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…


Still here, still fighting!

Ever since I attended the GT House run camp earlier this year, my mood has been on the decline. In fact, it’s the longest and most debilitating decline in my mental health since the end of my homelessness in 2012. Hence why I haven’t been blogging over the last few months, for there are only so many times you can write “I feel shit”, “Life has no meaning” or “I have nothing to say” without people becoming incredibly bored by your monotonous melancholia.

But the time has come for me to at least make an effort in resurrecting this blog from the depths of despair (and dwindling statistics) by writing upon it once more. And what better place to start than a whirlwind tour of my ‘life’ over the last few months.

Support Worker

My last post noted the fact that I would be losing my support worker due to funding changes with the mental health organisation I frequent. I have now lost my support worker (and with them, my only real chance to communicate with someone face-to-face!) I have registered with two different organisations in an attempt to gain a new support worker and am now in the process of just waiting for them to respond to my referrals. Hopefully I will have a new support worker soon otherwise I fear a lot of my work with my isolation and social anxiety will be undone.


This time last year I was lucky to get an hour of sleep a night. This year, and for the last several months, I have become the opposite of the insomniac I once was. Most nights I sleep for at least twelve hours, sometimes as much as fifteen or sixteen, and wake up feeling more tired than I was when I went to sleep. It has been pointed out to me that an increase of sleep often goes hand in hand with depression, which doesn’t surprise me given my mood, but as I miss out on psychosocial rehabilitation groups and other appointments because of this sleep (alarms do nothing to wake me up) I am becoming more and more frustrated with this aspect of my current life.


Over the last few months life has taken on an ever-increasing air of monotony. There is little to no deviation in my life or its day-to-day activities. I awake after a lengthy sleep, listen to the radio, go down the road, come home, watch DVDs, (sometimes) cook dinner then go to bed for another lengthy night’s sleep. There is no joy in doing any of this, no excitement or stimulation, it is just the same actions day after day after day – all causing me to question what my life is for.


Although it is far from the worst it’s ever been, my self-harm has been on the increase over the last few months. It doesn’t surprise me that this is the case given there has always been a link between depression and self-harm for me, but it does scare me the lengths I have gone to in order to get the ‘hit’ that I need from my self-harm activities.


As such, it should come as no surprise that I have been considering suicide on an ever-increasing basis over the last few months. My life has such little point or purpose that I fail to see why I should go on living and my isolated nature means few people would miss me if I were to shuffle off this mortal coil. I’m scared that if this depressive episode goes on any longer it will culminate in an attempt at some point in the future, just as other elongated episodes have throughout my life.

The one bright light in the darkness

The only thing that has brought me any pleasure over the last few months came as a gift from my brother, who sent me his Wii U console to borrow so I could play through the only Zelda game I had never played; The Wind Waker. The Zelda series of games have always been a source of great inspiration and excitement for me, so whilst playing through this wondrous game I was able to forget the darkness that surrounded me and focus on the light this video game provided.

And with that my first post in nearly three months comes to a close. It’s not the happy and fluffy post that will lift the heart’s of my readers, nor is it the chirpy and inspiring post that will lift my dwindling statistics, but it is a post none-the-less.

And that is something I have always strived to highlight on this blog. This blog has never been about my journey to recovery from mental illness, it has always been about my journey toward recovery from mental illness. And when you have yet to reach that mythical (but attainable) state of recovery you will face a myriad of pitfalls and trap doors along the way. Right now I’m not in a good place. Far from it.

But I am still here, and still trying to battle through things.

Until next time… xx


Tha mi ag iarraidh briosgaid!

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 :)