Tired

Well it’s been a while, about seven months in fact. I’m back due to public demand, well one person but I’ll take it.

Can I still write? Obviously there are those that say I never could in the first place, well that’s the pressure taken firmly off my shoulders, most will expect this to suck big donkey balls. Who am I to not give the people what they want?!

I’ve just read my last piece to remind myself of where to pick up the narrative, I actually thought it wasn’t bad, fairly amusing and only a few spelling mistakes.

As always I’ll try to be open and honest, I’ve never been ashamed of my illness but am probably guilty of over sharing. Not everyone wants to know how miserable you are, not everyone cares, I get that. For those of you I’ll give you a quick heads up, this really isn’t the blog for you, I’d close it down and go and watch the X-Factor whilst kicking a puppy you uncaring heartless bastards.

Right now that they’re gone and I’m left with my loyal reader let’s get into it.

I’m tired. Tired of everything, tired of acting, tired of being ill, mentally and physically exhausted, knackered, pooped, shattered (add synonyms infinitum)…….

In the best Victorian traditions “I’ve taken to my bed” with a case of the “Vapours” not so much a melodramatic back of the hand pressed to the forehead more a complete and utter loss of interest in everything. If I don’t have to do something I won’t.

If I’m being honest and I said I would be I noticed a change back in July. I’d come off my pills and was on a fairly even keel. Family and work life was good, as I wrote in my previous piece just plodding on. Plodding was fine, it’s life and I could cope with that. I’d sorted out our finances after a year of not working, something I’d been stalling on but I’d done it. Coming off the pills was the final act, a grand finale to put behind me the annus horriblis of 2013/14. I’ve never studied Latin, apologies to all the academics reading this if the phrase can’t be used to describe a prolonged period, it just sounded a little better than ‘a shitty fucking couple of years.’

Off the brain meds what could possibly go wrong? Well nothing was supposed to according to the doctor and therapist. I wouldn’t say I was cured, to steal one of my favourite ever lines from a TV programme “there’s no cure for being a cunt.” (Game of Thrones S2 E04)

I was doing ok but I think once you’ve had depression you’re a little more in tune with the signs it may be returning, my problem was not wanting to admit it. I couldn’t face the abject horror of another episode.

My sleeping started to deteriorate, waking at 3 or 4am and not being able to get back off. The dread feeling returned, a stomach churning sense that something bad was going to happen that day. Plus loss of concentration and I was irritable as hell as well, now don’t get me wrong irritated is my naturally state. If a video of my birth should ever surface (now there’s an image forever emblazoned on your retinas) I’m sure my first look what be one of utter distain, ‘what have you done?’ Forcing me out in to this horrible place and I don’t mean Leeds.

During this time we had a holiday booked, visiting some friends in Spain, sounds good but on the journey to the airport I started with anxiety and panic attacks. I think it was due to being out of my routine and away from the safety of home, anyway they kicked in about 5 miles in. I lost track of the number of laybys I pulled in to be sick and can only apologise whole heartedly to those whose dogging activities I disrupted. I suppose there’s nothing worse than dulcet retching of a 41 year old mentalist at 3am when you’re mid stroke, unless you’re into that sort of thing of course.

Somehow we made it to the flight on time, I managed to compose myself but was on edge the entire holiday, my friend commented how I couldn’t relax and just enjoy myself. And it’s true the whole enjoyment thing seemed to be seeping away.

We got home and I returned to work, I’m still working in the bar but was and am finding it harder to act ‘up’ there were a few comments that I looked miserable, down, someone asked if I was suffering from the holiday blues? I'd have loved to put it down to that but sadly knew differently.

I had my Britney Spears moment and shaved my beard off, a vain attempt to look different feel different. Funnily enough it didn’t work my face is just colder and I’ve a saggy bit of skin under my chin that the whiskers were hiding, bastard.

Back to the docs and back on the pills, the hard part was/is no explanation no trigger. I’ve said before if you can neatly box things up it’s easier. This happened so I feel this way, had that thought about it, can deal with it and move on.

No reason is too hard to cope with and I can’t.

I’m hiding away, mainly in bed if I’m not working. If I make plans I spend the entire time working out how I can break them. I’m a lot more introspective about it all, it’s probably why I haven’t written.

I don’t want to put everybody through it again, I’ve cut myself off, not wanting to burden everyone. This is probably the overriding feeling at the moment. Speak to someone, talk about it, feel better for a moment, burden them, self-loath, repeat. Oh it’s fun.

The things I enjoyed and which gave me a little peace and calm have disappeared. My painting was going ok, I’d sold a few but now unfinished pieces sit on the wall mocking me every morning over a cup of tea.

I don’t see the point in anything. I’m questioning everything maybe it is an existential crisis, the point of existence just seems meaningless. If I’m not going to be a writer or a painter why bother doing either? I need to see some point, some goal, an outcome for my actions, doing something ‘just because’ doesn’t cut it anymore.

The doc thinks it’s Endogenous Depression – where treatment resistant symptoms often appear ‘out of nowhere’ and for seemingly no reason. It’s characterised by feelings of guilt, worthlessness and anhedonia.

Anhedonia – the inability to derive pleasure from once pleasurable activities such as exercise, hobbies, socializing or sex. (Never say you don’t learn anything from this drivel I write.)

So if your hobby is energetic public displays of coitus, you’re truly fucked or not as the case maybe.

The low point has been a rather spectacular breakdown at work. It all got too much, I couldn’t act any longer. There I was crying in the beer cellar. And no not because I’m not drinking and staring at 108 gallons of beer I couldn’t taste had was killing me.

Eighteen months of pent up tears came pouring out, the emotional dam burst and I couldn’t stop. Crying for me is not a good look, I’m far too pretty to have big blotchy red eyes.

I feel so guilty about it, not the meltdown itself but to the poor 18 year old working with me at the time, I’m guessing it’s the first time she’s seen a grown man (well nearly full grown) cry.

What scared me most was not the outpouring of emotion, unaccustomed as I am to it but more the rational irrationality to my thoughts.

As I drove home from I worked out how long the family would miss me for if I weren’t around anymore. A sort of twisted mathematical equation, a year of upset and the occasional future day remembrance set against the rest of their lives happy. It all seemed to make so much sense and that was the scary part, how could those thoughts be so normal to me?

Next day it was back at the docs and a double dose of brain meds, plus pending therapy. It’s group therapy I’ve been offered, I’m sure I’m being mocked, some bugger is really fucking with me. I’ll need a sign round my neck, one of those from a Dickens novel, instead of ‘this one bites’ I need a ‘doesn’t play well with others’. As I said to a friend, if those poor bastards thought they were miserable before give them two hours with me…….