Overcoming Mental Illness

So there I am on a Friday afternoon in Melbourne.

Completely knackered.

It’s been a long day already and it’s only about 2pm!

I’ve been bothered by a nasty cold all week so my physical health is drained, and what with the myriad of other physical problems I deal with each day, colds are not at all just minor niggles for me. It hurts - and I mean hurts! An after effect of the fact I struggled to overcome glandular fever but that’s a whole other story!

I’m also going through this vicious mixed episode and the ridiculous roller coaster of manic-ups and treacherous lows every second, minute and hour of the day. Will I ever be able to just be on an even keel? But again, that’s a whole other story!

Thus my mood isn’t great when I haul my reasonably cute butt out of bed in the morning and go through the whole process of getting up and trying to battle on with the day ahead. Not easy at the moment. It would be easier should something be there to look forward to, but an early morning escapade to the outer eastern suburbs of Melbourne is not something to really look forward to when you’re battling mixed episodes, physical pain and physical illnesses. Anyhows, I have to do it all in 2 hours, due to momentarily forgetting that if you scan your 2hr metcard through the machines just after the hour it takes the 2 hours to be from the next hour (so if you swipe it at 10:01am it takes the two hours from 11am, thus you get three hours for the price of two - bargain! - whereas if you swipe it at 9:56am it takes it from 10am, which is what I did yesterday. Dope!)

I get out there, do my business of checking out places to live and have forced conversations to try and make myself out to be someone who at least has some reasonable grasp on his sanity. Not easy right now. And then have to rush back to the chaotic wonder of the city before the metcard runs out and I get slapped with either buying a new ticket or forced to pay a fine upwards of $150 because I didn’t think to wait five minutes!

By the time I drag my reasonably cute butt back to the hostel I’m completely knackered, legs wobbling from all the exertion and pain firing away from all corners of my body. It’s been like that for a fortnight really, so much to do, so little fun. So I end up leaning against the wall of the shower having a bit of a knackered cry before deciding to go down the self-harm route to at least give me the release I need to get through the rest of the day.

I don’t like doing it. Sometimes though when you’re working so hard and making so much effort and those mood swings keep oscillating I just end up doing it. Nothing too serious, a few slices here, a few cuts there. I have antiseptic wipes, plasters and bandages on hand to clean and wrap so it’s not as if I don’t know what I’m doing.

So when I get back to the room I am in a bit more pain than I had been before, but this is manageable pain, this was the pain I needed to help calm me down and refocus before my afternoon onslaught in the rebuilding of Addy’s life. I just hadn’t countered on an impromptu 45 minute phone interview which came with no warning.

Now remember all those old-adages about when you’re nervous imagine people naked. Well I was nervous, and keeping a close eye on the cuts and blood, but I wasn’t imagining the person at the end of the phone naked - I was naked. As I was through the whole interview, whilst trying not to let the blood drip too much onto the bed and whilst attempting to apply a bandage unsuccessfully with one hand. Not easy. In fact proved impossible. So I gave up at the 20minute mark and I’d deal with the pain and blood stain later, as long as I came off on the interview as reasonably sane.

Interview done I throw myself back down and check the cut, the blood has pretty much stopped but it hurts and it needs a wee bit of attention. So I grab the antiseptic wipes and being somewhat delirious from fatigue and emotional/mental exhaustion go to sort it out. BRING BRING. BRING BRING. Another phone call. Which I have to answer ’cause it’s the job agency I’m with so again have to sound all professional and with it, which I attempt, and sure the phone call becomes the most random I think I’ve ever been on the phone. All confused blabbering and incoherent speech. I can’t even really recall what I’d been saying. Annoyed with that I apply the treatment to my cuts, grab my jacket and swing out the room. (Or rather, when I say ’swing’ I mean hobble, as the majority of the cuts were on my leg so walking was a little difficult.)

I

Need

Alcohol

!

Which really isn’t a good idea given the mixed episode, cold, physical health issues, recent self harm, stressed mood and cavalcade of frustration: but after three whiskys and three Coopers I’m rather bouncy. Who wouldn’t be. After a fourth Coopers I’m positively, well, hyper, and well, manic. Hypermanic in fact.

I end up in my usual internet place randomly inviting anyone I fancy to be my Facebook and Myspace friends, typing obscure wall messages which I can’t remember and then cracking onto a few people in various different forms, forums and groups. I really don’t remember much after that aside from prancing around the city occasionally breaking into song and tap dance routines perfected in the Adelaide casino last year whilst cracking onto people in the flesh this time and getting the odd slap (good and bad) in return.

You see that’s why alcohol, medication, self harm, bipolar, physical & mental health problems do not a good combination make.

Alcohol is a depressant, but it’s one of those lovely and weird depressants which makes you high first - and with the on-sweep of emotion, fatigue, pain and ever-changing-moods I’d been experiencing all day - it was only ever gonna do two things. Make me too sick to move or induce a manic period. Fortunately the manic period has faded a little and as I type this am feeling what can only be described as a bitch of a hangover and ever so somewhat fading back into my shell of depressed loneliness.

At least though I know how to induce small periods of mania if I want to, maybe I should experiment and see if I can make them last longer, people seem to like me when I’m manic. I don’t like myself much, but other people take to me far more than when I’m just being “me”. Is there a lesson there I should learn? Maybe if I didn’t have a hangover I’d be able to see it a bit more clearly.

On the upside I have ended up with a few more Facebook friends, I have no idea who they are or anything about them but they’re there, and I’ve got a few more MySpace friends as well which is kinda cool. No fall out yet from the other stuff I did; haven’t quite had the nerve to check my messages yet.

Maybe later.

Maybe I’ll need some more Coopers afterwards :)

How many of you knew it was International Men’s Health week?

Be honest now, don’t go…ahhh, yes, I knew that, of course I did. Honesty rules ok, so start using it - else I’ll start scolding, and you won’t like it when I start scolding!

I’ll start, I didn’t actually realise what the week was until today. I should have done and I have duly scolded myself for not being aware of this sooner. So now I’m allowed out of the corner I thought I’d jump on this wee blog o’mine and tell all of you people what I found out.

I bet half of you don’t even care, I mean there are SOOOOoooooooo many “international weeks of this” or “international days of that” these days that quite often a single week has several different things attached to it. Then there’s each specific country having his/her own specific “week of this” or “week of that” that most of us just give up and go eat a Belgium waffle. And why not, Belguim waffle’s are good (damn good) far more orgasmically exciting than thinking about the fact that male suicide often out-numbers female suicide by four to one.

That’s not important is it, not in the scheme of waffle related orgasms.

Now being a man I know from personal experience that I never used to want to admit to being sick, or ill, or anything really that showed my weaknesses. If I had a cold then I just struggled through. Back in the days when I used to work full time I would crawl into work feeling like utter shit rather than admit that I actually needed to go and see a Doctor, even when I had glandular fever last year I struggled on through work, college, trips, hikes, horserides and the like rather than just rest and allow myself time to recover from an illness which could in fact kill me! I wasn’t worried about that because the waffle as substitute for sex society in which we live doesn’t allow men to admit they sick; they’re ostracised if they do, from relationships, social circles and society in general. Even when I was diagnosed with cancer last year I didn’t tell anyone (although granted I tried to) because of the whole - a weak man is not a man argument which was thrown at me - but then we’ve covered that ground before. Men just aren’t allowed to be weak these days, a la, they’re not allowed to be sick, a la, men’s health is not important.

But it is!

I learned earlier on this week that someone I know in the UK - a man - suffered a stroke (a mini-stroke to be exact as it turned out) but a stroke is a stroke in anyone’s book and that’s bloody serious! The first thought on this man’s was not how he needed to be in hospital, but that he needed to drive to Bristol the following day to deliver an item which had been sold on Ebay…ummm, priorities :) The thing is he is actually also pretty young and in the long term this may possibly have been avoided.

I guess my point is one I’ve covered before, which is that men should not be made to feel weak for having an illness. It’s bloody ridiculous in this day in age, that men are still being made to feel they cannot admit or talk about both physical and mental illnesses which are bothering them in order to make themselves ‘more desireable’ for the opposite sex.

To put it another way; would the women out there prefer to receive their sexual gratification from the delicious delights of a Belgium waffle (and I’m sure many are thinking “Orgasm merely from eating a Belgium waffle, if it were only that easy!”) or would you prefer to be snuggled up in bed with your honey having wild nights of romping fun with something which actually breathes and feels and emotes and thinks about your pleasure (and yes, that sort of man does exist before you say otherwise)?

If you answer Yep, I would much prefer the waffle!
Well then, prepare for a scolding!

If you answer I would actually much much prefer my man.
Well then, how long has it been since he went to the GP for a check up? Maybe it’s time to go.

And for the men out there - physical or mental health concerns? - it really doesn’t take much to go see a Doctor. 

So have a wee think this week about your health. Any nagging pains, aches, frustrations or worries. Maybe now’s the time to get it checked out - before that stroke (or other long term, possibly terminal, condition) bites you on the ass instead of your partner.

Related Posts:

• Men and Mental Health
• Rant #1: Sexism

It is Mental Health Action Week, to which the theme is anger. The Mental Health Foundation are holding various RANTfests in workplaces and organisations around the country - this is my own RANTfest, one rant a day for the duration of the week.

Every (non spamming) comment received on this blog between 23-29 March will see 50p (or even more, depending on it’s quality) donated to the Action Week Appeal. 

Rant #4: Speechless

Following a meeting with a member of the mental team this afternoon which lasted all of two minutes I was told:

“I don’t think you’re suffering from depression, I think it’s more just re-acclimatizing following your move back to the UK,”

Which - to be honest - has left me utterly speechless and thinking…what the frack?

How does a move a mere three months ago back to the UK explain a nervous breakdown which happened over 12 months ago and nearly fifteen years of (diagnosed) social anxiety, (diagnosed) clinical depression, (diagnosed) self harm and (diagnosed) bipolar type 1 as well as four separate suicide attempts and a very near attempt in January of this year before my return to the UK?

So as it stands now I am not receiving any support from the mental health team, so for the time being, I’m alone once more.

Tomorrow…Rant #5: which I promise will be far more of a proper rant than today’s offering!

———-

Donate to the Mental Health Action Week campaign here

———-

It is Mental Health Action Week, to which the theme is anger. The Mental Health Foundation are holding various RANTfests in workplaces and organisations around the country - this is my own RANTfest, one rant a day for the duration of the week.

Every (non spamming) comment received on this blog between 23-29 March will see 50p (or even more, depending on it’s quality) donated to the Action Week Appeal. 

Rant #3: Slow Walkers

Okay, so the medication is having seriously oddside effects now..and okay, this is really gonna sound like me having a go at the old, infirm and unwell - but seriously - it’s not. Seriously. It’s not. This is something that really pisses me off and has done for so fracking long now that if I’m gonna rant about something it may as well be this. Slow walkers! Grrrrr, that Facebook group has it right, sometimes I really do wanna slap them in the back of the head. I mean there I am walking down Brunswick Street (a gloriously funky street in the Inner Suburbs of Melbourne, one which my long term readers will be aware that these days ignites anxiety attacks just thinking about) and I’ve got al fresco cafe seating on my left, a block of shops selling alternative CDs, leather corsets and beautiful churros on my right and there - right there in front of me - I have three iiiiiinnnnnnnncccccccrrrrrrrreeeeeddddddiiiiibbbbllllllyyyyyyy ssssssslllllloooooooowwwwwwwww mooooovvvvviiiiinnnnnnnngggggggg twentysomethings meandering their trendy cute butts down the street. And they STOP every TWO seconds to LOOK at something IN the window and they POINT it out and go “OOOOOO, isn’t THAT cute,” before walking on again and then stopping SUDDENLY to admire the CAKES in the window but, oh no, they can’t eat those because they’d get FAT and so they keep their iiiiinnnnnnnncccccccrrrrrrrreeeeeddddddiiiiibbbbllllllyyyyyyy ssssssslllllloooooooowwwwwwwww mooooovvvvviiiiinnnnnnnngggggggg butts crawling down the road! And I’m getting more and more and more furious because all I want to do is get past them to the leather corset shop (not for me of course, I wouldn’t look very good in a leather corset - trust me on that) but I can’t - ’cause I’ve got al fresco cafe seating on my left and a block of shops selling alternative CDs, beautiful churros and that shop I want to get to with my evening’s activity only a few yards ahead, and I just want to slap every one of those cute butts to get them to move out the way or at the very least speed up so I can get to my destination. So I end up reducing my speed and end up walking iiiiiinnnnnnnncccccccrrrrrrrreeeeeddddddiiiiibbbbllllllyyyyyyy ssssssslllllloooooooowwwwwwwwwlllllyyyyyyy and no doubt someone behind me is standing there getting furious and wanting to slap my ass into gear so they can get their mitts on some churros and dipping chocolate. It’s a bloody traffic jam for pedestrians - and for some reason this annoys me so much.

If I were manic, trust me on this, I probably would end up slapping their butts to speed them up, what do I care, I’m an immortal god and they should bow down before me and kiss the ground upon which I walk.

Is it just me?

Well, going from that Facebook group, it isn’t. Does it really take so much effort to speed up just a little, or at least have some consideration for those people walking behind you and allowing them to pass if they’re trying to. But nope, they’ll just move iiiiiinnnnnnnncccccccrrrrrrrreeeeeddddddiiiiibbbbllllllyyyyyyy ssssssslllllloooooooowwwwwwwwwllllyyyyyy as that is their prerogative, no doubt.

It’s the same with shared footways. I used to cycle an awful lot, I hate cars ya see, and now I’m all medicated and insane, I doubt any instructor would be idiotic enough to give me a license. Can you imagine an immortal god behind the wheel of a car. Blimey! Doesn’t even bare thinking about. Every morning and evening I’d cycle 10kms to get to and from work, it was awesome….until I hit the shared footways and had to emergency break because there’s someone - obviously - moving iiiiiinnnnnnnncccccccrrrrrrrreeeeeddddddiiiiibbbbllllllyyyyyyy ssssssslllllloooooooowwwwwwwwwllllyyyyyy, and I nearly find myself flying head over handlebars onto the bitumen in front of them. Which I suppose is one way to get round them. Why not cycle aroundthem I hear you say? A damn good idea, but as per clockwork, or perhaps the unwritten rules of walking on a shared foot/bike path you have to walk in a swerve - always moving left to right, so just as the cyclist thinks he has time to manoeuvre around, ack, the pedestrian notices a small rare daisy on the other side of the path so darts across to investigate before realising it’s actually just a normal daisy and swerving back to where s/he was originally. Ad infinitum.

There’s nothing we can even do about it. Save from; yelling, screaming, bawling, howling, squealing or squeaking until they move out the way. I recommend the latter, as this way they suddenly think they are being attacked from behind by a giant mouse, which if you’ve ever been chased by a giant mouse, you would know it’s a mightily scary thing to have happen to you. So I guess all we can do with slow walkers intent on preventing you from reaching the leather corset shop before it closes because of their inability to REALISE WHAT IS HAPPENING BEHIND THEM is admire their posteriors.

If we’re not going to be allowed to pass them, we may as well try to enjoy the view they are presenting to us…and who doesn’t like a nice arse ogle every once in a while ;-)

Tomorrow…Rant #4: ‘I think it’s fairly obvious I’m running out of ideas (damn medication!) so if there are no suggestions I will flick the dictionary open and choose a word at random to rant about. If you lucky, you may get me rambling about (opens dictionary at random) MASURIUM, (and again) PERIMYSIUM or (and again…oh that’s bloody typical!) CLITORIS - and trust me, you probably don’t want me ranting about the clitoris, else we’ll be here all fracking day! And how am I supposed to get clitoris as a picture without throwing the blog into serious adult 18+ territory anyway? Oh lord, I hope it’s not that when I open the dictionary tomorrow! We’ll just have to wait and see,’

Donate to the Mental Health Action Week campaign here

(and yes, it was tempting to use a picture of a butt or two in this post, but that seemed a bit too obvious, despite it’s obvious voyeuristic merits!)

It is Mental Health Action Week, to which the theme is anger. The Mental Health Foundation are holding various RANTfests in workplaces and organisations around the country - this is my own RANTfest, one rant a day for the duration of the week.

Every (non spamming) comment received on this blog between 23-29 March will see 50p (or even more, depending on it’s quality) donated to the Action Week Appeal. 

Rant #1: Passion!

As a very wise and quoted-way-to-often-on-this-blog man once said, “Passion is the source of our finest moments. The joy of love, the clarity of hatred and the ecstasy of grief,” which is completely and utterly true. Period.

But what on earth does it mean to be passionate? What the hell is passion? Is there such a bloody thing? Because these days most people are far too obsessed with work, money, me, me, me to actually have time to have “passions” - because, ya know, there is far more to passion than merely having a quick randy shag behind the night club!

The 10th Edition of the Chambers Dictionary lists passion as: “/pash’n/ n strong feeling or agitation of mind, esp rage, often sorrow; a fit of such feeling, esp rage; an expression or outburst of such feeling; ardent love; sexual desire; an enthusiastic interest or direction of the mind; the object of such feeling; (usu with cap) the sufferings (esp on the Cross) and death of Chrst.“

And to be passion-ate about something you are: “moved by passion; showing strong and warm feeling; easily moved to passion; intense, fervid” and so forth and so forth.

Or in the words of Addy, to be passionate about something is to love something so much you want to whip off it’s undies, slap it on the butt and shag it for as long as you possibly can without passing out.

And - let’s be honest - how many of us are so passionate about our jobs that, if our jobs were personified in human form, we would rip off their undies, slap ‘em on the butt and shag them for as long as possible without passing out? Unless, of course, your job just happened to resemble Carey Mulligan when in human form, that is.

Exactly!

So, as we’re all working longer hours - slaving away every hour of every minute of every day - where does passion fit into our lives? How many of us actually make time for the things in life we are passionate about? Or is the ‘having a hobby’ becoming a dying art? Forced out of humanity by the quest for the almighty dollar? This is what I’m passionate about, but…

…someone once told me I was unpassionate, that there was nothing in life I was passionate about. Bull! And in an effort to prove it, this was my room at the time (early 2007):

View One:  View Two:  (Click images to enlarge)

Now, let’s have a wee test. I can spot 17 passions which are clearly on display in this room, for all who visit to see and digest. Now, when you look closer, it’s not just one small tiny thing - they’re either big things or repeated throughout the photos, it’s not just one tiny biscuit showing that I’m passionate about biscuits.

So before scrolling on to the answers, how many of my “passions” can you see on display?

All done? Got all seventen? Well done you, gold star!

Here are the answers:

View One:  View Two:  (Click image to enlarge)

And yes, I know it is a truly terrible photo of me, but them’s the breaks! And in all honesty that’s not even all of my passions, they’re just the one’s you can see in the photos!

My point is even though I was working at the time, hanging out with friends, trying to do everything I could to make money and make ends meet I always found time to throw myself into my passions because they were all around. Wherever I looked I could see the things in life that made me feel alive, made me marvel at this wonder called life.

These days, looking at those photos brings a tear to my eye, they were taken the summer where I had finally beaten my illnesses, when I had them all under control before the great triple whammy that struck in February which has been much written about. Within a few months all which you can see had gone and I was living in a room with a bare floorboard, white walls and whopping great cracks in the ceiling. My passions had been sucked out of me and were reflected in the dwellings where I was existing.

That’s the problem with mental illness, it sucks you dry and leaves you a shaking husk on a bare wooden floorboard. Depression, mood swings, panic, anxiety - they all make it virtually impossible to indulge in our passions. In fact, one of the most common symptoms of clinical depression is the inability to enjoy the things we were once passionate about. 

• My books are gone so, 
• I can’t read any more
• I can no longer write,
• Or produce art and photographs as effectively as I once did.
• I can’t watch movies & television either, and
• Going outside for walks is very hard with the anxiety and panic, which makes
• Friendship impossible; hence, no friends, no conversation, no occasional kinkyness and
• I can’t enjoy Christmas after last years self harm debacle,
• Or indulge in nostalgia as I once did, because of it’s triggering effect. 
• Travelling is out of the question, and Scotland is hard, as are new things with the anxiety involved
• And my creativity is at an all time low!

So out of those 17 passions I have but two left; faerie and computers.

The latter has been something I have focused on since my suicide attempt in October of last year, the writing of this blog which has been the only constant in my life since then, and the only thing which I can do which holds my focus.

Other blog projects (Eliminate the Stigma, Stray Thoughts Photography, All those Stray Thoughts) have come and gone, whilst others have appeared and ticking along nicely under pseudonyms, but this blog, this Journey with Depression has remained simply because of the passion I have for it.

So many blogs out there in cyberspace seem to be in it only for the money, which is fine, if that’s what they’re interested in. I traverse blogs who receive hundreds of comments and thousands of visitors a day. I’m kinda happy if I scrape 50 people dropping by a day. I don’t do this for the kudos or the statistics or how much money I’m making from it.

I write this blog because I am passionate about it.
I am passionate about spreading the word about the damage mental illness can cause and the lives it can destroy.
I have suffered greatly from mental illness; I do not want other people’s lives to be destroyed as mine has been.

I’ve ripped myself open and laid myself bare on this blog not because of prestige or the mighty dollar, but because I want people to know who I am, and for them to know they are not - and should never be - alone. No matter what they are going through.

The hopes, dreams and passions I once had have crumbled to dust and I know it’s unlikely they will ever be back. But I’ve battled on, losing more, because it’s passion which has kept me alive over the last few months.

Passion for this blog - and a passionate belief that one day I will get to put ‘ticks’ next to the two things I want most in life right now.

As we all rush to horde as much money as we can, achieve as much as we’re able in order to earn the reputation and respect from our peers, as we wear out the shoe leather and car tyres we should all find time in our lives to enjoy those things we are passionate about, whatever they may be.

So have a think. What are your passions? How do you enjoy them? Could you find time to enjoy them more?

We only live once remember.

Tomorrow…Rant #3: Slow Walkers

Donate to the Mental Health Action Week campaign here

It is Mental Health Action Week, to which the theme is anger. The Mental Health Foundation are holding various RANTfests in workplaces and organisations around the country - this is my own RANTfest, one rant a day for the duration of the week.

Every (non spamming) comment received on this blog between 23-29 March will see 50p (or even more, depending on it’s quality) donated to the Action Week Appeal. 

Rant #1: Sexism

This is something that really gets on my tits!

I was reading blog posts the other night, as I do, given the fact that I have nothing else to do on a Friday evening due to my anxiety/illness crushed existence and after reading one I very very very nearly wanted to launch the computer I was using across the room to smash those pixellated words into a thousand tiny fractured pieces.

What is it these days that most people think sexism only works in one direction - i.e. men being derogatory to women?

What is it that makes it that being derogatory to men isn’t considered sexism, but mere playful banter?

This article I was reading was about adultery, the having of an affair in a relationship, and throughout the entire article did it ever - not once - period - mention the fact that women also have affairs. That women also cheat on their partners.

Once again I was reading an article about how evil and misguided men are whilst surreptitiously painting women as the personification of perfection of Eve’s ovaries.

It’s the same as when I’m surfing for articles on abuse, trying to find ways to overcome the PTSD, panic, flashbacks and anxiety which I suffer as a result of the malicious emotional abuse I was subjected to for several months; all I can find are articles about how this man abused this women, how this man attacked this woman, how this woman is finding it hard overcoming the abuse they were the victim of from the general evilness of man.

Don’t people realise that men can be victims too?

A man?

A victim?

What?

Weak little amoeba!

How can we be attracted to a man who cries?

(How can a man be attracted to a woman who cries?)

In today’s society men are painted, labelled, and shunned as weak if they openly admit to something being wrong. If they admit to an illness, if they admit to abuse, if they show their emotions in any way (crying, trembling, shaking, talking, opening up) they are seen as not a man, they are seen as un-manly.

Whereas if a woman does the exact same thing they are seen to be strong, in touch with their emotions, able to communicate, brave, strong, inspirational.

It can be seen all over the web, all over the newspapers, all over the world, in every street, cul-de-sac, high rise, low-rise, beach house, town house, out house and chicken house.

It’s a pretty standard fact that men, from an early age, are encouraged to not talk about their emotions, from their early more formative years men are pretty much ordered to never open up or share what they are feeling because of the shame attached to being ‘unmanly’.

(What the hell is unmanly anyway?)

All through life we have to pretend nothing is wrong, that we are able to always deal with our problems withour ever seeking help, assistance or - god forbid - comfort from those women in our lives. As soon as we try to share our emotions we are mocked, ridiculed and shunned.

Yet, in utter contradiction, all over the world, in thousands of self help books, articles and websites men are being told to open up more, that in order for a relationship to work we must on all levels talk about our feelings in depth and without prompt.

But how are we supposed to when the moment we do we are mocked, ridiculed and shunned?

It’s no surprise to me that men commit more violent crimes than women, that men commit suicide more than women, that men are more likely to end up alcoholic and forgotten. The moment we try to be anything which the media is telling us we shouldn’t be this anti-sexism kicks in; free reign to have a go at men for all the problems in the world, but should this ever be thrown back at women - that’s just men being sexist as always!

Now, I’m not getting at women. Good lord, do I respect and admire women? Everything from your minds and souls to your hearts and tears right down to your delightful breasts and wonderful botto…Hang on, am I allowed to say that? Or is that being sexist? I’m not sure - I mean I see adverts on TV where women are ogling men’s arses, but am I allowed to do the same? Or is that sexist?

I’m digressing.

My issue with all of this is when men’s health is forgotten or deemed unimportant. This can be both physical and psychological illnesses. My issue is that men’s health seems to be being forgotten. All these posts and articles and news reports and media opinions…they are annoyingly one sided.

• WOMEN can and do have affairs. They are also just as likely to flirt, manipulate emotions and stray purely for the game of it as men are.
• WOMEN are the perpetrators of abuse just as much as they are the victims.
• MEN suffer from mental illness just as women suffer from mental illness.
• MEN feel just as much as women feel.
• (Note that in all of the above I write just as and not more than)

The only reason these aren’t reported is that, once again, men are not supposed to talk about their emotions. We are supposed to hide them at all times and just head down the pub to talk about breasts, sport, arses, beer, breasts, cricket, arses and music; which must always be of a punk, emo, rock, manly genre.

I’d love to see a day when men and women are truly equal. Where a man can cry and not feel ashamed. Where a man can admit to suffering from illness and seek support without being ostracised from his family and friends. Where a man can feel he is not a lesser being for openly admitting to his emotions.

Where I can surf the internet and not repeatedly find stories about how all affairs are the fault of man and his ability think only with his penis. Where I can surf the internet and find stories of men talking about the abuse inflicted on them by women, and where men go to find help for their issues without being the object of degradation or labelling.

Tomorrow…Rant #2: Is ‘passion’ dead?

 Donate to the Mental Health Action Week campaign here

I have a confession to make.
I do.
I have been lying to you all.
Yep.
Absolutely!
I’ve been lying to everyone for the last 28 years, 11 months, 3 weeks and lord knows how many seconds! Now, a week or so before my 29th birthday I have decided to come clean, stand up and confess. Has to be done, no question about it, can’t keep up these lies any more.
Ok…?
Here goes…

[deep breath]

I
am
NOT
a
MAN!

[blimey that feels good!]

It’s like this fifty eight thousand tonne weight has been lifted off my somewhat hairy back. It’s true though – I’m not.

It’s perfectly understandable why you’d all think that I am, what with; the presence of a beard, chest hair, rippling muscles, an Adam’s apple, a penchant to get a hard on at the mere passing thought of a naked woman, and the ability to turn into a raving ape at the actual sight of a naked woman…and oh yeah, I’ve got a penis.

But alas, I am not a man.

Why?

Well, I don’t feel the desire to – when ratarsed – piss in shop doorways; I don’t wolf whistle at woman as they walk down the street; I don’t chug pints of beer as a hobby; nor do I watch sports [breath] I don’t shag other women when I’m in a relationship; I remember birthdays and anniversaries and all sorts of grossly inappropriate important events; I never leave the toilet seat up nor do I feel the need to play the “I can get less urine in the bowel than you” game [breath] I think beer tastes like luke-warm yak’s vomit; I don’t feel the need to lie to a woman constantly in order to (a) impress her (b) cheat on her or (c) bang her; I don’t play football nor receive ridiculously pseudo-erotic pleasure from watching guys running around a field in tight shorts but I do however receive ridiculously pseudo-erotic pleasure from watching a man in a waistcoat screw a ball the length of the table [breathe] I see woman as more than just t-a-c; don’t keep a tally of how many lays I’ve had; I drink alcopops…in public…have never vomited into a pint glass; stolen a witch’s hat; got into a fight; screwed my girlfriend’s best friend nor would I no matter how tempted I may be [breathe] I’d never slap a woman in the face; nor on the ass as a means of coming on to her [smaller breath] I would never give a woman a job based solely on the quality of her posterior; nor get into a discussion about rating my friends’ tits on a 1-10 scale; I wouldn’t scribble 100 words for a woman’s sacred garden above the urinals in the pub…sacred garden? You need more proof? Fine…my mood changes frequently; I talk about my emotions; am not afraid to cry if I want to; nor even when I don’t [breath] I want babies; I want commitment; I like living somewhere where I can see the carpet; I’ve never measured my cock when I’m alone; when I’m talking to a woman I’m looking at her eyes – not her tits; I really don’t see the appeal of a g-string; think cricket is bloody stupid; and would much rather be sitting on a beach talking to a woman about the advantages/disadvantages of John Howard than sitting on a beach staring at her arse [breath] I really don’t see why women need to shave their legs; or their armpits; or their moustache and to be blunt would much rather sleep with someone with a bush hairier than a badger’s back than a bald bush smoother than that of a prepubescent schoolgirl; oh, and I care more about woman orgasming than I do my own, colour me selfish that way [breath] I have no problem ballroom dancing with another man; I have no problem hugging another man; I have no problem talking emotionally with another man; I have no problem crying in front of another man; I have no problem going to see a Doctor if I’m sick; nor do I have a problem with eating an egg and broccoli quiche whilst asking for directions from a man chowing down on a steak sandwich; and oh yes, I admit to making mistakes.

[breathe]

[before I pass out]

Bloody hell I could go on all day, but hey, the easiest way to prove my massive (almost) 29 year long deception – I have no problem with standing up before the whole of the world and announcing: I am suffering from depression!

[oh]

[hang on]

[ummmmmm]

I…ummm…made…a…mistake.

Sorry. Sorry everyone. Dammit, I got it wrong.

I am actually a man after all.

A hell of a man!

Far more so than anyone who fits into the categories I described above; and any man who dares say otherwise may very well be the second person to get a bitch slap from me. And any woman who dares say otherwise – well – if I don’t know them they may get a scolding glare, if I know them, maybe a slap on the butt (‘cause remember I don’t bitch slap women nor do I slap their asses as a means of coming on to them, keep up!)

To be a man, is to be one thing: courageous.

In today’s world, where men are vilified by woman on an almost global scale and forced to become the Neolithic apes they despise so much in order for them to be interested in you (I know, go figure!) being a man is to have the courage to: cry whilst watching Bambi; actually ask for help from the female shop assistant when buying lingerie for your girlfriend; talk about tampons and hormones with your girlfriend; order quiche in the restaurant; actually buy lingerie your girlfriend would like and feel sexy in rather than something you want to see the female shop assistant wear for you; tell your girlfriend if you’ve had a fight with your best mate; cry whilst eating the best piece of tofu you’ve ever tasted; nervously shake when you kiss a woman for the first time; say no to your girlfriend’s best friend when she’s seducing you in the nuddy; realize sport is a complete waste of your life; that pissing in doorways just makes you look like a twat; take your girlfriend’s tampon out of her bag and give it to her without treating it like a live hand grenade; nervously shake when you kiss a woman for the first time badly; ask where her clit is & if there’s anything you’re doing wrong; cry if you’re feeling upset; not hit the first thing you see if you’re drunk, angry or stupid; say I love you in circumstances that don’t involve blow jobs; nervously shake when you kiss a woman for the first time badly and then joke about it afterwards; not always follow your penis’ every request; admitting to how you’re feeling; follow your beliefs no matter what they may be or how derisive your friends are being; not always cum first and then falling asleep; put the toilet seat down; go to the Doctor; tell your girlfriend you have a problem; hell, tell any of your friends that you have a problem.

Being a man is having the courage to stand up and admit that you have a mental illness and not care what anyone thinks.

[And I’m not just saying that because I’m a man who is doing this same exact thing]

That one simple word is all what being a man is. Believing in yourself so much that you don’t care what other men or women think of you. If other men can’t handle it, then, they don’t deserve that beer they pretend to like so much. If women can’t handle it, then, remember that the most important thing is the emotional connection you have, not how many or how often you’ve shagged.

Quality, not quantity.

This insipid culture we now live in where a man is considered to be weak, worthless and spineless because he admits to having a mental illness is what is costing lives. More men die from suicide every year than women. More men go through life in pain than women. Why? Because they’re too afraid to admit they have a problem. Why? Because they don’t have the courage to stand up to the fear, derision and masculine stripping vilification they will receive from all corners if they do. Why? Well, that’s just because everyone’s decided what a man should be instead of realizing they are – like women – human. Men don’t come from Mars any more than women don’t come from Venus (and just for the record, you don’t have to like visiting Uranus to be man).

One of the purest forms of the stigma against mental health is also one of the vilest forms of stigma out there; sexism. And however controversial this may sound, it’s being propagated by women just as much, if not more so, than by men.

Women desire men to be men and this means not having flaws or problems or weaknesses.
In order for a man to be accepted they must act in this way regardless of how they’re feeling.
For we wouldn’t want to be weak now would we!

In a discussion on mental illness I was once told by someone that they could believe and accept in the existence of a woman suffering from post natal depression, but could not believe that depression was something a man could suffer from. In other words, in women it is perfectly acceptable but in men, it is seen as a weakness, a trait to be avoided, ignored, derided and laughed at.

Is it any wonder why so many men are blowing their heads off or chucking themselves off bridges?

Tell me, what’s more courageous?

1. Bottling up all of your emotions so that a woman can respect you, only for your brains to redecorate your office?
2. Admitting to a woman that you have a problem, even if it means never visiting her sacred garden again?

Yep, you’re right.
If it is indeed true that a woman can’t be attracted to a man that cries, then there is something seriously wrong with the world in which we live. Men have feelings, men feel pain, men hurt – and they should be allowing to show it without recrimination.
Women need to realize this.
Men need to realize this.
We all need to realize this.

This was originally posted on All that I am, all that I ever was… (November 2007)