All that I am, all that I ever was…

I am more than my mental health. I am more than my homelessness. I am more than any one aspect of me. I am Addy. And this is…

Desideratum

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I’ve been thinking a lot about dreams lately. I’ve always been a self-professed day dreamer. I much prefer to spend my time dreaming about all the wonderful things I could be doing than wallowing in the pit of remorseful regret that is so damned easy to fall into.

I’ve been in that pit many times in my life, but it’s always so much more fun living in a land of dreamy dreams than it is facing the harsh reality of what your life is. So much more giddy excitement dancing with women you’ve never met than moping about all the dances you left by.

The problem I have come to realise with dreams is that they are malicious little bastards.

Looking back on my life now I wish I had come to this conclusion several years ago. It is all well and good having a dream, just as long as you never ever ever try to solidify this dream into reality. You may want something badly enough, you may desire to be somewhere with every beat of your heart, yearn to change the very essence of your being…whatever your fantasy, I’ve come to the conclusion that it is better to leave it as just that.

However hard you try; no matter how many sacrifices you make; regardless of how much work you do to get those dreams close enough to hug whilst copping a furtive bum squeeze – something will happen to stop it.

Fact!

Late last year/early this year my depression was in remission. I had finally, after months of fighting/thrashing/beating and spanking those damn demons, knocked them all into submission.

Life was good. Awesome. Ecstatically blissful in fact.

I had a college course in the wings – Professional Writing and Editing!

I had dreamed of being a writer since I was 10, huddled in front of the TV reeling off dodgy Indiana Jones fan-fiction, synopses for a Neighbours movie [1], short stories, plays, excruciating poems, and by the time I was 15 a novel.

Five years later, at a glorious 20 years old, I had without question the worst collection of creative writing ever assembled by a human being! I still kept writing though, basking and frolicking with my ideas and characters every summery afternoon. It was an absolute gem of a woman I met in late ’99 that taught me how to control and focus my writing. Partly in honour of this person I began my masterpiece – Dust in the Wind.

That was back in 2000, and now, nearly seven years later I was on the verge of going to college to study something that I’m so passionate about it’s possible for me to orgasm at the thought of a plot point or critical moment of character development. I guess that’s why I need tissues around when I’m writing! By the time I was 30 I would have a degree, and I could use college to complete my masterpiece – whose name had grown into to All Things Must Change.

Then…BAM…that something I mentioned earlier happened: Glandular Fever.

Knocked me completely on my ass for months! I start college none-the-less, and was absolutely loving it, but the sheer immense workload combined with glandular fever was taking it’s toll. The mere effort of concentration was proving hard enough, let alone focusing enough to write the work. When the glandular fever began manifesting into depression toward the end of the physical stage (as it often does) I knew I was going to have a problem:

Prior history of depression
+ glandular fever
+ my workload
+ lack of income
= potential nightmare!

Balancing all those things was exactly that! But I was managing. The one thing I did not need was something else going wrong.

But as always when you’re so close to realising your dreams that something is never far off. So, as if on some cosmic cue…BAM…there it is, that goddamn something which…hang on! Ha Ha, have another something to deal with…yeah, it basically threw the sum as such:

Prior history of depression
+ glandular fever
+ my workload
+ lack of income
+ yet another bloody something!
+ yet another bloody something!

= dIsAsTeR!!!

It felt like I was Wil-e-coyote looking up to see that 100 tonne weight plummeting toward him. It was like I was an ant trapped in a droplet of honey watching someones Doc Martin about to bring about an early demise.

Despite every effort, every last minute fight, every ounce of strength, every iota of courage…I collapsed. The nervous breakdown I mentioned in an earlier post whacked me sideways. Everything fell apart in a matter of days; college first, then benefits, then friendships, then family strife, then everything I owned…then…complete and utter absolute brain shutdown!

Meds…counsellors…psychologists…doctors…tests…more tests…couple of operaations…ARRGH!

I came so close to this dream I could smell it’s exotic pheromones beguiling me from across the room. Now I know I was in some way responsible, taking on so many things all at the same time, but honestly some of what happened back then was out of my control and it did feel like the cosmos was conspiring against me. Is it any wonder I now have an aversion to dreams?

Whenever I think back on what triggered the breakdown, removing the external uncontrollable factors, I know it wouldn’t have happened if I hadn’t dared to dream of becoming a writer. If I hadn’t dared to dream of achieving a diploma by the time I was 30 I would have been more secure to handle not only the glandular fever but also those somethings which life threw at me.

So I was back to the fighting/thrashing/beating and spanking of those damn demons. Hey ho, been there, done that, hurts like being buggered by a pineapple every second of your life! Still there, still fighting, still not giving up (though I’ve come close), still learning lessons:

Dream,
by all means have as many wonderful beautiful dreams as your wonderful beautiful heart desires.
Think, however, before ever trying to make them a reality,
as chaos, pain and torment will be inflicted on that wonderful beautiful heart if you do try

So in case you’re wondering, I’m not suggesting that you never, ever follow your dreams.
All I’m trying to say is think twice – thrice – fourice – before working on bringing them into reality.
I mean I’m still writing. [2]
I’m still hoping that I’ll be published one day. [3]
I’m even still dreaming a hell of a lot more than wallowing, just after this year…

…but, how can I put this succintly? Ah yes, “Once bitten, twice shy,” [4]

[1]…This would have been a sure-fire hit, just as long as Stefan Dennis was up for it – the script needed him.
[2] …in fact I’ve completed two novels this year alone. One of them was sent to a publisher during a period of recovery and self belief. The other…well…it’s called The Ghosts that Haunt Me [aka All Things Must Change aka Dust in the Wind] and she’s sitting on my hard drive getting tetchy cause I promised to finish off her editing a wee whiles back, but this bloody thing called depression pulls me away every time I attempt to focus.
[3] …despite an atrocious grasp on style, grammar and structure!
[4] …nothing quite like vomiting an age old cliche onto the page to end a post!

 

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