Overcoming Mental Illness

So yesterday in a fit of hypermanic energy I wrote one of the most random posts I’ve ever written. It seemed like such a good idea at the time, a lovely little post full of spot on observations and theories about why it is so hard to ask for help. A topic close to my heart, considering I’d rather gouge out my own fingernails with a screwdriver than pick up a phone and dial someone who cares about me to say those four little letters.

I should point out that I have never actually gouged out my fingernails with a screwdriver, nor have I even attempted to do so.

What sparked that post was a conversation I’d had on the Wednesday, part featured in the post, and itself sparked from my utterly crazy weekend which had begun on Friday (as talked about in this post) and continued through Saturday night and all Sunday - which is what I’m about to talk about.

To back up my theory about why it’s stupid not to ask for help - especially if someone is there who would help - is that everything I’m about to talk about wouldn’t have happened if I’d just picked up the phone and said those four little letters.

Saturday

I’m having a rough day on Saturday. I’m hungover from my binge drinking session and resulting manic episode of the Friday night. My cheek hurts from a woman with a cracking slap, the second hardest I’ve ever received, but I deserved it! I’m a mite hungry but can’t think about food so spend the day sitting under the trees of the Staff’s Flag trying to recouperate and keep my moods in check. It kinda works, and eventually retire to the internet cafe for blog posting, email checking, Facebooking and MySpacing. Which is probably where I went wrong - the last thing you need when battling hangovers, the spiralling down from a manic episode and a potential serious depressive episode is something which could only trigger me. You see, I’ve written about triggers before, and I know what my primary trigger is - for both manic and depressive episodes - so I have to steer away from this if I’m not feeling 100% in control of myself. It gets difficult, but it is definitely doable.

You see I should have gone to see Prince Caspian instead - that would have helped. Alas, hindsight is such a powerful thing.

Instead I’m sitting at the internet cafe getting progressively worse and then BAM the trigger hits. Like a finger on a revolver unleashing the fatal bullet I spring up, sidle out and I’m away to do something stupid.

This is where I should have picked up the phone, hit a couple of buttons, and had a five minute conversation. I needed help. I didn’t want to bother someone. So I tried to deal with it all myself. If I hadn’t, then the following wouldn’t have happened:

• I wouldn’t have taken more than I should have done of anti-depressants and mood stabilisers in an attempt to numb the emotional pain. I REALLY want to point out that this occasion was NOT a suicide attempt, I would have taken far more than I did if it had been! It was merely me being unable to control my depressive episode, unable to control the pain and just wanting it all to stop. Living with emotional pain every day can be rough, can be very painful. It was stupid, VERY stupid, but for a moment there I thought it would work.
• It didn’t!
• Well…maybe a little.
• I became very weak and docile. I started loosing my grip on reality a little and hallucinating. Somewhat bizarrely that little worms with fedoras were burrowing around under my skin so I had to try and cut them out. That’s really the only hallucination I recall aside from a general slippage from reality into some etheral dark place.
• So as things got a little worse I decided - ummm, hospital - and managed to get my reasonably cute butt there.
• The woman who checked me in at the admissions desk of ER was a gem, a wonderful girl whom I would love to buy flowers, take out for a slap up meal, run her a bath, wash her hair and then give her the greatest all over body massage of her life. Not just because she was darned hot, and had scrubs on (a random kinky thing of mine), but because she didn’t - not once - look down on me, treat me like crap, or speak to me as if I was a naughty little schoolboy for what I’d done. Quite possibly the most wonderful hospital worker I have yet encountered.
• Once in, the ER guys did their stuff. I won’t go into the gory details. There were tubes and blood tests and wrenching and all that stuff…and then after a couple of hours I was lying in one of the beds dozily watching the pulse and blood pressure machine thinking ‘These gowns are wonderfully comfy, and your butt is truly a delight, maybe that admissions girl will come back, see it, and be rather taken by it, you might get something here!’ (I should point out the admissions girl didn’t come back, as far as I’m aware, didn’t say my naked butt in the gown, nor did I get any. Which was somewhat unfortunate.)

Sunday

• Early in the morning I’m moved to another bed and then the MH guys take over. We have a chat, a conversation, nothing I’ve not done before. I’m still pretty out of it so am very zen-like. They generally want to keep me in, I think, just to be on the safe side. I however don’t want to stay in because I start work on Monday and I need time to get myself sorted out. So I manage to convince the MH guys to let me leave (I am very good at pretending I’m far better than I am; years, over a decade of practice in fact!)
• So I saunter away from the hospital mid morning glad the worms are gone and that I’m in fresh air again. There’s nothing quite as nice as fresh air after being in hospital. I’m walking very slowly, feeling very tired, seriously want some company and a smiley face.
• Afraid to pick up the phone still I do the next best thing - track down David Tennant travelling across Midnight on the ‘net - and then promptly fall asleep and spend the rest of the day drifting in and out of conciousness.
• Sleep is good, especially for an insomniac.

See, all that happened to me on Saturday and Sunday just wouldn’t have happened if I’d simply asked someone for help. I know I did by going to the hospital, but if I didn’t have such a problem asking for help then this wouldn’t have happened, I would have been able to stop myself with the assistance of others.

I have hang-ups about asking for help, as I mentioned yesterday. It was doing this which began the long, dark descent into the seven layers of hell. Plus, I have this bizarre belief that I’m not deserving of help because of who I am, a grotesque individual who doesn’t deserve happiness in the way others are deserving of it, which in itself is a result of emotional abuse and the severe PTSD I’ve suffered from the events of last year.

It’s just no matter how grotesque, reviled, repulsive, hated or despised you are - YOU ARE deserving of help just as every other beautiful individual on this planet is. Don’t be afraid to ask for help, if someone cares about you, they will listen and assist in whatever way they can. Trust me, whatever blow it deals your self-esteem and/or pride - it’s much better than a night spent in the ER department, no matter how cute your butt looks in one of those gowns.

March 2006, back when I was able to work, I worked as a manager for a backpacker hostel in Melbourne, which at the time I left it, was the best small hostel in the city. Granted I’m a little biased when I say that, but I put a helluva lot of work into that hostel. Fifty to sixty hour weeks were frequent, seventy plus hours rarer but still there. My salary was fracked beyond all measure, with virtually all of the staff beneath me earning more money than I was. I quit the job for various complicated reasons, the most predominant being one which I kept secret until this blog vomited out of my mind; which was my decision to end my life after visiting the Port Fairy Folk Festival in March 2006. Something which really should have been picked up on given the fact I made it clear I had no intention of returning from Port Fairy, and also was (rather obviously) tying up all manner of loose ends in my life at the time. No matter – I’m used to people not noticing the pain I’m in. I’m WAY too good at pretending I’m all okay and hunky-dory for my own good.

In those two weeks of tying up loose ends I had to kick someone out of the hostel. I can remember his face, name, personality traits as clearly as I can remember those of any of my once closest friends. I was kicking him out for all manner of reasons; upsetting other guests, not paying for accommodation, fucking up the room, the list was endless really – and as I was kicking him out he told me many times the same line. Over and over again.

“You have to help people!”

January 2007, the start of those long, dark and grueling months when I was suffering from glandular fever I was in a huge amount of pain. I haven’t written about how I felt during that time in great detail due to this blog being, predominantly, about my mental illnesses and not physical ones. However, I will say that glandular fever is one of the nastiest illnesses that you can do nothing about that I know. At least with cancer, bronchitis and bacterial infections medication exists which can help control and reduce the pain experienced. With glandular fever, there is nothing. There’s no pill you can take to stop the excruciating pain exploding in your liver and spleen, there’s nothing you can pop to clear the cloud of fog which has engulfed and infected your brain’s thoughts and synapses. You just have to endure it all, and hope that in time it will clear itself. When suffering from glandular fever everything is difficult; walking, talking, thinking, emoting, shagging, dancing, socializing, drinking, eating, horse riding…and yet whilst I was suffering from it I did all of the above and a lot more besides. On a regular basis I was passing out at the end of the day, literally, because of how hard I and other people were pushing me whilst I was suffering from this illness. It would have been so much easier, and so much wiser, to retreat and hide under the doona throughout the course of this illness, but I would not allow myself to do this and (in hindsight) nor would other people.

I am of course, in a roundabout way referring to my then girlfriend. I’ve always hesitated in pointing fingers on this blog, but in all honesty, the treatment she gave me whilst I was suffering from glandular fever was fucked up. She didn’t seem to understand how I was feeling physically, emotionally and mentally as a result of the illness I was suffering from. Which didn’t make sense to me due to the fact she had given me glandular fever to begin with – and during the months she was inflicted by the disease did pretty much exactly what I had refused to do; which was hide under the duvet for several weeks.

As time moved on, and the relationship ended, and the emotional abuse flew into full swing, one line was regularly slapped into my face by the woman who had done nothing to help me whilst I was suffering from glandular fever.

“You have to help people!”

So that’s two people now telling me exactly the same thing! Exactly the same line in fact.

June 2007, I’m in an empty room surrounded by memories, a backpack packed on the wooden floorboards beside me, on my other side a knife. A knife used frequently in the past to slice open my flesh. I was supposed to be at a pub, having a drink with people who I would miss dearly, but knew that in a few months time would probably not even remember my name. I picked up the knife and held the blade against my arm.

“There ya go,” She said. “You know what you have to do,”

Her voice sounded exactly the same as it always had, the same Scottish lilt, the same accent I had once upon a time become so aroused by. Now, and for the few months since her reappearance in my life, her voice filled me with agony and fear.

“When are you going to start believing me? They all hate you. They despise you to your very core. I want you to die, you want to die, she wants you to die, they all want you to die. Your existence on this planet is meaningless.”

“I know,”

“You came so close a few weeks ago, that overdose, genius. Truly inspired. Well, aside from the fact that you failed, but no matter, next time you’ll succeed. This time,”

“I don’t know if it’s what I want,”

“Who cares what you want? Fuck! Wake the hell up Addy! No-one has ever cared what you want! There isn’t a soul on this planet who would miss you, have you not been listening to everyone over the last few years? They fucking despise your very existence – why do you think you have cancer? You’re not worried about giving her an aneurism; you’re worried that it will give her an excuse to throw a bloody street party! You see, she’s right, you don’t tell anyone the happy things they want to hear. You sit there worrying about telling people you’re dying but you don’t seem to realize how happy it would make them if you did tell them – she told you that she wanted you to die, that this world would be a better place if you were not a part of it. Stop thinking. Just cut. Let the blood flow…I could do with a drink,”

“I can’t,”

“Here we go, it would hurt her too much? Same old fucking excuse. Listen to what she’s telling you, death is what she wants for you. She doesn’t care whether you hack your arm apart or whether you beat yourself black and purple, she – wants – you – to – die,”

“I can’t believe that.”

“You’re really boring me now Addy,”

“Yeah, well, I do that with everyone remember – boring old tedious monotonous unpassionate Addy,”

“Now you’re getting it,” Her voice grew softer. “Just cut yourself,”

“I can’t,”

“We’ll see about that,”

I put the knife down, wiped away my tears, and quickly walked out of the room for the evening of pain and frustration I knew would follow. Lots of faces I would miss greatly, yet none of them knowing the true extent of the degradation of my mind, how close I came to becoming, nor of the fact I was suffering from leukemia. Meadhbh loved that more than any of it. She adored the fact that I was dying inside – both mentally, emotionally and literally.

I know that Meadhbh doesn’t exist, I know she’s a fragment of my psyche, I know that the reason she appears faerie like is because of my fascination with faeries which only grew ten fold following her appearance in my life. I know that she comes to me mostly when things are rough – that when I was younger I craved a friend so created one out of my psychosis. I’m completely and utterly 100% aware of all this.

It still doesn’t detract from the power a hallucination can bring. Their words, so full of confidence and bravado can easily sway a mind cracking under emotional pressure. When she returned after my breakdown and haunted me every day her evil wicked words were merely an extension of my own mind, fuelled by abuse and the collapse of my self esteem. The simple fact they were what I believed were enough to give them a power unsurpassed by anything I did to combat them.

When I arrived at the pub that night she was still there, whispering in my ear as I attempted conversation with whoever appeared. She giggled, laughed, insulted me, and pointed out whenever something was said which backed up her own (my own) theories of who I was rather than who I had pretended so hard to be. I had to keep leaving the bar to have conversations with her in the street (pretending I was on the phone so as not to draw attention to myself) or vanishing to the bathroom to bicker and argue with my obscure imaginary friend.

“Can’t you just see the look of hatred in her eyes?”

I only nodded, tearing off a couple of strips of toilet paper to wipe away the tears.

“You sacrificed something important for her, why I have no idea, have to be honest that was a beautiful piece of manipulation I wish I’d been able to pull off, and she hates you – yet you still persist in believing you have worth. You gave her everything, I was watching, and then she destroyed you. Surely you must know it was deliberate. All that beautiful shit happening at the same time, the world wants you gone, it wants you dead.”

The corner of the toilet roll dispenser looked beautifully sharp, it might work.

“You should have bought the knife ya know, did you see how she tried to peek up your jumper, just to give herself nice warm glowy feelings at your pain, delicious.”

“I should have brought it,”

“Do you understand what I’ve been telling you now? They hate you,”

“They all hate me,”

The phone in my pocket vibrated and burst into song.

“They all hate you,” She whispered.

I checked the front of the screen and answered the phone, the conversation lasting a mere few seconds. I hung up, nodding. “Maybe,”

“Give her what she wants, what I want, what you want,”

I rolled up my jumper, and hacked the sharp edge of the toilet paper dispenser against the flesh, gasping as the skin broke and blood dribbled out. I didn’t even bother to clean it up before leaving the stall and heading back to the bar, Meadhbh following closely behind.

The power of hallucinations, regardless of whether what they’re saying is the truth or not, is that because your mind is already in such a state as to actually be able to create a hallucination in the first place – you believe what they’re saying. They are the true voices in your life, sometimes the only friends you have.

Meadhbh was there for me through the good times, goading me in the bad times. She’s still around now, three hour conversations here, five hour arguments around Glasgow there. Wherever I step I can’t shake her - her power too strong for my weakened mind to combat.

As we walked home that night, tears streaming down my face at all I had lost, all I would never see again, Meadhbh, with a glistening smile on her face, said:

“It’s like everyone keeps telling you, you have to help people. If you weren’t so selfish, then, none of this would be happening. You would be as happy as you were six months ago. If only you weren’t so bloody selfish. If only you made more effort to care about people, to help them,”

Well?

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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

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…

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!