This is the eighty-eighth blog post I have attempted to write since the last time I blogged. Each and every one deleted from my hard drive after a couple of incomprehensible paragraphs – usually accompanied by throwing something across the room with a loud expletive.
The simple fact is when I’m depressed, I cannot write, I cannot think, I cannot feel, I cannot do anything.
And right now, I am DEPRESSED with a capitol bloody everything!
I barely leave my unit. I do absolutely nothing every day. I sit on the sofa having day-long conversations with my abuser in a futile quest for answers or lying on the floor flagellating myself for being such a worthless, weak numpty. Yes, I’m too critical of myself. I have to be.
I have been eating less and less with each week and criticizing my ineptitude more and more.
On the odd occasions I leave the house I do so only to pay rent or swing by the library to accumulate DVDs to watch during my insomnia fuelled nights; my attention span and concentration being so low reading is (once again) off the table.
Nothing brings me pleasure. Nothing causes a smile. Nothing produces happiness.
I feel empty. A once strong, creative, passionate turtle who has walked so far he has shriveled up and dissolved to dust leaving nothing but a hollowed out shell for people to smash to smithereens.
Every day I’m haunted by the abuse I received; nothing I do shuts her up. Not alcohol, not knives, not Doctor Who. Every minute her voice assaults me to the point I have screaming matches in both public and private. Everything reminds me of the pain she put me through and the catastrophes that followed.
Every day I’m haunted by who I could have been had my hard work paid off. Had I pushed myself that bit harder. Had I put myself first. Had I not made the occasional mistake. Every minute my inner voice informing me of how useless I must be to have become the biggest failure the world has ever known.
Every day I am haunted by endless self-criticism; every minute my inner voice critiquing everything I have ever done in my life. Like I said, I have to. Criticism has far outweighed praise throughout my life.
It’s exhausting, destructive, soul-destroying and more painful than I can currently find words to describe.
These last few months have been (in my mind) the worst depressive episode I‘ve been in since 2007 – and it’s scaring the shit out of me. Back then, I slipped into an isolated state of nightmare following months of abuse, physical and mental illness, wild mood swings and horrendous assault that culminated in a suicide attempt that has, ever since, been referred to as ‘the day I should have died’.
I’m not scared of becoming suicidal again, nor of an actual attempt. I’m scared that I won’t.
I’m scared that I’ve been alone for so long I’ve convinced myself that all I deserve in life is punishment for whatever I did to “deserve” the abuse my abuser directed at me.
This is the eighty-eighth blog post I’ve attempted to write since the last time I blogged, and it comes nowhere close to explaining why I haven’t been writing anything, but unlike the others, I’ll post this purely for the small victory of ‘doing something’; even though it feels like I’m writing in a foreign language I can’t decipher.
I’m sorry for the depressing post and being gone for so long. I’m trying to right myself, but sometimes you just feel what you feel.
I’d like to write more of the happier times in my life but can’t figure out where to start. Any prompts and/or questions and/or anything you’d like to know would be appreciated. I can’t promise anything but it may be a start :)