Someone I follow on Twitter wrote the other day that they were struggling with their depression. The pondered if they should write something and if it would matter if they did. They asked would anyone want to read it.
I replied and said that I always like to think that there is someone listening. And I do. It may not be 100s of people, it may only be one. It may only be your partner, parent, best friend or someone you don’t know on the other side of the computer screen in their bedroom reading your words. But they are listening.
They may not respond and they may not feel an impact from the words but they are listening.
When I started this mess of tangled thoughts two years ago, I was sat in my underwear on my bed crying having just been told by ex that he was splitting up with me because I didn’t care about him. My heart was in my throat and I was scared. What was to follow was days, weeks, months and now coming into years of uncertainty. At first I wanted to die, I walked out of the flat into the woods and wanted to kill myself. I then reverted to my old haunt of self loathing which manifests itself in going quiet, not sleeping and then tearing at myself to make me not me.
I started to write as I didn’t know what else to do. My head was full of so much rubbish that disposing of it was becoming a full time job and the drawers in my brain were fit to burst and I couldn’t keep jamming stuff in them in the hope it would go away.
I didn’t know if anyone would hear me, and looking back I don’t think I was fussed if they did. I just knew it was either this or go back to self harming which would include cutting, pinching or hitting myself. I didn’t want to be like that, despite everything that was happening, I didn’t want to let him win. I did however stand in the shower and cry. Cry on the bus, cry in the toilets at work and cry myself to sleep. One day he burst into the bathroom and shouted at me “I don’t know why you’re so upset, you’re not the only person hurting”. I knew this, but I wasn’t the person who had caused the hurt. I also wasn’t the person speaking to a 21 year old about our relationship because after 12 years he apparently couldn’t talk to me. I also wasn’t the person who brought girls back to our flat when I wasn’t there. I also wasn’t the person who refused to attend family events. I also wasn’t the person who told me I acted like a child in front of people and that I was embarrassing to be seen with. I also wasn’t the person who screamed at me for eating too loudly. I also wasn’t the person who wouldn’t hold my hand in public. I also wasn’t the person who once walked out on lunch in a public place and then screamed at me in the streets. I also wasn’t the person who got bored at my aunts funeral and asked when we were leaving. I also wasn’t the person who held me by the throat and spat in my face. I also wasn’t the person who threw a book at me and called me a cunt.
Back then I couldn’t be so matter of fact about things. Now I can say them but I can’t accept them. I’m brass and in your face at work. But I allowed someone to treat me like that. I allowed myself to drown under the weight of someone else. I lost sight of myself and became another victim.
I still don’t know if after two years anyone is listening and I’m okay with that. The whole point of this blog was a way to take back some power from someone who had taken down all my walls and left me open to the elements. It was also a way of me working things out like I’d been told to do in therapy. It was also a way to not feel so alone with all the guilt I had (and still have) about that period of my life.
So, I don’t know if you are there or if this is shouting into the darkness. But I’m hoping somewhere someone is reading this and not making the same mistakes I did.
We are all drowning in a sea of regrets no matter how big or small. But clutching onto the hope someone is stopping you from going under will always keep my head above the water.