I can’t speak…typing is hard too…happiness? Are you joking me? Not a chance.
Twitter tells me it’s international day of happiness and Facebook tells me it’s the first day of spring…I guess I am meant to be feeling bright and breezy today?
I’m a rebel. I suppose I’d rather choose my happiness to my own schedule-not the schedule social media tells me….not that I’m knocking positive movements…but right now I’m content just to be in my glass box where I’m still and safe.
Such is my rebellious streak I’m actually aware of suicide on days that are not designated suicide awareness days. I’m aware Ireland exists even when it isn’t St Patricks day. Some days I even wear green just to increase how damn aware I am of Ireland.
I’m not happy on this international day of happiness. I’m also not feeling the spring boingy vibe.
I’m feeling ma own vibe maann…
I’m vibing down my own road…I’m traversing down the path of borderline blue.
“Step on a crack you’ll break your back and go straight back to black”
Depression has taken hold.
I’m chilled from the cold.
Feel the chill spread over flesh like mould.
Every second a second nearer to old.
I can’t make much sense. My coffee doesn’t taste of anything. I sent several emails to my boss that didn’t contain the attachments.
She received blank messages. She got a dose of how I feel. Blank.
I emailed ‘clever psychologist lady’ telling her I thought if I have to wait till the appointment we selected to see her that I thought I might die. Clever patient me told her I already knew I wouldn’t die but I was employing a cognitive thinking error (namely emotional reasoning). It feels like I’m dying so I must ergo be dying. Totes obvious, yeah?
What am I dying of?
Lack of a parental attachment figure. Lack of a reassuring calming presence. Lack of a female who loves me. Friends say they love me, but those friends are not parents. I know neither is my psychologist…she’s a psychologist. She’s a psychologist who has known me since I got into mental health services though.
When I first started seeing her I had a psychologist and a mum. Now I just have a psychologist.
So it’s natural I like the idea that she could be mum-ish.
She acts caring.
She says caring things.
She listens attentively.
She wants me to do well and tries to give me skills to achieve that.
But sometimes I wanna say to her…please, just look after me for a bit. I’m tired of doing this brave badass ptsd recovery thing. Please do it for me. Please direct and guide me. Please be there. I’m useless alone. You make me stronger. Don’t withdraw. Just don’t. Please.
I’m not as strong as I seem.
I’m doing strong things and relying on you less but it doesn’t make me ok.
I’m far from ok.
I’m dying…remember I told you?
I feel like I’m dying now because I felt I was dying then…I felt I was dying from a young age.
Trauma fuck off please.
I’m a grown up.
Except I don’t feel I am (emotional reasoning again).
I did happy scribbles for international day of unending joy. I shared them on Facefuck and Twatter.
I selected flamingos obviously…and hippos.
Here they are…it isn’t even 2016
That is comedic irony.
If there was a prize for most mood incongruous doodling on a depressive blog post this HAS to win it! Surely!
I’m still unhappy…but I tried not to be. I did try.