All evidence of my heart however was telling me otherwise. There's a terrible feeling of emptiness in me at the moment, a dread of each day being hollow, purposeless, aimless, wandering. I guess I have come here to talk about it because that is what I do, write about things. Here I can type the words out and know that you will read them and I don't have to subject you to the mess I am in as I press each key, living out the misery I am typing, wincing as I draw the words out of myself, crying as I read it back.
And right there we have one of the major problems. I cannot bear the thought of being burdensome on loved ones, on my friends. I hate the thought of being weak, of being a net 'need' upon people I care about. I have only ever wanted to make you proud of me, proud of knowing me, relaxed around me, happy to be with me. I want to be a giver, for my friendship and my love to come with benefits, not costs. Totally irrational of course, for everyone comes with both benefit and emotional cost, but that is how it is with me. Because I struggle with mental illness, I am determined it shall not affect outside of me, that I contain the negative aspects inside, so that none have to pay in any way for my suffering.
It is a literal insanity, because I am ill-equipped to nurture myself, and nurture surely is a natural thing to expect or hope for from friendship and love? The bleakness I struggle with will not allow me to believe I am capable of giving you the love and tenderness you deserve, and therefore that it would be selfish of me to expect it in return. The ridiculous thing is that however logical it all seems to see it in words, the experience is very different. The actual wrench I feel all the time, in every way, that I would rather rip out my heart and throw it away than let it poison someone else's life. The sheer terror of reaching out, of being in need, of expecting you to meet that need.
What has hit me, and why everything is not OK, is that I have realised I am only ever giving a part of myself to you, only the part I like to think of as relaxed, happy, loving, fun. It means you don't know what it is to be loved by me in totality, and that is an awful thing to realise. Perhaps writing this is the start of a different approach, certainly something needs to change. Perhaps what I am saying is that soon, somehow, I will need to reach out. Because it cannot go on like this, it has done so for far too long.
Thursday, 29 March 2012
All the things I'd do for you (second rewrite)
I'd call you in the morning,
Because I miss your voice,
Or whisk you, without warning,
To destinations of your choice.
When I come, I'd bring you flowers,
And a book about Peru,
Y'know we could be there in twelve hours,
Give or taking one or two.
At weekends we would wander
Under blue and sun-kissed skies,
Or I'd gaze at you and ponder
The depth and beauty of your eyes.
I'd take you out, carousing,
And wake with cloudy head.
Which is in itself arousing,
Our excuse to stay in bed.
Of course I'd very often,
Turn up with a grin,
And watch you laugh and soften
At the foolish mood I'm in.
Oh, if only I could find the way
To tell you to your face,
That when I see you, any day,
My heart begins to race.
Because I miss your voice,
Or whisk you, without warning,
To destinations of your choice.
When I come, I'd bring you flowers,
And a book about Peru,
Y'know we could be there in twelve hours,
Give or taking one or two.
At weekends we would wander
Under blue and sun-kissed skies,
Or I'd gaze at you and ponder
The depth and beauty of your eyes.
I'd take you out, carousing,
And wake with cloudy head.
Which is in itself arousing,
Our excuse to stay in bed.
Of course I'd very often,
Turn up with a grin,
And watch you laugh and soften
At the foolish mood I'm in.
Oh, if only I could find the way
To tell you to your face,
That when I see you, any day,
My heart begins to race.
Sunday, 18 March 2012
Sometimes
Sometimes, sometimes, sometimes. It's a word I often think of. Sometimes I feel that I am losing the war against depression. Right now is one of those times. I promised myself I would blog from inside depression, let the words flood out, so that in the future it will remind me what I am fighting and why I must carry on fighting, every minute of every day, no matter how tired or hopeless I feel. Fighting is sometimes all I have left. So here is my blog entry, from inside a bout of depression, a list of all the sometimes that are buzzing around in my head.
Sometimes I reach out because I need to know you are still there.
Sometimes it is so dark the blackness eats the light.
Sometimes I just want someone to hold me.
Sometimes I despair because the road is so long, and I am so tired.
Sometimes I am ashamed of me.
Sometimes, in a room full of laughter and smiles, I feel utterly alone.
Sometimes it hurts so much, I cannot express it in words.
Sometimes I spurn love because I am scared.
Sometimes, when I tell you I am OK, I am lying.
Sometimes the man in the mirror laughs at me.
Sometimes I think no good comes from any of my endeavours.
Sometimes I disgust myself.
Sometimes I envy you, and hate myself for doing so.
Sometimes I don't have the answer, and it scares me.
Sometimes I do, but pretend I don't.
Sometimes the loneliness haunts me.
Sometimes I forget who I am.
Sometimes I want to know where the bottom is, to feel the lowest point, to know it.
Sometimes I lie to protect you, sometimes I lie to protect me.
Sometimes I want to tell you how it feels, but I can't.
Sometimes I cry and I don't know why.
Sometimes the silence hurts my ears.
Sometimes you won't be able to help me.
Sometimes I'm exhausted.
Sometimes the alternative terrifies me.
Sometimes I retreat from the world and compound my problems.
Sometimes I wish I had the words to express how much I care, and yet find myself dumbstruck.
Sometimes I want to start again.
Sometimes I want to run.
Sometimes I reach out because I need to know you are still there.
Sometimes it is so dark the blackness eats the light.
Sometimes I just want someone to hold me.
Sometimes I despair because the road is so long, and I am so tired.
Sometimes I am ashamed of me.
Sometimes, in a room full of laughter and smiles, I feel utterly alone.
Sometimes it hurts so much, I cannot express it in words.
Sometimes I spurn love because I am scared.
Sometimes, when I tell you I am OK, I am lying.
Sometimes the man in the mirror laughs at me.
Sometimes I think no good comes from any of my endeavours.
Sometimes I disgust myself.
Sometimes I envy you, and hate myself for doing so.
Sometimes I don't have the answer, and it scares me.
Sometimes I do, but pretend I don't.
Sometimes the loneliness haunts me.
Sometimes I forget who I am.
Sometimes I want to know where the bottom is, to feel the lowest point, to know it.
Sometimes I lie to protect you, sometimes I lie to protect me.
Sometimes I want to tell you how it feels, but I can't.
Sometimes I cry and I don't know why.
Sometimes the silence hurts my ears.
Sometimes you won't be able to help me.
Sometimes I'm exhausted.
Sometimes the alternative terrifies me.
Sometimes I retreat from the world and compound my problems.
Sometimes I wish I had the words to express how much I care, and yet find myself dumbstruck.
Sometimes I want to start again.
Sometimes I want to run.
Monday, 27 February 2012
Losing it
Bubbling away behind the scenes is a deep seated and mostly undisclosed fear of mine. The fear that my mind is not strong enough to fight the demons that afflict it and will one day snap, leaving me as no longer me, but some unrecognisable version unable to relate to the people around me, the people I love, the way I do now.
The trouble is, what's normal and what's not? Everyone has their idiosyncracies, little things they say or do that help define them. There is no set series of actions and reactions that everyone follows that I can hang my hat on as normality. How would I know if what I do is (or will be) taking me down a path where the me of right now would no longer recognise the me that emerges? I guess that is the key to the fear, that I will not know, I will be part of the change, all the time thinking I am the same, constant as it were, when to all those around me my actions and reactions slip further and further from the reality of now.
Some things I do at the moment give me cause for concern on occasion. I sometimes stop and talk to pussy cats and I am forever anthropomorphising stuffed animals. Do either of these things hurt anyone? No. Do they make me a bit daft? Yes. Neither of these is the point though. The fact is i know that cats do not understand me and I know full well that teddy bears are not real, but it is comfortable to pretend, it is a compensation for some of the harshness of reality. And there is the rub. I know that neither of these actions make sense, and yet I crave the comfort of doing them. I normalise the actions in my mind, I convince myself its OK to be daft. And don't get me wrong, it is totally OK to be daft.
The problem is, however, this process of normalisation. It is not just harmless, daft, eccentricity that is normalised. As an OCD sufferer, there are complicated rituals and compulsions that my mind normalises without my say so, on the quiet. There are some things I simply cannot do without performing a ritual alongside it. No-one else will have a ritual quite like mine (or for most people, at all) associated with that action and yet sitting here in the cold light of day it is absolutely the normality for me. It is what I need to do to leave the house, or cross the street or even say goodbye to a friend.
You see where my problem lies? My mind is already normalising the abnormal. Already I am doing things that go against my pure understanding of normality and replacing that interpretation with a new paradigm of normal. When does it stop, where does it stop? My fear is losing the things about me that I love, and that make others love me. I don't want people to have to understand me, tolerate me or pity me. I want the things I do to make sense and to some be absolutely magnificent. I want someone to know me as wonderful and there not need to be a 'but....' The biggest fear of all, though? That I have already lost it, I am already down that dark path and the kindness of those around me means they haven't the heart to tell me. The fear that long, long ago I stopped being me and now noone will ever be able to love the me that came into the world because he is lost, forever.
Its not a comfortable fear, but I know enough of mental illness to know the dangers that beset me.
The trouble is, what's normal and what's not? Everyone has their idiosyncracies, little things they say or do that help define them. There is no set series of actions and reactions that everyone follows that I can hang my hat on as normality. How would I know if what I do is (or will be) taking me down a path where the me of right now would no longer recognise the me that emerges? I guess that is the key to the fear, that I will not know, I will be part of the change, all the time thinking I am the same, constant as it were, when to all those around me my actions and reactions slip further and further from the reality of now.
Some things I do at the moment give me cause for concern on occasion. I sometimes stop and talk to pussy cats and I am forever anthropomorphising stuffed animals. Do either of these things hurt anyone? No. Do they make me a bit daft? Yes. Neither of these is the point though. The fact is i know that cats do not understand me and I know full well that teddy bears are not real, but it is comfortable to pretend, it is a compensation for some of the harshness of reality. And there is the rub. I know that neither of these actions make sense, and yet I crave the comfort of doing them. I normalise the actions in my mind, I convince myself its OK to be daft. And don't get me wrong, it is totally OK to be daft.
The problem is, however, this process of normalisation. It is not just harmless, daft, eccentricity that is normalised. As an OCD sufferer, there are complicated rituals and compulsions that my mind normalises without my say so, on the quiet. There are some things I simply cannot do without performing a ritual alongside it. No-one else will have a ritual quite like mine (or for most people, at all) associated with that action and yet sitting here in the cold light of day it is absolutely the normality for me. It is what I need to do to leave the house, or cross the street or even say goodbye to a friend.
You see where my problem lies? My mind is already normalising the abnormal. Already I am doing things that go against my pure understanding of normality and replacing that interpretation with a new paradigm of normal. When does it stop, where does it stop? My fear is losing the things about me that I love, and that make others love me. I don't want people to have to understand me, tolerate me or pity me. I want the things I do to make sense and to some be absolutely magnificent. I want someone to know me as wonderful and there not need to be a 'but....' The biggest fear of all, though? That I have already lost it, I am already down that dark path and the kindness of those around me means they haven't the heart to tell me. The fear that long, long ago I stopped being me and now noone will ever be able to love the me that came into the world because he is lost, forever.
Its not a comfortable fear, but I know enough of mental illness to know the dangers that beset me.
Wednesday, 22 February 2012
She turns away
At times she will decline from view
And hide in life's long grass,
Leaving me to muddle through
Towards the bottom of the class.
Yet just upon the lowest point,
From her hiding place she'll spring,
My make-it-up life to annoint
And her treasured warmth to bring.
So thus we play it, to and fro,
Once here, then far away.
Collapsing as she turns to go,
Ecstatic should she stay.
Too flighty is my flippant heart
To keep her here, ensnared.
I've not the means to play that part
And see this circle sqaured.
And hide in life's long grass,
Leaving me to muddle through
Towards the bottom of the class.
Yet just upon the lowest point,
From her hiding place she'll spring,
My make-it-up life to annoint
And her treasured warmth to bring.
So thus we play it, to and fro,
Once here, then far away.
Collapsing as she turns to go,
Ecstatic should she stay.
Too flighty is my flippant heart
To keep her here, ensnared.
I've not the means to play that part
And see this circle sqaured.
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