Overcoming Mental Illness

Poached eggs on toast with the most ludicrously small portion of spinach I have ever seen. This portion of spinach was so minuscule you were seriously left wondering how eating it would ignite the muscles in your arms Popeye-style and give you the strength to get through the day. The poached eggs were wonderful, as was the bread, just a darn shame about the spinach. Sitting across from me was - shock - not an empty chair, but one of the most beautiful souls I have ever known.

“Why didn’t you phone me?” She asked.

“I wanted to,” I said back.

She just gave me one of her looks, a look I know well.

“I guess I just didn’t want to bother you,” I added.

Another look.

One of the most common and recurring problems in today’s world seems to be asking for help. Everyday people are having problems with work, relationships, finance, legal issues, health, family, their pet wombats…the list is interminably endless. Yet, asking for help with a problem from anyoneis increasingly becoming one of the hardest things in the world. Perhaps fear of appearing weak, needy or incompetent is the primary cause - three things which none of us wish to appear to be, as is no doubt evident from the wealth of posts on my blog dealing with similar issues and frustrations.

For some reason we all like to believe we have red, blue and yellow Lycra suits on underneath our daily clothes so that whenever we feel like it we can loosen our ties (or brassieres) and reveal that we are actually from the planet Krypton - or just someone with a fetish for wearing our underwear on the outside. Now don’t get me wrong, I wouldn’t mind so much if I girl I was seeing dressed up as Supergirl for a night of kinky fun as I’ve always had a self confessed superhero fetish, but reality alas always gets in the way.

“C’mon, when do you ever ask for help?” I questioned.

A pause.

“Do what I say not what I do,”

Such wonderful words. Do what I say and not what I do…oh how many times have I heard those in my life? It’s funny how they always seem to come about when the giving of advice is involved; surely leading by example is a far better way to be. Although if I were to leap off a cliff, break 326 bones, spend several months in traction I would probably then tell someone to not jump off a cliff - which would I suppose be a good example of do what I say and not what I stupidly did which caused me months of emotional and physical pain. Anyway, I digress, for this post is surely about Superhero fetishes isn’t it…

…well, actually not, but then surely I’m allowed to dream ;)

ASKING FOR HELP!

WHY IS IT SO HARD!

We don’t ask Superheros for help do we? They just swoop on in and save the day, that’s why they’re super and heroic and look sexy in their skin tight costumes. What is it about those four simple letters which makes it so hard for the majority of us to say?

I can’t speak for everyone, but what I can do is tell you my story of why I find it so hard to ask for help - and then you can all click on the “submit comment” button and tell me your stories and then maybe we can get to the bottom of this perplexing issue and create a new world order where help is not a reviled word to be feared, but is actually something which proves how strong we are.

Okay, so my issues with asking for help stem primarily from my social anxiety disorder but when I was back in my prime and had overcome depression, self harm and all that in the few months pre-breakdown I was feeling much better about myself in everyway. I actually felt that if I had put on a Spiderman costume (my own personal superhero outfit of choice) I would actually have looked like Spiderman instead of some chubby guy in a suit which caused people to vomit because it was just way too tight for public viewing. So I did actually, on occasion, ask for help. Or rather there was one specific occasion where I tried asking for help before anyone offered it, before I went days or weeks without trying to indicate there was a problem, for the first time in my life it was “frack, I have a problem, I need help, okay, I’m gonna ask for it!”

So I sat down and tried asking for help…

…then came the criticism, the heartfelt words of ‘bugger off your problems aren’t important” then came the dumping and the breakdown and the months of turmoil and loss of social network and friends and everything I’ve had. Me attempting to ask for help with a CLL diagnosis was a major catalyst for everything that happened. 

So is it any wonder I have a pathological fear of asking for help? When one of the only times I’ve ever done it in my life the reaction it received cost me virtually everything in my life bar one thing. My own misplaced belief in myself, which even itself wavers from time to time.

I would LOVE to be able to ask for help more often. I get messed up sometimes, very very very much so, and sometimes all I need in those moments is to speak to someone about anything - crickets, jam, koalas, Tibet, the state of the political situation, Lego Indiana Jones, yaks - and it just takes my mind off things to ease me back into control. Yet, because I don’t ask for help I end up cutting myself, or taking overdoses, or hiking 50odd kms to the Dandenongs with a scarf in hand. 

What’s weaker - asking for help or ending up in hospital staring at blank ceilings when you want to be looking at a friend?

[This post makes no sense. Maybe it's the hyper-manic state I'm in coupled with shock and confusion from the events of the weekend which I still haven't really come to terms with. Maybe I shouldn't even post it.]

I just want to know what others think. Why is asking for help so hard? Why does it make us feel like a shit person? I’ve just explained my reasons, so what do others think? Or am I completely wrong and is not asking for help selfish.

My friend (and it feels good to write that) said to me as I finished off my poached eggs:

“I would much rather you bother me before you did something like that than tell me afterwards,”

Which is true. Because I’m the same. If Supergirl, Superman, Spiderman or any of the whole pantheon of Superheros we drool over each night were to land in front of us a couple of days after the city had been destroyed you’d be PISSED! You’d have a go at them for not helping sooner.

If you don’t ask for help then you won’t get any. If you try and deal with everything by yourself, you’ll end up like me.

Don’t end up like me.

One word. Four letters. H E L P. Use it whenever you need to. Your friends - your true friends - will always listen.

[PS...hands up if anyone thinks I can write a more confusing and badly written post than that. Blimey. I need a drink]

Gosh, I should have written this yesterday but then I was a little out of it…and gosh, I should write more posts starting with that mighty fine word - gosh - what has been going on in my head today? Racing ecstatic thoughts, mind numbing tedium, utter frustration at banks and the bloody job centre! And - oh my - have I been fixated on sex today!

Ummm?

Ah yes, the hospital, what fun and shenanigans that was…

Anyways, the hospital. Was it a hospital? Not really, I suppose clinic would be the more apt term for the appointment I had. In fact I guess the term ‘the most boring building I have ever laid eyes on’ would be the most apt term, I didn’t realise until yesterday morning that a building could be so grey in both appearance, feel and colour. I smoked myself into a lung cancer ward, fought of mounting panic and anxiety and stepped through the doors with my long billowing Highlander/flasher jacket and was hit by a wall of sheer ice. Not literally of course, their heating had failed, which left everyone in the waiting room looking like icicles and caused the woman conducting my “assessment” to lose the power of hand writing due to the extreme dunes of frost which had built up on her fingers.

I am exaggerating of course.

The appointment kicked off at 9:30am, damned prompt as medical appointments go, and I swathed into the room and onto the chair where my leg proceeded to dance it’s merry jiggly samba (it has a predisposition to vibrate like something which, well, vibrates, when I am in such a state of anxiety) and she attempted to calm my nerves with small chit-chatty talk about the weather and the glory of being back in the UK. Glory? Glory to me is a fine-assed Big Bad from Buffy. There is nothing glorificus about being back in the UK! And then:

Her: So, tell me a little about your expectations and what you’re hoping to get in terms of treatment.

[Of course, with my brain the way it is at the moment (i.e. even though I am writing words onto the screen I am not thinking about them, instead, right now, I'm thinking about Glory because I just mentioned her - and well - she's a woman) the questions I'll be writing down as having been asked to me are not spot on word-for-word quotes, merely a rough indication of what was asked.]

Me: Ummmm, nothing.
Her: Nothing?
Me: Well, aside from the fact that I’ve been fighting mental illness alone for so long it would be nice to get a little bit of professional help - I mean that is what you do isn’t it? And, having been engaged in an all out war with the Australian mental health service for the last 12 months (12 months!) in which I lost ground faster than the Water Voles in their great struggle with the Mole kingdom of ‘75 and achieved absolutely nothing in terms of treatment other than various forms of anti-depressants which just screwed me up even more. No, I don’t really have any expectations really.
Her: I’ll just write ‘hoping for proper and effective treatment then’ shall I?

[Of course, I wouldn't take the words I'm writing here to be direct translations of my actual answers either - trust me - if I'd started talking about the great war between the Water Voles and Mole Kingdom in a mental health assessment I'm fairly confident I would be writing this post on the back of a stale cracker in a mental asylum.]

[Of course, I don't actually even believe their was a great war between the Water Voles and the Mole Kingdom, this was something I only just thought of to get my mind off Glory's posterior - and it worked - if only for those brief few moments.]

If I were to work through the entire assessment I’d be here all day. I had expected the appointment to last for about an hour, maybe less, but it was a whopping 93minutes I was vibrating in that tiny room looking out the window at the spectacular view of…a grey brick wall! Absolutely true! Yet more grey! There were three pipe ends which kindof looked like a face with it’s mouth open :o which reminded me of something which I’m now thinking about in respect to Glory.

It was basically what I have done so many times now that I have most of the answers on automatic response. The history of Addy and his insanity…basically what I’ve been talking about on the blog for the last several months. Which, yep, got a mention (go publicity!): all started at school…bullying…shyness…social anxiety…self harm…depression…hallucinations…kindof managed to get it all under control for a bit…emigration…Australia…BAM…nervous breakdown…massive relapse…the manic adventures of Addy in Adelaide…bipolar diagnosis…etc…etc…etc…and then all of a sudden, completely out of the blue, a question not a single person had ever asked me before. Not any of the GPs I’ve seen, none of the mental health gurus in Oz, no-one. Not a single person.

Her: So, tell me a little about your sexual history. Indiscretions? What age did it all begin happening? Any issues or problems in this area? Are you able to achieve an erection or do you require drugs or manual assistance? And tell me a little about what is psychologically going on in this respect.
Me: Ummm?
Her: …
Me: Errrrr?
Her: …I know it’s embarrassing, it is for me, but it’s something they will need to know.

[Of course, I had no idea who "they" were - the Moles perhaps?]

Me: Okay…I…well…I was a bit of a ‘late starter’…well…physically I was…well…what I mean by that was…ummm…physically with other people. I was actually quite young when I had my first sexual experience. I’m actually quite a sexual guy, I think about it a LOT and I’m a bit adventurous and when I’m manic - wow - tie me down!

[Of course, you can if you want to ;) And of course, I'm stopping the 'answer' there as I'm sure none of you desire to know about the inner workings of my sexual life...]

It just completely and utterly threw me! There was me expecting the same crap I’ve been through dozens of times now and I was suddenly talking about erections, losing my virginity and all that sexy slurpy stuff which is generally only talked about everywhere other than a mental health assessment!

Moving on! (See, told you I was in a weird one today!) The upshot of the whole assessment was that we covered each and every aspect of the ‘basic’ mental health (and sexual) history of Addy. All of it got written down on several pieces of paper and then as the clock kept ticking away as it tends to do, she pulled out three quizzes which had to be filled out. They were risk assessment quizzes and I had never done one of these before so I got a bit excited, not sure why, as it just entailed answering yes or no to a variety of questions - a tad disappointing as I was hoping for some general knowledge, literature or entertainment questions. Those quiz writers really should take a quiz in pub quiz writing styles to mix up their brain teasers a bit.

The three quizzes were:

• Do you pose a threat either physically or psychologically to another person?
• Do you pose a threat either physically or psychologically to yourself?
• Neglected?

And how did I fare?

• Zero. Zilch. Nada. Zip. Nothing. Nought. I am more likely to time travel than harm someone else.
• ABSO-FRIGGING-LUTELY! COMPLETE AND UTTER “SEVERE” GRADE ON THIS ONE!
• Kindof. The sort of boring result where I’m not in a state of utter neglect to warrant any concern, but you would avoid me in the street sometimes due to my apparent confusing odour and current bad taste of clothes.

I was at least hoping to win a gift voucher for scoring highly on the danger to myself quiz, but alas, all I got was a wee smile and a slightly increased vibration in the thigh area. Better than nothing I suppose.

And this concluded the appointment. She gathered her variety of paperwork together and told me what happened next…which is that they all gather together on Wednesday to have a laugh over my answers (I’m sure that’s why the sex questions were asked) and then they will get back to me in regards to further treatment (if any is applicable) which will either be an appointment with a medic, a series of counselling sessions or the swift sectioning of this utterly and ludicrously insane gentleman. Me? Gentleman? Sometimes I s’pose.

I billowed my way out of the clinic (love that quote, even if it does make me look like I’m gonna leap out and reveal myself from time to time) and instantly lit up a cigarette and all I could think about was why they’d ask that sex question…and why hadn’t I answered it better?

All in all though I can honestly say that it was a lotmore thorough, detailed and ominously could-actually-go-somewhere than any of the appointments I’d had in Australia. She actually seemed like she wantedto help rather than me being a disposition in her otherwise ravenously exciting day, which was how I felt at the culmination of several of my appointments in Australia (especially when they discharged me from hospital after suicide attempts - ahhh, let him go, he’ll only get in the way of our arvo pub meal if he stays) so this is a good thing!

I will of course keep you all updated on this ongoing saga as soon as the next development takes place.

— — 

And what of today I hear you ask?

Well, I’m not allowed to open a new account with a new bank as I don’t have an income, which IMHO is utterly bizarre, so right now am not not sure where the money from the great Addy-eBay-sellout is going to be paid into.

Plus, the ongoing saga with the Jobcentre/benefits agency is beginning to scale even greater epic heights of frustrating absurdity (and I haven’t even really started talking about that on the blog yet so why start now?).

Oh, and I went to Newport today (the nearest city) which is quite possibly the most uninspiring city outside of Cardiff. I went there to get a book from the library, one of the ones from my list I wrote the other day.

I’d looked it up on the web last night so knew they had it, knew which section it was in -  and when I got there - nothing. Nothing in the other sections, nothing on the online catalogue, nothing anywhere, even the staff knew nothing about it! What the hell? So when I arrived back home I immediately got on the internet to try and solve this puzzle and it turns out I had been looking at the Newport, Oregon library website. Thus, at least I know if I ever find myself several thousand miles away in a library somewhere in America they will have the book I want to read!

Moral of the story? Make sure you’re on the right website!

If you want Newport, Wales libray - go to this!
If you want obscure mental health blog posts from a guy who thinks he’s a lot like the guy in the picture - stay where you are!
If you want porn - follow me… :p

Okay, so what the hell has been going on over the last several weeks? Eh?

Why the hell I’m asking you guys I don’t know, because by heck if I don’t know, how can I expect any of your guys to be able to work it out. All I know is that a few weeks ago I was sitting in 40+ degree temperature watching the scantily clad women wander by wondering why I’d been ejected from hospital after a suicide attempt, whereas now, I’m sitting in the UK watching the rugged up pseudo-Eskimos walk by in barely 5 degree temperatures wondering what the hell is going on (and where all the t’n'a have gone)?

Oh, and I’ve become obsessed with a CD track called All the strange, strange creatures which is one of the most inspiring pieces of instrumental music I’ve heard for years - and would be an absolutely kick ass piece of music to score my major manic phase of last year in Adelaide - but all that’s beside the point!

Because why on earth did I call this post ‘getting back on the space hopper’? I haven’t been on a space hopper for years, maybe I should, maybe that’s what I need, I mean how can bouncing around on an orange ball of rubber with a smiley face not cheer you up?

So in regards to being back in the UK, I am, to be honest, hating it! Yep, you’ve got all the excitement of seeing my family again, and the added excitement/nerves of finally meeting my brothers fiancee (which hasn’t happened yet, but I’m sure will at some point), but really, this is the UK. Aside from skips, fruit gums and proper chips (only to be eaten when planning on saving the world of course) what exactly is there in the UK?

It’s funny, whilst in Australia I would often get homesick. I’ve spoken about that before. Generally it would be every few months, with a major ’bout of homesickness occurring annually, usually just after Christmas. Now I’m homesick for Australia, because it’s been my home for the last five and half years and…well the UK, isn’t!

Now bare in mind that I have yet to revisit Scotland, of which you should all know I’m rather a fan of, and as this is the place I got homesick for I guess in a way I still am, but it’s like, I don’t want to spend the rest of my life in the UK just because they have skips, fruit gums and proper chips here. It’s not that I have anything against the UK, it’s just not my home any more.

So who the hell knows.

Basically I have no money, and I’m here for a reason, so it’s not as if I can go anywhere else at the moment even if I wanted to, which right now I do.

Stay tuned for Scotland though because…I am in the process of selling everything I own on ebay in order to afford it. So yep, genuine articles from Addy’s turbulent childhood and life are currently being offered for sale on ebay should anyone so desire to build their Dr Who collection, invest in random bizarre books and/or obscure artifacts which may one day be worth thousands as genuine Addy collectibles head over to eBay and check it out! You see it’s to raise money for my Scotland excursion which has and I mean has to happen at some point in the near future - otherwise this already crazy and insane mind will no doubt implode and I will just become a skip eating air-conducting lunatic for the rest of my days.

So very soon I will actually have absolutely nothing - I will have lost everything from Australia, plus everything from the UK - which is kinda cathartic, kinda symbolic and really rather upsetting. Especially as someone wished it on me last year and this means they’re wish is coming true which I’ve been fighting to not happen.

Pretty much the saving grace of being in the UK is that I should get the medical help I wasn’t able to get in Australia, because they just wouldn’t give it to me. I am currently not on any medication, my mood is oscillating like something which oscillates at an extreme pace and I am doing my best to keep everything under control.

I have an appointment with the mental health team on Monday morning, which should be fun. There won’t be any physical prodding (I don’t think) but there will be lots of mental prodding which I’m kinda used to now, but I’m hoping all that poking will actually lead somewhere this time. It’s getting somewhat frustrating how little professional help I’ve actually had over the last year, not without trying for it, so something would be good.

The benefits have also been applied for so we’ll see what happens there. They told me on the phone that I should expect something in about 6-8 weeks, which is interesting, considering I have no money and not sure how I can survive for another two months without anything to live off, but as with everything I guess we’ll just have to see what happens.

I mean without benefits how can I afford skips? I’ve been five plus years without them, how am I expected to go another two months?

So in the interim between now, Scotland and the future I am trying to get this blog back on track. I’ve neglected it and all of my wonderful readers over the last several weeks, basically because I didn’t, and in a way, still don’t want to be alive, but I am slowly working on that. I started the blog to assist the effort of fighting the stigma of mental illness so I will continue to do so in whatever way I feel like when I sit down to write.

If I promise to write more posts - and more interesting posts at that - then I’ll have to do it. Otherwise I won’t be true to my word and that would just be, well, naughty! And we all know what happens then.

To strip everything away (not literally of course) I have absolutely no idea what’s going on at the moment!

Don’t know where I am, where I’m going, what’s gonna happen, what’s happening at the moment, where I can get my next skips…in fact all I know at the moment is that I’m still here.

Which is really all that matters in the long run!

It’s been 64 months that I’ve been in Australia.It’s been 64 months of ups, downs,  highs, lows, excitement, misery, laughter and despair.

It’s been 64 months…wow…still can’t believe it’s nearly over.

It hasn’t really sunk in yet, even though it should’ve done. All the things I didn’t get to do are flying through my mind and joining up with all those things that I did do.

It’s been a long five years, it’s been an incredible five years, it’s been an emotional five years, and by fuck I’m gonna miss it here!

This is a month by month, memorable moment by memorable moment, account of my time in Australia.

This has been my 64 months in Australia…

A quick note on the links:
The links which are bolded will take you to a photograph taken by me.
The links which are italicized will take you to one of my blog posts on the subject.

…rather a hectic 64 months really! :-p

I really have no idea what’s going on any more. Seriously. My brain is a frazzled up piece of cheese, you know what I mean? It kinda feels - and I’m sure if we were to give me a lobotomy (maybe that’s what I need!) it would also look like - a globule of cheese that’s oozed out of your toasted sandwich and fried itself on the bottom of the frying pan.

Maybe that’s what I should do; fry myself on the bottom of a frying pan, but then I don’t think they make them that big so I guess that’s options not gonna take.

It’s the hardest thing for me at the moment, writing this blog. I’ve been battling through an utterly insane mixed episode for nearly two months now. Fighting off the crushing lows whilst dancing with the pixies on a daily basis as thousands of ideas and questions fluctuate through my mind. My day is a continually oscillating cavalcade of emotion, one second so high I feel I’m an immortal God, the next so low I’m nothing more than that once appetising but now rather manky piece of fried cheese. It’s kinda like this:

[CLICK IMAGE FOR LARGER VIEW]

every day! Except for the dinosaur, that was just humorous happenstance :-)

And everyone keeps wishing me “happy new year”, hell even I just wished everyone a Happy New Year - but seriously, what’s happy about it? Yep, it’s a new start. A whole fresh year, a brand spanking new set of twelve months to live through: but what’s the point? Everyone tells me to optimistic, to think that the worst has passed and things can only get better…

…can they actually get worse than 2007?

When I was sitting here on Monday night I didn’t even realise what the time was until I heard the fireworks. Whilst three quarters of the world were out getting pissed and partying their butts away, I didn’t even know what the time was until that first blasting clash of fireworks sent shivers down my spine and oozed an ominous odour of doom around the room. It was a bloody scary feeling: total and utter fear. Complete dread of having to endure another year of shite, another calender of atrocities and painful days of unending battling. There is actually so long someone can keep fighting for, it’s called energy, and no-one has an unending supply, but somehow (somewhy) I keep on trying.

So how does this happy (!) New Year start for me:

• I am homeless (again) as of tomorrow.
• I have no money.

and

• I am in the grip of a frightening, gruelling mixed episode.
• I have not a clue as to when I will be on a flight away from Oz.

that’s how I’m starting 2008. Other people started it by getting drunk with friends. I’m sure there’s a fair few million who started it pashing a stranger whilst out their heads on tequila (and no doubt a fair few people kicked off the new year by igniting their soul with orgasmic pleasure). I start it with an ominous sense of dread, homelessness, destitution and a complete inability to know what I’m going to be feeling in three minutes, let alone three days.

I don’t mean to be depressing, I really don’t. I wish I was being fun and humorous and recanting erudite tales of all sorts of wit filled excitement…but right now I can’t, and I’m sorry about that…maybe someday… :-)

And so 2007 is slowly drawing to a close…as my clock goes (AEST) there is a mere 25 and a 1/2 hours left as I begin this post…and as with most people at this time I am thinking of three things:

1. So, what are my chances of a New Year’s pash…
2. Blimey, better get cracking on making some resolutions…
3. The internal-analysis of the last twelve months…

Well I can categorically tell you that my chance of a New Year’s pash are zilch (zero, nada, nought) unless I somehow manage to enter a manic phase in the next 25 hours 27 minutes - the chances of which are pretty slim! And what exactly is the point of making resolutions anyway?

My mind however has been mulling over the last object on this list with a kind of exasperated urgency. Voices, songs, screams and agonised yelps are haunting my every waking moment. The thing I find hard with my bipolar is getting all the ghosts to shut up, they’re just there, constantly, bickering away at my soul until I am nothing but a cowering wreck on the floor.

So let’s for a moment, just a moment (allow me that) forget that the events of the last eleven months happened. Let’s rewind the clock and take a peek at the year that wasn’t, a year that this time twelve months ago was going to be one of the best of my life, instead of the bitch year from hell it became!

[NOTE: From this point on everything not in italics is what could have happened if 2007 had gone the way I had hoped/whereas everything in italics is what actually happened]

…click here if you’d like to read more about my year that WASN’T/WAS…

I mentioned in my post yesterday that I phoned the suicide helpline…

…it is not the first time I have ever called them. The very first time I dialled this number was in April 2006 as I was having an incredibly bad day and didn’t know who else to phone. I was having relationship problems, my best friend had just celebrated her 21st birthday and I didn’t want to upset her, and my other friends…I just didn’t want to burden them.

So I dialled the helpline, which I had on speed dial since my suicide moment the month before. It rang…and it rang…and I cried…and I cried…and it rang…and it rang…and I threw the phone across the room because the bloody thing just kept on ringing and ringing and ringing and nobody answered! There must have been a lot of suicidal people that night! Suffice to say I was able to remain safe and well until those urges had passed, but not before resorting to self-harm for the first time in over a year.

The other most memorable being a moment in March of this year when I was incredibly close from slashing my wrists following my breakdown but was able to be talked down from my mood with their assistance and that of a friendly conversation with a friend.

I have phoned them on several occasions since then, not however before my attempts in May and October because on those occasions I just needed the pain to stop and was not willing to phone for help.

Things however got incredibly bad yesterday. After my atrocious Christmas Day and self-harm session that night (Ouch! Is all I can really say about that, still smarting) I wasn’t coping either Boxing Day or yesterday so after more self-harm which wasn’t achieving the desirable outcome of relief and oh-so-very nearly phoning someone I haven’t spoken to for months I pulled up the hotline’s number on the phone and dialled.

I knew the drill, would no doubt hit an automated queue first, so logged onto YouTube to download a video guaranteed to make me smile and have doubts, and waited for them to answer. It did take a wee while, but eventually I was chatting to a calming lady who listened to me through fitful sobs and occasional caterwauling as I explained my plans. She told me to get rid of the knives (which I didn’t do) and remove myself from the balcony area (which I did).

Once retreated inside I just sat on the floor and waited for the inevitable question. The one I dread and fear in equal heart pounding measure:

Do you have anyone you can call? A friend who can come and be with you?

NO!

I DO NOT!

I have no-one in my life. There is not a soul who could come and be with me to distract my mind from it’s suicidal urges! I fracked up you see and lost everyone!

Frack! I hate that question. I really do. It just serves to remind me how lonely and useless I am, how worthless and forgotten, which just doesn’t help the whole ‘maybe it wouldn’t be such a bad thing if I stayed alive’ argument my head was racing through.

You see this has been the problem this year, this is what caused everything to go wrong.

When my relationship ended in February it basically isolated me. Even though I could still contact some people I knew I couldn’t really talk to them because they were friends of my ex. As I had made the decision to not tell my ex what had happened (i.e. being kicked out of college as an indirect consequence of a text message she sent and also being diagnosed with CLL) out of a desire to protect her from any guilt, I was unable to talk to my friends about these things because I did not want her finding out indirectly. I also didn’t want to bitch to these same friends about my ex because I didn’t want to affect or influence their friendship with her. Does any of this make sense? Seriously, nothing makes sense to me any more! But then it didn’t really then either because Mulholland Drive makes more sense after a breakdown than anything going on in your head! The problem that I was (and still am) in love with my ex didn’t help either!

Isolation is a killer. It seriously fracks you up! With my social circle, network and group in tatters I had to seek out new friends - which after a breakdown is nigh on impossible, let alone for someone who suffers from social anxiety disorder and who’s had a breakdown.

So I have been without any real major human contact since March.

Anyone who has spent several months alone and isolated will know what I mean. You go nuts! You end up talking to yourself to keep yourself sane, or in my case, I talk to myself and Meadhbh which is seriously weird at times. I believe profoundly that had things been different in February and I not been isolated, then what I’ve been going through this year would not have happened…

Anyway.

So I don’t have anyone to call, so the woman chats with me for a while. Asks about my Christmas…self harm, loneliness and desperation. Asks about me…I’m a worthless lunatic, what’s there to say? Until we eventually agree to make a spoken contract, whereby I promise to phone her back tomorrow - i.e. today - which I am just about to do.

Whether or not I will speak to the same woman I don’t know, but she did seriously help yesterday. Which I guess brings me to a kindof point to this somewhat bizarre and rambling post: they are called helplines for a reason.

They help! Use them! If like me you don’t have anyone to talk to or there is no-one to be there with you to help you get through a bad moment - call a helpline!

Simple as that.

Well, now that it’s finally over, how was everyone’s Christmas?

I can honestly tell you that mine included:

• Sweet FA in the way of presents (not surprised)
• In terms of electronic wishes - three - one ecard, one email (a few days before Christmas) and one Facebook wall message. A big thank you to those people :-)
• Utter frustration that I was unable to view the Dr Who 2007 Christmas special.
• Two instances of self-harm (at approx 11pm and 1am last night) which has left me rather sore this morning as the 1am instance was rather ‘OTT’ shall we say.
• At least five hours of crying; including one two hour session in the middle of the afternoon.
• Feeling completely useless, worthless and a complete failure in every avenue of life.

Just your standard, run-of-the-mill Christmas then!

It was hard for me because of my memories of last Christmas. After travelling and emigrating I had not had a Christmas with my parents for seven years, and last year I got to spend Christmas with them. It was wonderful! We exchanged presents, chilled out in Melbourne, wasted an almighty $10 at the casino and watched Happy Feet at the cinema. Even though I didn’t get to spend Christmas with my girlfriend (she was with her own family) I was still able to speak to her and receive Christmas wishes from someone, as well as have drinks with friends in the evening following my day with my parents.

Which in contrast to this year - depressed suicidal cravings, complete loneliness and a knife and belt from Santa - was somewhat the perfect Christmas!

So here I sit on Boxing Day, reflecting on my wasted life, chatting and conversing with Meadhbh (who is driving me insane) and not really doing anything because I can’t actually move some parts of my body easily.

Seasonal Depression is a sad fact of life and can affect even those who are not already suffering from a mental illness. This seasonally affected disorder can wreak havoc for those not already coping. I, for one, am glad that this day has finally passed and once again am left hoping that next year the world will once again start remembering what the true spirit of Christmas is actually about - but as I’ve been hoping this for many years now, feel that once again I will be left disappointed by the ever growing apathetic society which the world is slowly becoming.

I truly hope that your Christmas was a lot more enjoyable than mine, and that everyone managed to survive it safetly and harmlessly…and don’t even ask about New Years next week! I don’t even want to think about that just yet!

I‘ve been trying for the last four days, been through countless versions, drafted so many different options and yet even now - three hours before the clock strikes midnight, I still can’t get the words out.

I know why - usually the Christmas spirit bites me with all the kinky fondness of a lover deliciously nibbling into the juicy flesh of their partner’s pert backside. One of those goose bump electrifying bites of extreme pleasure and excitement! (You know what I mean!)

This year, it feels like Rudolph has been mutated by comic book radioactive slime into a ravenous killer reindeer and has decided my arse is the appetiser!

So many children are getting excited right about now the world over. Impatiently waiting for the ticking down of the clocks so they can leap up the next morning and get stuck into their Wiis and bikes and iPods and Barbies. So many adults are gathering around getting slowly inebriated as they laugh over the joys and times of the months gone. So many friends are gathering in pubs and clubs drinking heavily and partaking in the knees up to end all knees up (well, at least until the 31st that is!) Wives, husbands, boyfriends and girlfriends are relishing the thought of their Christmas Day shag, and just how awesome that nibble is going to feel this year.

So many people are sitting alone in their respective bedsits, flats, rooms, houses, gardens, outhouses, park benches and hostels wishing that all the above was happening to them. Instead, they get to pull out their knives, or check to see how many pills they have left, or whether they have enough blankets to get through the night.

The problem I am having with Christmas this year is that this is the time of year when empathy, compassion and the human spirit goes out the window. It’s a bit messed up, because really this should be the time of year when these things happen in abundance! People seem to be focused on all the fun they are having to realise what they can be doing for other people, their gestures of warmth and love feel somehow forced - committed out of necessity of the time of year, rather than out of love or friendship.

Everyone’s too interested in making their Christmas that bit more wonderful than thinking of what they can do to make someone else’s Christmas more exciting.

I sound like the grinch, I know, but I’m sure it’s not just me. There are so many people in the world who will be spending tomorrow alone. All the lost souls the world has forgotten and left to rot. Will anyone be thinking of those people when they tuck into their turkey’s, beach side BBQs or partner’s posterior?

I will be.

Ever since I first read it last week I have been thinking about a particular blogpost I read. It touched me in ways many blog posts don’t. It was about a man who killed himself, a man who was suffering from depression, a man who felt so alone and forgotten in the world that he had no other choice but to kill himself.

How many of the alone and forgotten will be thinking about this tomorrow? How many of the lost souls left to rot will feel they will have no other choice but to get out their noose?

How many family members and friends will be left wishing they had picked up the phone and had a friendly conversation rather than sending an email or instant message?

I know the feelings of desperation and loneliness only too well. I have attempted suicide twice this year, and have been on the verge too many times to count. Tomorrow, I get to wake up in the morning and face the day alone; no presents, no turkey (or tofurkey), no friends, no family, no warmth or love or compassion.

Just like so many who will be doing the same thing.

Christmas, one of the loneliest times of the year even when you are surrounded by friends and family. So when you’re tucking into your piping hot dinner tomorrow surrounded by family, or heading off down the pub to sing a song and be merry with all your friends, and thinking about how lonely you feel - think about all those lost, alone, depressed and forgotten souls who are spending Christmas actually alone.

(You do realise by the way that the song a lot of you happy smiley friend-surrounded people will be singing tomorrow in that merry pub is about a Christmas through the eyes of a lonely bitter alcoholic drug addict reflecting on his lost chances and ruined life)

Instead of just thinking about them, or planning to phone them and forgetting out of tipsy merriment, make the effort to let them know how much you care. Make the effort to tell them because you want to, not because you feel you have to just because ‘it’s Christmas’.

No-one should be alone at Christmas, but for some people, it’s a sad reality.

So, if you suffer from depression, bipolar, BPD, self harm or any mental illness…
Or if you are homeless and have no-where to go…

If your family and friends are on the other side of the world…
Or you are stuck working in that dead-end job…

If this is your first Christmas following the death of a loved one…
Or your first Christmas after a relationship break up…

I wish you all a very Merry Christmas, which may sound hopeless, but I will be thinking of you all, promise. Please be kind to yourself and remember that you are not alone.