Tag Archives: Depression

Fifteen minutes of putting my thoughts on paper

Where the fuck do I begin with that?

(Intentionally fuzzy)


Letter to myself

Dear me,

I’m tired of trying.  I’m tired of everything being so hard.  

I’m angry that I’m feeling like this and I don’t know how to change it.

I’m sad.  I’m sad about nothing.  I’m sad about everything.  Mostly I’m sad because I’ve forgotten what happiness feels like.

I’m worried that it’s going to be like this forever.  I’m worried that this is how it is now.

I’m lonely.  There’s only me fighting this battle and there’s no back up.  

I’m bitter that other people manage this.  I’m bitter that everyone else is doing great things and I’m sat in the car crying.  

I’m hurt that those that should care don’t.  I’m hurt that there’s no one reliable left.

I’m anxious about doing everything.  I’m so anxious I’ve stopped communicating with people I know altogether, and I’m sad because no one has noticed.

I’m frustrated that I can’t snap out of this.  I’m frustrated that it’s hard, and I’m trying my best, and it’s still hard.

I’m failing.  Failing at everything there is to fail at, and all the things there isn’t.  

I’m wrong.  This is not how I should be.  It’s not who I am.  It’s not what I want to be like.

I’m malfunctioning at life and I don’t know where the restart button is.  

I’m overwhelmed with life.  I’m overwhelmed by inner voice thwt keeps telling me I’m not doing it right, that I need to try harder, that I’m not good enough. 

I’m obsessed with social media which makes me feel bad.  I’m obsessed with my diet and the numbers on the scale.  I’m obsessed with how I’m stuck in a place I don’t want to be and I can’t get out of it.

I’m scared of what happens next.

Please help me.

A. Mess


I had a meltdown the other day, and I haven’t been able to pick myself up from it.  It all started because I’m on a diet and lost weight.  Which should be a good thing right, but when I saw that the numbers on the scale, I immediately thought ‘but imagine what it would read if you had worked harder at the gym’ and ‘you had a wine on Wednesday, that was cheating’.  It quickly descending into chasm of self hatred littered with ‘you Don’t deserve this’.  

I told a friend about it who didn’t get why I wouldn’t be happy.  That just made me feel worse.  Does thwt mean I’m incapable of happiness?  Should I just give up on life now if I’m never going to be happy?  I managed to function enough to get to the gym, where I promptly launched into a full scale sobbing mess in the car park.

How broken must I be, if I don’t know how to be happy?  If I don’t know what success or pride feels like?   I attempted to try and find a memory of success, something I could try and replicate, which was terrible, because I couldn’t find one, so I just confirmed that I’m failing at life.  

Since then, I’ve basically been a miserable mess.  I’m grumpy and angry at work.  I spend my commute crying in the car.  I go to the gym and feel like a failure because I’m not working hard enough, I come home and eat, and feel like a failure at that because all I want is chocolate, and I don’t want to eat any more vegetables.  Then there is the weighing.

I weigh myself approximately every half an hour.   Today the scales have been rising, but I’ve stuck to my plan.  Does that mean I’m failing?  It thwt wine from a week ago catching up with me?  I definitely need to work harder at the gym.  And eat more vegetables.  What happens if it continues to rise?  I may as well just eat chocolate and then at least I’ll die of a satisfied heart attack.

So here I am.  Broken.  Failing.  Despairing.  And the worst bit of that….? I’m telling the internet because there’s no one else who cares.  

Who needs therapy when there are biscuits to be eaten?

There is something quite cathartic and pouring out my heart and soul to the internet. I wonder if I will continue to write or whether I will end up, like most things, giving up.

I give up, a lot. If things become too hard, I give up. I’m not sure why because I think I’d consider myself a pretty determined person, but anything that involves self-improvement is basically a dead end.

I’m morbidly over weight. I think that’s the PC term for very fat nowadays. This leads to all sorts of body confidence issues that are longer than my wobbly arms. However, I’m sort of okay with that. I mean I’m not okay with always being the fat kid, and one day I hope I might not be the fat kid, but it kind of gives me a reason to hide.

My weight makes me miserable, and brings out all my low self esteem thoughts, But it’s okay, because I am actually over weight. It’s not hidden. It’s not some deep rooted issue pushing away at me from the inside. I hate the way I look because I should. I’m miserable about being fat, because in am. I don’t want to look at myself in the mirror, because it’s ugly.

Unlike the other things that race around my head, I have a justification. A fact. A reason.

But as a result, I sabotage every attempt to lose weight. I broke my leg a couple of years ago and piled on the pounds. Great excuse to hide out. I can’t go out, talk to people, date, because I’m fat, and that’s not what fat people do. So if I wasn’t fat, and I didn’t do those things, I might have to start addressing some of the other stuff.

Being fat, is probably keeping me a little bit sane. Therefore, being fat is good for my health (or is that one step too far? Should I have stopped at the sane bit?).

I am off to find a biscuit. For therapy.

Chasing the unconditional

As I was writing these many posts, I became aware that at no point in my memory, can I recall being loved unconditionally.  The kind of affection you get when no matter what stupid thing you’ve done, someone out there will stand by you and tell you it’s okay. I’ve mentioned my mum, who doesn’t really have the capacity to love or care, but this has been replicated in many child and adult relationships I’ve had over the years.

As an only child, I was desperate for company, and so I spent a lot of time at school, activities and clubs.  It was made clear to me by my parents, that I could only do activities if I excelled at them, and that other children only like children who are good at things.  In hindsight, this was probably a bit detrimental. I wasn’t a lonely kid.  I had friends.  I had a couple of best friends who I would go to their house for dinner after school, and then as we got older, would spend 3 hours on the phone to every night.  I was invited to all the events, the right parties, the Saturday bike rides. But, there was always conditions based on it. I got to go out and play on my bike with the cool kids because I had a good driveway with a good ramp.  I got to go to parties, because I was on the periphery of every social circle, so it really made no difference if I was there or not, but it would bump up the numbers.  I got to hang out at the park as an adolescent, because I could get served in the local off licence.  As long as I kept my parts of the bargain, and didn’t create too much of a fuss, I was included.

When I moved out of home, I went travelling, went to uni, went travelling some more, and went back to uni.  I created a new family wherever I went.  I was just entertaining enough, and just fun enough, and just uncontroversial enough that I was allowed in.  The house parties were at mine, I was always the driver, I’d rearrange my plans to accommodate them.  And when it looked like people were starting to lose interest, or I couldn’t keep up my end of our friendship deals anymore, I’d move on.  Start again, then move on.

My relationships have followed a similar pattern.  I was with one boy for 4 years.  He was nice, he seemed to care.  He was aware that I was a bit of a worrier about what other people thought of me, and he was aware that I assumed he would leave me for someone better some day. Actually, I wanted to go travelling for a couple of months.  He said if I loved him I wouldn’t go.  He said I had to choose.  I got on a plane, and still think about what could have been.

Another boy I met travelling.  We were together day in, day out for 18 months.  There was no slow build up of dating, spending time together and living together.  From the day we met we spent 24 hours a day together.  We travelled together, then lived and worked at the same place.  When it was good, it was amazing.  He knew that felt a bit ‘why me, when you could have anyone’, but he was wonderful.   His visa was about to expire and mine wasn’t.  There was arguing about what would happen next.  I wanted to stay a bit longer and join him in a few months.  He disagreed.  His parting line to me was ‘why did I waste my time with you when I could have had someone else’.   27 years of self doubt confirmed right there.  Perhaps he’d spoken to my mother.

Inbetween the significant boys there were boys who were temporary. Not noteworthy really.  But, following that was a slightly traumatic event that I didn’t realise was a traumatic event until I started to write about it, so now it gets a post of it’s own.  And since then I’ve lived life pretty much as a hermit.  Why would someone want me, when there are all these other people out there?  I’m aware that I’m not one of the pretty/funny/smart/sane ones.  I don’t need to put myself in situations where I’m reminded of it.

Which brings me to now.  Chasing unconditional love, but too terrified to actually do anything about it.

The Early Years

We are defined by our childhood and our experience shape our emotional responses for the future.  Or something like that.
My childhood wasn’t bad or traumatic particularly.  My parents never separated and I didn’t spent years being pulled from pillar to post through family law courts.  I wasn’t abused by some uncle that told me to keep things a secret.  I had toys.  I had a bed.  I went to school everyday.  I was clothed.  I didn’t experience the loss of a significant grandparents.  As was the expectation of the time, my dad worked long hours and my mum was a housewife.
My childhood was wholly unremarkable.
And that I think is the problem. 
I don’t have any fond memories of being a kid.  I was largely left to my own devices and became self-sufficient by about 6 years old.  There was no emotion in my house.  The odd argument here and there, but that was it. It wasn’t until I moved away from, and started spending time with other people’s families, that I realised something was wrong with mine.  And then it all became glaringly apparent one day when I was at uni. 
My uni friend had just had a one night stand and was in a bit of a state about it.  So she rung her mum.  Her mum arrived with a box of chocolates, Dirty Dancing, a bottle of wine and listened to all the drama.  There was hugging, and laughter, and a general feeling of warmth. My mum doesn’t hug.  My mum doesn’t really do any physical contact.  I couldn’t remember who I went to when I was sad or upset as a kid.  In hindsight, I think I was resolutely cheery, because there didn’t seem to be any value in being sad.
My parents had, and continue to have high expectations of their only child.  I’ve had some minor accomplishments throughout my life, but I don’t know if I know what pride is, because I’ve never had anyone to share it with. As I reached my teens, the relationship between me and mum started to break down, somewhat irrevocably.  Full of criticism, jealously and resentment, I spend days dreading impending phonecalls, and weeks after home visits feeling inadequate.  Not that she would ever ring me.  I dutifully ring home once a fortnight.  I don’t think they’ve phoned me since I was about 14 to find out where I was.  The older I’ve got however, I have become accustomed to this, and largely, her words no longer cut right through me.  Occasionally,  I’ll get a text with bad family news ‘ring your nan, she has cancer’, for eg.  Which I guess means she at least acknowledges my presence.

My dad stays largely out the way.  I’m sure he can’t stand her either, but he continues to spend more time at work than at home, which is what makes it work for them. I’ve done a lot of research into attachment theory, and more accurately, attachment disorder, and I’m fairly certain I’m ambivalently attached to my parents.  In fact I think I told the therapist that.  But defining what’s wrong doesn’t mean I can change the way I think. Someone once said to me, that they world can always be made right by the people that love you unconditionally.  But what the people who are never loved unconditionally?  Who makes our world right?


I need to get all of my thoughts out of my head and on to paper because I am in danger of having a melodramatic crisis. And I type fast than I write, so here is my paper.

I don’t mind if you judge me, criticise me, comment etc., but at no point to I want anyone to pity me. Go find someone else’s shit to read.

I’ve always had low self-esteem and a bit of anxiety. Nothing diagnosable, but in hindsight, I’ve always over thought things. It hasn’t really impacted life until the last couple of years, and now I’m acutely aware that life is passing me by because I’m in a permanent state fear.

I read somewhere that putting all the thoughts on paper stops them whirring round your head, and if they stop whirring, you can out them in a nice order and stop worrying. I’m not convinced how well this is going to work, but it’s my last ditch attempt before I have some sort of full blown melt down in the real world.

I’m sure that over the course of my writing, which may last a week, a month, or an eternity, I’ll touch on all the things that make me a slightly anxious, depressive, undervalued individual. But here are the key themes that I think about or have significance and will write about at some point.

Fear of rejection
Unconditional love, and lack of
Attachment, and lack of
Fear of judgement
Relationship with parents, and lack of
Relationship with other, and fear of
Weight issues
Unconsenting sex
Social phobia

It’s going to be a delightfully cheery blog. But it’s not for your enjoyment, it’s for me to use as a place to vent. If you don’t like my thoughts or opinions, I’m already imagining that you think the worst, or nothing of me, and your mean comments to me won’t be half as bad as the mean comments I make to myself, so save yourself the energy or writing them.

Or don’t. I hate conflict.