I Have To Admit It's Getting Better....

It’s been a few weeks since I last wrote, well about eight really.

A lot has happened I suppose, most of you know I did another Lord Lucan. Phone turned off for 10 days, no communication with the outside world. Not sure what inspired this one, think it was El having an interview and not getting the job, I started to blame myself, I’d caused this whole situation, so I ran.

Not literally obviously, although I did start looking at buying a barge £60k, or emigrating to Iceland or New Zealand. 200000 EUR will get you a nice remote spot outside of Reykjavik and I’m still under the age limit of 55 for New Zealand although the transferable skills may cause an issue.

It’s good to see I wasn’t completely wasting my days. As I’ve probably said before the problem with running away is that wherever I go, whatever I do, I’m still there. Not talking to other people is purely a by-product of the self-loathing.

I spiraled pretty badly in reality, drinking, taking sleeping pills and when they ran out herbal ones with prescription codeine that I knew would knock me out. I started going to bed at 7 just so that another day was over.

The longer my phone was off the harder it was to turn it back on, having to face people again is tough when you start seeing things rationally. You know you’ve been a dick, admitting it to others isn’t that easy. I’d lied to friends and family telling them I’d lost my phone, resorting to emailing birthday wishes to a couple of people.

It was nice having my phone off and I did think how great it would be to never turn it back on, unfortunately for you lot I didn’t go through with it and contrary to a few texts waiting for me I wasn’t dead.

Since I turned it back on things have improved, it’s very odd. By rights they shouldn’t have.

Last weekend I had my Dad’s birthday and the unveiling of his headstone, a ceremony my Mum in her infinite wisdom arranged for Father’s Day. I’m sure if I’d have asked him last year it wouldn’t have been the present he’d have requested but it’s what he got and it was way more expensive than the socks I annually bought him.

I’m not religious at all, I don’t get it and probably never will. I have no issue with people that do, everyone’s free to make their own choices. The headstone ceremony was a religious affair and the first time I’d been back to the cemetery since the funeral. To be honest I’d be dreading it (no shit Sherlock) but I got through it. I was numb to it all and didn’t cry. Mum was in pieces, not sure she appreciated me asking her to pick out a plot and a headstone she liked while we were there. Thought I might as well be practical she’s the one that’s got to live with it, or not as it goes.

The things that meant the most to me over that weekend were the messages of support from friends new and old and going to the pub after with El, Mum and some of my closest pals. A few drinks and talking utter bollocks was exactly what I needed.

The crying thing is odd, I’m not sure if it’s the pills that stop the emotion or if I simply wouldn’t have cried anyway. I felt like I should but that could be me over analysing as usual. It’s not that I don’t cry, I’ve been known to shed the odd tear, I remember as a kid crying at an episode of My Two Dads and it wasn’t because the programme was the comedy equivalent of a hate crime.

I spoke to my therapist and doctor about the non-crying and the pills but we’re sticking with them, benefits outweighing the negatives and all that.

‘I spoke to my therapist’ what a line – I’ve always wanted to be Woody Allen looks like I’m edging ever closer, though I have no intention of marrying a relative whether they’re blood or not.

Maybe I’m feeling better because of some form of closure. To me it is an odd concept, I don’t think I’ll ever have closure about my Dad, yes the ceremonial aspect is over but that’s all.

I’ve started a form of Mindfulness, managing to put aside my skepticism long enough to give it a chance and wouldn’t you just know it I’ve found it helpful.

I like it because it doesn’t tell you bad things won’t happen or that you’ll never have a negative thought again. More that these things will happen and it’s ok. Don’t spend days or weeks trying to fight them. Dad’s birthday was going to make me sad, why spend the week before and after worrying about it?

I know I’ve become everything I hate and self-flagellate nightly to make up for embarking in self-help and pseudo spirituality.

The last few days I’ve felt the ‘happiest’ I’ve been in over a year, it’s an odd sensation. Let’s not get carried away, happiness to me is everyone else’s general state of misery. But that’s the way l like it aha aha as the song goes.

My concentration has improved and I actually managed to read a book, although the choice of Bukowski probably isn’t the best for someone with my state of mind. I feel like matching him drink for drink as I read and that won’t end well. Plus quotes like – “It was true that I didn’t have much ambition, but there ought to be a place for people without ambition, I mean a better place than the one usually reserved. How in the hell could a man enjoy being awakened at 6:30 a.m. by an alarm clock, leap out of bed, dress, force-feed, shit, piss, brush teeth and hair, and fight traffic to get to a place where essentially you made lots of money for somebody else and were asked to be grateful for the opportunity to do so?” do nothing to improve my thoughts toward finding a job.

Anyway enough waffling for now, I can’t promise I won’t disappear again but I’m starting to be ok with feeling a little ‘better’, so make the most of me while I’m still around.

Ax

And on it goes....

I thought it was time to write an update, not because there has been a clamber for more of my writing more to help me get a grasp on what’s actually going on.

The last installment saw the hero of our story searching for an identity, waiting for a counseling appointment, trying a different type of anti depressant and generally being unsociable.  (I’m doing the writing so if I want to call myself a hero I bloody well will, you lot can come up with your own names in private.)

Well the counseling appointment hasn’t materialised I’m still in the queue. I’m on to the third type of anti depressant, the first were too numbing, the second made me too emotional, hopefully these will be just right. I’m like a depressed Goldilocks hoping that the bears don’t come home and kill me for nicking their prescription drugs.

I’m still zealously unsociable although I do use Instagram, bizarrely you’ll find pictures of cakes, shoes, jeans and beards. 

Maybe I should start some kind of fetish website www.beardedmeneatingcakeinshoes.com think the name needs work www.kinkycakemunchingbeardiebuggersinbrogues.com better but not great.

I still have no identity to speak of. Though I am sporting a beard myself, unfortunately the two grey streaks make me look not dissimilar to Dave Lee Travis, fuck knows why it couldn’t have been George Clooney but I suppose I’ve got a ready made fancy dress costume.

I have accepted I have an illness, it’s tough though as you’ve no idea when you’re going to get better. I had a brain MRI, my mood swings had become so acute that the doctor was concerned there may have been some underlying cause.

For the two week period of waiting for the appointment, having the scan and then waiting for the results I’d convinced myself I had an inoperable tumor the size of a grapefruit. I started composing my own obituary and getting ready to say goodbye to people. I was quite impressed with the life I’d concocted for myself, war hero, philanthropist and all round good egg, I don’t think anyone would challenge its’ validity at the funeral.

The results were all clear so it turns out I’m just a bit of a mentalist. Before anyone jumps on the political correctness bandwagon it can’t be an offensive term if I’m talking about myself.

As I said if it was a physically ailment it would have almost been easier, instead I was once again left not knowing when and if I would be ‘better’. I use the word better in its loosest form, I don’t really think I’ll ever be 100% again but anything would be an improvement over this.

I think this constant uncertainty of when and if things would improve coupled with a change in medication had a really negative impact on me.

I couldn’t see any future, my anxiety, paranoia and the bad thoughts were overwhelming. I spent a week crying, every negative thought became the truth in my mind no matter how irrational it was. I wouldn’t bother actually engaging in a conversation with the people I was having the thoughts about, I didn’t need to, the thoughts were the truth and that was that. At one point I was convinced friends had ditched me and was waiting for my family to do the same.

It’s also so tiring, having a constant conversation with yourself, your brain continually shouting at you. I try so hard not to be this way, which leads to hours if not days of self-loathing for failing.

Things got so bad that my GP referred me to see the duty psychiatrist at the hospital. There’s actually something quite sobering about people thinking you’re a danger to yourself. I knew how I felt but was this really how I was portraying myself to the outside world?

I remember sitting in the hospital worried that they would keep me in, telling myself not to look too nuts. The problem is the harder you try not to do something the more likely you are to do the thing you’re trying to avoid. It’s like being told off when you’re a child, you try so hard not to laugh but stand there sniggering away. So I sat waiting for an hour my face pulling all sorts of contortions in a vain attempt to look normal. To be honest I’d have looked more normal with a pair of undies on my head, a flag stuck up my arse whilst singing “Happy” by Pharrell.

I was assessed and thankfully allowed to go home. The thing they wanted to know was if I was going to commit suicide? Would I really tell anyone that I knew could stop me if I was intent on doing it? I really don’t know the answer to that, I know I didn’t want to exist in my current state but wouldn’t do anything about it.

What I have recognised about my depression is that it’s very selfish and self-indulgent. Reading back through these pieces it’s always about me, how I feel, what I think, what I can or can’t or will or won’t do.

It’s been really hard on my family I don’t really mention them when I write. In my rational moments it’s hard to face what I’m doing to them. I’m a stranger living in their house rather than the husband or dad they knew and I know that’s not fair on them.

I’ve started private psychotherapy sessions to try and help. They’re not easy going it’s hard to look back at the past events of your life that have led you to this point and this illness. The sessions are only an hour long, with all my neuroses I must be a psychiatrists’ wet dream, I could sit there all week and barely scratch the surface. I get on well with the therapist which I think helps, she’s not simpering and challenges my irrational thinking. At one point I said I felt guilty about my Mum being on her own, her response was why, did you kill your Dad? For the record I didn’t, I’m not writing this with my cellmate Trevor looking over my shoulder getting ready to spoon at lights out.

I am trying to be more rational about things and trying to function, a word I over use and struggle to achieve.

I do want to be a good dad, husband and friend again. Maybe the combination of new medication and therapy sessions are a step in the right direction but I’ve thought that before. So I’ll just see what the next day brings and then the day after that.

A

Does anyone have a clue what it's really all about?

I left twitter, hardly in a blaze of glory more like a damp squib.

The reasons seemed clear in my head at the time, I was living vicariously through others and not living my own life not leaving my chair. I was too reliant on others for my mood, my own happiness. In my mind though I wasn’t giving anything back, constant tweets of misery were annoying me if no one else.

So what did I expect to happen when I deactivated my account along with my FB account? Was a burden to be lifted? Would I wake up the next day magically ‘cured’?

I know it’s hard to believe but none of those things happened. I didn’t feel any different. I didn’t spring out of bed throw on my clothes and whistle a merry tune as I left for work.

Nope I got up, got dressed and sat in my house. The only thing that had changed was I’d lost pretty much my only contact with the outside world.

This was fine it was my choice I had wanted to run away. You see you can’t feel you’re annoying people if you don’t speak to them. There was a slight flaw to my plan, I say slight flaw, my plan was actually as ill conceived as the Charge of the Light Brigade. What about the people who had my phone number?? Yeah well as I say I hadn’t really thought this one through.

Now don’t get me wrong there weren’t hoards of people knocking down my door demanding to know where and how I was, Royal Mail didn’t have to lay on extra staff to deal with the sackfulls of post.

There were and are however a few kind souls who showed their concern. At one point I did consider turning my phone off to avoid contact with everyone apart from those unfortunate to live with me. I didn’t and am glad of this.

So with all this extra time on my hands what have I learned? Well I know social media isn’t the thing stopping me from functioning. I know Prozac hasn’t helped me and so it’s on to another type of Anti Depressant to try to help. I know I’m amazed at the kindness that family, friends and what were initially complete strangers have shown. I also know I can still knock up a mean cake when I want to, it seems there are some things you never lose through it all.

I have tried to rationalise everything out but have come up empty handed, raising more questions than answers. It seems a year spent studying philosophy wasn’t a complete waste of time.

I decided I believed in Determinism but then I again I would wouldn’t I (there’s one for the philosophers amongst you.)

Apart from that I’m still struggling. I think essentially I’m looking for an identity. I don’t know who or what I am.

Yes I’m a dad, a husband, a son, a friend, and a sometime baker. These though are governed by the relationship to other people or other things. Who and what am I?

I have no tribe to belong to I’m not religious. They say football is a religion and I used to believe I was a fanatic but not so much anymore.

I don’t have a ‘look’ I don’t dress or style my hair in a tell tale way. I don’t have tattoos or piercings that would place in an exclusive club.

I read, when I can concentrate, different genres. The same can be said for films and TV programmes. And with music, anything and everything goes. The word for me is eclectic, I like a shitload of different things (I’m not sure that’s the correct collective noun but it seems to fit.)

The question is do I really want to fit in to a type, a club? Isn’t individuality enough, shouldn’t we be non-conformist. The answer is I really don’t know (see as I said – no answers.)

At University I wrote my dissertation on why people join right wing movements. Don’t worry I’m not goose-stepping round the house, although my comb over and dodgy tache do look vaguely familiar.

The conclusion I came to in its simplest form being ‘mans’ fear of freedom, the necessity to belong to something, anything. We just need to be told what to do, to have some kind of direction.

I don't think I've ever had that I've never known what I’m going to be when I grow up.

I think the problem, much to my dismay is that at 40 I suppose I am grown up but I’m still as clueless as the boy who never had a burning desire to be a pilot or a train driver.

So I’m giving up philosophising about things it’s getting me nowhere. Instead I’m trying to function again, doing little things each day that are deemed normal by my peers.

Todays ‘thing’ is writing this nonsense.

Oh I still have my fixations, currently it’s on having a slick back haircut, I’ve even ordered Pomade from a shop online. Maybe I am slowly trying to join a club and declared to my long-suffering wife that this new ‘look’ was going to be me now until death.

So I may return to twitter, I’m already back on Instagram posting dull photos of food.

I do feel however I’m slightly more suited to some form of Unsocial media though.

Decisions

I struggle with emotion always have, I don’t’ know how to be emotional. I’m not a great crier, I didn’t when the girls were born and held it together when Dad died. I cried after and went through a period of shedding a few tears each day with little things setting me off.

However public shows of emotion and affection are and have always been a big no no. I don’t hold hands with Mrs.L in public and there’s certainly no kissing and I just couldn’t be a dogger.

I’m a little of dead inside really and the Prozac has finished me off, the emotions are felt but there’s no way they’re going to appear.

I don’t ‘do’ inspirational quotes I’m just not built that way. The sorts of things people post on Facebook drive me insane, not a long journey there these days, I know.

On Twitter I mute or unfollow those who persist in tweeting or retweeting this kind of crap - “a true relationship is two imperfect people that refuse to give up on each other. The world needs more of that” I know some of you will be ‘moved’ by that but I’m not, my world really doesn’t need that.

Maybe I just don’t have a soul, it has been said by someone close to me. Maybe it’s because I’m not religious or spiritual, I can’t tell you why this doesn’t emote me but it doesn’t.

So it’s always been slightly hypocritical in my mind when I tweet #KeepOnKeepingOn

I stole the phrase (obviously) from one of my favourite Bob Dylan songs, Tangled Up In Blue. The line goes “the only thing I knew how to do was to keep on keepin’ on like a bird that flew”

To me it sums up life, it’s just what we all have to do. What ever happens you face it, deal with it and move on to the next.  Our autopilot takes over.

My problem is along the way I’ve forgotten how to, my autopilot is malfunctioning; I still love the sentiment but can’t follow it through.

At the moment I’m scared of the future probably because of mistakes in the past, making me unable to function in the present – there’s inspiration for you, it came to me after a bottle of red.

To me Twitter is about having fun, playing out my miserable persona to the fullest, ‘meeting’ like-minded people, being informed and also the much maligned and overused word – banter.

I’ve shared a joke and a tear with some really great people. The kindness people have shown amazes me, those who’ve messaged me whilst I’m at my lowest point will always be special.

And I can’t put into words how astonished I was that people from twitter would actually make a journey to visit my business, purely because we’d tweeted occasionally.

So it may seem odd that I’m contemplating saying goodbye again and yes I know I’ve disappeared in the past and come back with my tail between my legs and who knows I might in the future.

I find giving up things easy, I’ve done it hundreds of times, whether it’s booze, carbs or gambling (types while eating a bacon sandwich with a pint next to me keeping one eye on the results from Southwell)

The problem for me is that I’m using twitter to hide from real life, in my strange little mind it excuses the reality that I’ve not really left the house in January.

I get to socialise without actually having to. I can have a night ‘out’ from my armchair, discussing sport, film, TV, music, food, and literature. There’s generally nothing too highbrow, let’s not get silly about things. I pour myself a drink and settle in for the night.

It’s been great, I don’t have to face up to any problems, people don’t judge me and I’m safe and the feelings of self loathing and failure are numbed.

The big BUT to this is that it’s not going to help me in the long run I know this. My fake life isn’t going to help me get better and certainly isn’t going to pay the bills.

I worry that in some ways it actually makes me worse. I can’t keep on relying on other people for my happiness. I’m also finding that my ‘shouty’ brain has me misconstruing the 140 characters people type.

The reality is I’ve probably got more out of twitter than I’ve put in but I do worry you all won’t survive not reading that I’ve walked the dog, loved my fish finger sandwich and the wine is open #DullAsFuck

Deep down I realise by leaving I’m probably clutching at straws, trying to force myself to function in society again. No doubt I’ll replace it with something useful like obsessive macaron making, or drinking.

Anyway I’m undecided, I’m not going to put it to the public vote you buggers will pack my metaphorical bags for me.

But if I do go, then in the words of Jerry Springer – Till next time look after yourself and each other.

If I don’t leave disregard the last line, I’ve just always liked it.