Mixing alcohol and paracetamol, isn’t just a good rhyme, it’s usually a sign that shit went south at some point, and trust me it did.
I never anticipated revealing my struggles, my shattered mental health to someone would be so hard, let alone to a loved one. Of course it’s after saying it, I realised 5 years of pain, confusion and self-loathing has just been released in the space of two minutes. The release hit me hard, the overwhelming feeling that this was it. I took a hard route, and the words came out of me, caustic and sensitive. You see writing this, tapping the keyboard to spell out ‘depression’ isn’t hard, because I’ll never meet you dear reader, your judgements go as far as the perceptions of me through this post you develop, or maybe this whole blog, if you fancy a deeper dive (It’s a trip to say the least). Meanwhile if I tell a loved one, or a friend, then their mind goes into psychoanalysing overdrive. ‘Oh how could he be unhappy? He isn’t starving to death, he is middle-class.’ And I know those judgements, unaware of the full story have been made with people I know. Of course maybe those judgements and that conclusion is true in the eyes of some. Although maybe, just maybe after today’s conversation I feel for the first ever I might just be entitled to feel depressed, hit with the fact I have as much a right as anyone else.
Follow this blog if you want, I used to say I didn’t care if people did or not. That was always a lie, it means a lot (as you can see vulnerability isn’t a primary characteristic), if one person relates to or understands this post, then it means more to me then I could ever ramble on about.
Has this been too personal, too embarrassing?
I don’t know, I never do, but its been therapeutic.
p.s. Since writing works as a healthier medication than my self-destructive, and downright debauched diet, I’ll probably stick around here for a while.