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…


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Day 06: The people I like and why I like them…

ilikeyou

I’ve spent four effing days trying to write this blog post! Three effing days of increasing anxiety over (shock horror) admitting that I actually like people! Is that really something I should be so ashamed of? Something I should chastise myself for? Hate myself for? I’m a human being FFS. In fact, regardless of what my voices, abuse trauma and annoying anxiety inform me, I’m a pretty freaking awesome human being!

I’m intelligent, passionate, creative, talented, generous, compassionate. (or so I like to think :p)

I’m a little weird-looking, sure, but ultimately I’m kinda cute. (I wouldn’t dare say hot! :p)

So what if I suffer from mental illness(es) and have a history of homelessness? These just make me a uniquely complex individual and are nothing I should be ashamed of. They’re certainly not things that deserve life-long isolation.

Yet when it comes to admit to the wider world that I meet people and think ‘yeah, you’re  pretty darn awesome, wanna grab a drink sometime?’ I feel as if I’ve just committed the ultimate sin. Contemplating that people like Addy Lake? Are they insane? How could they possibly like such an imbecile? Must be some sort of trap…!

Cue self-sabotage, self-hate and all sorts of things beginning with the ‘self’ prefix!

(Exasperated sigh)

Three days of writing the same explanation about how I can’t admit to who I like in case they read the blog, recognise themselves and formulate a plan of revenge for having me dare to think they’re awesome, interesting, gorgeous, fantabulous human beings I wouldn’t mind getting to know. Three days of wallowing in socially isolated I don’t deserve company bullshit. Three days of frustration that result in this somewhat out-of-character rant!

So, in rebellion of every pore of my being…mainly because I’m exhausted and sick of thinking that the world will collapse if I dare to admit I like people…without revealing who they are, here’s why I like who I like, platonic or otherwise ;)

(deep breath)

There’s someone who works in a local business that I personally think is gorgeous. Even though I’ve barely spoken to them, what little information I’ve gleaned makes me realise how cool they are, especially as they seem to have a bit of a geeky side. Yet I can’t say two goddamn words to them in fear of instigating the apocalypse!

I met someone recently whom I actually sustained a short conversation with. Their sense of humour is kick-ass, they had a great vibe and appear to be  immensely talented. Yet I can’t even message them online let alone imagine a real-life encounter!

I’ve known this person for quite a while and have liked them from day one. Never ‘like’ liked them, but liked them as a truly inspirational, awesome, platonic friend. Yet I can’t communicate with them in any way, shape or form because I was and am an ass.

There’s someone I talk to from time to time who makes me smile and laugh more than most can manage. They’re a beautiful and brilliant person that I think I could become good friends with. Yet, as always, I freak out when it comes to talking to them incase they realise how moronic I am…and in so doing fulfil my self-fulfilling prophecy of life-long isolation.

Finally, there’s someone I met very recently who appears to be pretty awesome and I’d love to get to know them as a friend. Yet…all of the above yets!

(exhale)

Now, after six odd years of being without social contact, how exactly do I re-teach myself how to communicate with people when communicating with people brings on anxiety and panic attacks?

On a related note, aren’t you glad you’re not me! :p

~|~

Ideas? Tips? Advice?
Seriously. Any helpful hints you awesome, inspirational people have on how to communicate with people would be appreciated.

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Okay, so over the rollercoaster…please let me off now!

What I was doing ten moments ago:  writing a blog post, reading online articles, brainstorming plot ideas, tweeting inspiring 140 character messages, composing emails, singing ‘Common People’.*

What I want to do at the moment: pound the walls until my fists are bloody stumps, scream until my throat is coarse, take a knife and slice ‘fuck you’ into my arm; yank chunks of hair from my head, beat myself to death with a freezer door.

What I will be doing in ten moments time: all that I was doing ten moments ago plus, listening to the radio, editing images in Photoscape, fantasizing naughty things, re-tweeting messages, dancing, loving being alive.

Ladies and Gentlemen, today is a bad day! Cue rant…

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First of all, I apologise for not posting for several days. I think I can now safely say my 365 Day Blog Challenge has well and truly failed (no surprise there) but my 21 Challenge hasn’t (sort of) as I am still determined to do twenty-one things, I’ve just had to be put them on hold for a wee while in order to save my mental health.

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Stream of Consciousness: Good Days, Bad Days and Everything In Between

Quiet Days

(Note: other than my yearning for a quiet day, this bares little resemblance to the post. I do miss this group by the way, Time and Tide being a particularly good Scottish folk album)

Sometimes I think writing a blog does more harm than good.

Last night I didn’t sleep.

Period.

Since reading the influx of ‘abuse’ articles that have appeared in the Australian media since Sunday my stress has been off the charts…and when I get stressed, I hallucinate.

I don’t imagine acrobatic aardvarks or lecherous lizards, I hear voices. Endlessly critical and harming voices that pick apart the atrocity of my life and encourage me to self-harm and self-hate. They bombard me with negative comment and vicious insult that derive (and feed into) the abuse that I suffered all those years ago. Some of the voices are people I used to know, others are figments of my imagination, all derogatory, never supportive.

Sometimes the noise in my head is so bad I feel like screaming. Others so distressing I want to smash my head against the wall to make them stop. Over and over. Day after day. It’s all I hear.

And as they fill the emptiness of my mind, I read endless articles with unsubstantiated statistics derived to ensure Australia believes 100% that men are the perpetrators and never the victim of abuse. Countless column inches and comments fields informing me; that male victims are unimportant as they make up a meagre few percent of the statistics, that men are at fault for the abuse they suffered, that males who have been abused are not as important as their lives are never destroyed, that any man who speaks out to address this imbalance is instantly labelled a misogynist or MRE and derided in a monumnetal act of disgraceful hypocrisy.

All actions that prevent me from either writing of the abuse I suffered or trying to fight for better awareness of the issue as I will instantly be shot down for not supporting the abuse against women.Which I do, frequently, hell I even took a beating because I abhor this behaviour so much.

And as my voices continue their assault, my Twitter timeline fills with discussions I cannot involve myself with; of discussion of movies and television shows I am unable to watch, of news stories I cannot comprehend because of the din in my mind, of quick witted comebacks that I cannot compete with, of debates that I care about but know little of merit because of the isolated life I live and any attempt to engage in these debates is shot down because of my situation.

That my circumstances do not allow me to have an opinion because I am homeless, un-tertiary educated, a recipient of benefits and therefore a non-tax payer and a lazy, worthless dole bludger. All of which apparently mean I am non-human and my voice meaningless.

Yet despite all this I am told by psychiatrists that there is nothing wrong with me. Forcing the only conclusion that it is normal to exist in a state of perpetual pain; to hear voices twenty-four hours a day and be unable to stop or control them.

Sometimes I think writing a blog does more harm than good.

I never know what to write. And I hate what I do.

Period.

For three hours last night, between 11pm and 1am, I was debating my last reflections post. An unfocussed mess of hazy memory and frustrated diction. I wanted to delete it, to erase it from existence, but I couldn’t even focus enough to do that.

Each day I sit to write something that people will like. That will make them smile, or think, or question how we are living our lives. But each day I struggle to string cohesive sentences together, frustrating myself at the lagging pace in which my computer runs at, hurling cookies across the room as the sentence I type takes as long as sixty seconds to appear on-screen.

Each post I write becomes an example of the chaos my mind dwells in. Posts flit between depressing homelessness, rambling rants (such as this) and obscure lists attempting to raise a smile and lift me from this nothingness.

Yesterday I wrote of trying to find myself through writing, but as the voices reach symphonic levels, all I am left with is the cycle of self-criticism that my blog is just a waste of precious internet real estate.

Others do what I do far better, far more succinctly and with a far greater level of humour and intelligence so why do I bother? So say the cacophonicous voices. And I, when they rise to levels I have no option but to believe them.

Sometimes I think writing a blog does more harm than good.

For it is all I have.

Period.

I rise in the morning and switch on the radio. I listen to people who have lives and hope and passion. I eat toast and sip on tea. I turn my mind toward all the ideas that circle in my mind and try to release them onto the page. I argue bitterly with ghosts from the past in an eternal struggle to come to terms with all I have been through. Sometimes I question my experience just as others disbelieve my words. But why would I lie? I despise sympathy, I refuse to give it to myself and hate people feeling sorry for me. I fight hard through the hours to fill my time. Occasionally walking down the road to post what I’ve written, to explore the library and find books I yearn to read. In the evenings I sit alone in my flat unable to participate in Norman the Quiz through lack of phone before retreating to bed after being once more defeated.

Nothing accomplished. Nothing achieved. Just another day of fighting the trauma as the dreams of a better future dissolve further to dust.

Friends, relationships, family? How can I hope to have any of these when I cannot speak in morbid fear of a repeat of all that happened five years ago? It is better to protect myself than to be used, manipulated and abused as I was all those years ago.

Photography, writing, filmmaking? How can I hope to indulge these desires when I cannot afford a camera, or focus my creativity away from the endless warbling and chorus of voices that disparage and destroy? It is better to admit I will never amount to anything in these fields and focus on areas that hold little joy for at least there, failure would mean nothing.

Stability, sanity, happiness? How can I hope to become this way when I have grown so weary of fighting these issues and illnesses alone I have nothing left to fight with. It is better to embrace my lunacy than allow myself to believe I will be anything more than a nutcase.

Cinema, cycling, activities? How can I hope to enjoy these or any passions again when I cannot afford or deal with the socialising required to partake in them? It is better to discover new activities that bring pleasure than set myself up for failure.

Employment, education, future? How can I hope to believe I will be able to do any of this when I cannot even get through a single hour without arguing angrily with thin air. It is better to accept my poverty than to dream of a brighter future.

Sometimes I think writing a blog does more harm than good.

For I’m not presenting who I am.

Period.

I’m not always as depressed, anxious or down as my posts seem. Yet each day I post increasingly more depressing pieces that further the belief that I cannot be anything other than my illness.

Writing happy pieces feels wrong. Forced. When I read them back it feels like I am pretending to keep others happy as a result of not allowing myself to admit to how screwed up I really am. Perhaps this is yet another hang-over from the abuse; when trying to raise my problems was met with criticism and insult rather than even an iota of love and support. Even glandular fever was something I was not allowed to suffer, instead forced into the pretence of I’m fine that only elongated my recovery by pushing me to focus my energy in every direction but recovery.

In my heart I feel how creative and passionate I am. Deep in my soul I know I can achieve more than what I am currently doing. Yet each day, I criticise myself that little bit more for not being to show this side of me to the world. Worlds of passion, desire, humour and strength lying forgotten within me, pushed into the rankest corners by the voices that dominant and control every action and reaction of my life.

It’s not who I want to be. I do have a counsellor. Yet I cannot allow myself to feel that anything will ever be better than this. Sometimes it just feels that my life ended when I was twenty-seven and will never be anything again.

Deep down I know it’s the result of abuse (contrary to the social commentators) feeding into my mental ill health (contrary to the psychiatrists) and feasting on the isolation I created for myself.

But fighting these is hard and I’m sorry I’m not strong enough to do it sometimes.

Sometimes I think writing a blog does more harm than good.

I wish it wasn’t the case, but right now it is.

Period.

Note: written as a stream of consciousness, so apologies for any grammatical, spelling or depression fuelled woe-is-me.