Looking back

Have you ever listened to a piece of music that takes you back to a completely different point in your life? Back to a point where your innocence was still somewhat intact and the old beliefs, hopes and wishes that once kept you grounded come flooding back as a tsunami of sweetly saddening nostalgia? Back to a time where those infatuations you discovered as you came to terms with the world and what it held for you became everything you lived for?

There's only ever one song that does this for me: Sanctuary by Utada Hikaru. Those of you who happen to be budding fans of the Kingdom Hearts game series will know exactly what song I'm talking about, and you may even understand the feelings that I'm attempting to convey; a beautiful, melancholic reminisce. I'm usually quite good at wording how I feel, but words forever fail me when I try to describe this feeling. It was safe. The point in my life to which I refer was never one of complete joy, was never stable, nor was it one I could ever make complete sense of.

I lived in Amsterdam. I was 11. My family life was turbulent to say the least, my school life was... a slight from the norm, and I had a healthy social life. My family life- my private life- was- well, it just was. It was there. To explain: there was happiness there, but there was also fear. There was anger. There was bottled frustration corked with said fear. Anyway, you get the picture. When the bad erupted, I would hide in books or in games, specifically Kingdom Hearts. I became OBSESSED with the world (or "worlds") I escaped into, finding another purpose to my life than the real one I was reluctant to face. I found joy in the companionship I imagined I had with Sora, Donald and Goofy, and I further delved into fantasy as I read fan-factions that romanticised Sora's and Riku's relationship (the two main guys). I was wholly engrossed in a reality I could never truly be a part of, only observe and construct around my psyche to satisfy my every whim as a means to leave reality behind and pretend. I found a new home in a pretend world because I couldn't face the one I was living in.

So, as I sit here, listening to Sanctuary by Utada Hikaru, I look back on my younger self with those mixed emotions I struggle to describe. It's an almost joyful dread and pride. This was a time when I felt beat down and weighted, but I kept myself propped up by a fraction of hope for a life that wasn't real; I kept going to live another day in that world because it was the only world that mattered- it was the only world that was safe. It was my world where nothing could hurt me and everything was perfect, which brings me to where, I believe, the sadness comes from: I had perfection in my hands. A fraction of it, granted, but it was perfection. As I've grown older, there is less perfection to be observed and more fault to be found in the concept itself. I envy my old self for being able to carelessly escape into that alternate life while I am made to face my hardships and take control of this reality- the only way I will feel safe once more.

I realise I needed that escape when I needed it. I may wish for it now but it is not necessary, and it would be self-detrimental to slip back into that old world. I can't go back there, but I can look back on it with gratitude. I look back with thanks, as I know the boy I used to be still lives there, innocence in-hand as he eternally exists in place I was made to leave behind- in a place I let him be. He and I are two different people now; I left my childhood behind before I had to because it didn't feel fair for me to bring the child I was along with me. We parted with a sad smile, knowing I was doing best, knowing that somewhere, I would always exist in an eternal content.

I guess the purpose of this post is just to share. I felt like talking and this seemed like the best medium to use for uninterrupted, flowing thought. I have no advice, no guidance, no wise words or obscure analogies. I just wanted to write. I wanted to make sense of these feelings that I equally love and dread, and this seemed like the only way I have of reasoning such a myriad of emotion- which I have! At least to a degree anyway. I'll never truly understand it- nor do I really want to- but having attempted to understand, I feel better already.

As they say, "sometimes you have to look back in order to move forward". I just need to finish looking back.

Thanks for reading, guys.

Regression

I really don't know what to write any more. I'm struggling again!

My brain seems to have lassoed itself to a fence post and started re-runs of old episodes on a nearby rock to keep me entertained; I've found myself regressing to old ways of thinking where I escape into stories and scenarios, living various lives through adventurous tracks of thought. I won't lie, these thoughts are much better than my usual sense of lacklustre and despondency, but they aren't real. My own head is forcing me back into a nursery room of colours, toys and teddies, beyond which lies a post-apocalyptic waste that's haunted by memories of once-was and of those oppressed- those hidden in caverns I dare explore for the sake of discovery and betterment of self. I enjoy the escape but despise the impending deposition, like a king to be overthrown for abstaining from the care of his kingdom. I need to face reality and care for my kingdom. Were I to care for a kingdom, would I allow foundations to crumble for fear of the work it takes to repair them? No. So why do I allow such things to happen to myself? Why do I willingly allow myself to draw back into the safety of a pretend world to avoid facing my issues? Especially considering my matching willingness to better myself.

Sometimes I fall to my thoughts and call myself weak because I see no other reason for my behaviour, but then I realise I am strong because I choose to face these problems in hopes of stamping them out. I don't actually live in that pretend world any more because I can't afford to; if I want to make it in this life, then I need to face it and make it my own, not hide away and lose myself as I have for many years before now. There are many kinds of closets, and this one is mine. Slowly but surely, I'm edging out toward the light on the other side of the room, and when I get there, I'll be waiting for those of you trying to escape, too.

One of those days/those ignorant few

I'm a sufferer of the Monday blues. Especially today.
I'm a sufferer of Monday blues- it's Monday every day.
Sometimes it's a Tuesday, a day ahead a week,
then sometimes it's a Sunday, too,
but then it's Monday in a fleet.
I wouldn't say I hate my Mondays,
just the unchanged date.
I could never really hate my Mondays
because my Monday's just a phase.

I started this post with a poem because I wanted to, I'm also not feeling very 'wordy'. Anyway, I'll go on writing (in spite of my mood) because I made a promise to myself that I would. No matter what, I'm sticking to something for once. My nearest and dearest are encouraging me to do so, too. I, of course, couldn't let down my few, loyal readers either.

I know I've been rather eloquent and descriptive in previous posts, but today is different. Today, I'm playing it real. Today, I don't feel great. I can't quite pinpoint the reason, nor can I pinpoint what is exactly wrong, I just know that something is wrong. These days happen a lot for me. They evoke an inexplicable, unsettling, shattered sense of self and purpose; a sort of limbo, teetering over toward the fires of hell. I know what I want to do but I'm completely incapable of making the movements I should, or the movements I make don't feel like they're getting me anywhere. I'll linger over a subject, running scenarios through my mind, making plans which I don't push forward for some strange fear of being disorganised. It's almost as if there's such a great anxiety for failure that it has become the root of my failings. My mind takes me in circles, like a snake who's eating its own tail: stressed, self-sabotaged, stuck.

I can hear many saying, "just get on with it", "put a smile on your face and you'll feel better", "get over it". I do get on with it, I smile every day, and I'm actually in the process of the latter. I, and many others going through the same, do this every day. But just because we 'get on, smile, get over', it doesn't mean it goes away. It's simply masking what's going on inside to avoid dealing with the ignorance of such comments and attitudes. It's a means to avoid the pressing questions of those who'll so easily tell you to take a holiday, as though your entire history will be bleached clean by a beating sun, no more beating than your heart that fights the growing frustration. I stay subdued when people make such comments for fear of history repeating itself; the last time I told someone they were overly simplifying it- that mental illness wasn't such a straight-forward issue- they somehow managed to turn it to offence, take offence, then made me out to be in the wrong. I stood, bewildered and awestricken, that someone would take my illness, trivialise it, then use it as an argument to shut me down because I'd damaged their inflated ego by, supposedly, "questioning" their intelligence. I haven't had the bite to argue with any alike him since. I haven't had the bite to argue much at all really. I'm exhausted. I'm dealing with my own mental health, so I don't need to be tackling foreign minds and their blinkered inability/unwillingness to learn. In light of this, I have advice for such people: if your view on mental illness is based on shitty opinions and self assured speculation: fuck off. Simply fuck off. If you are unable to look at the evidence that's present in the world- you know, alllll those studies- then you are not worthy of time. However, I will admit that there's one thing we share in common: we both live in our own heads. I'm locked inside mine, attempting to pick the many locks in order to break out, whereas you're just living there. You're happy in your own head because as long as everything appears to be the way you want it to be, you don't care. Only you're important to you, and I feel sorry for you because of it. I don't pity you, I feel sorry for you, and even that's pushing it. We also happen to share a wall. Mine, a mental block I'm working to dismantle, brick-by-brick; yours, an ego of monumental proportions that tells you, "you're right, ignore the"- VERY FACTUAL EVIDENCE THAT ANY PERSON OF SENSE ABIDES. But that's fine. Live your life in ignorance. At the end of the day, I'm the one who's working to get out, you're simply sealing yourself in.

Oh, and I've changed my mind: next time, I'm speaking out.

Rant over. *drops mic*

Drug addiction.

Today, there will be no comparisons, no parallels drawn between insect and issue, no measures taken of a window for a mind. This is a topic that I will not approach in a half-hearted fashion, nor will I make light of or allow it to be ridiculed. This is about drug abuse in relation to mental health.

Like it or not, drugs are a part of this world. Whether you drink, smoke, or pop recreationally/medically, you partake in the world of drugs. Our way of life relies on them to provide wellness, oneness, love, escape, and for those misfortunate individuals, a means to an end. You only have to look back in history to see that drugs have been a part of the human way life for a very long time, which makes it only natural, I suppose, for them to have been made of use by those who do not sleep at night; those whose thoughts loop around the days, evenings and early hours, like a vulture circles it's weary prey, waiting for them to slump over in relent to their impending end- but we don't sleep. You ache to relinquish your withered-self to the beast that hangs above, but the very same beast brandishes an IV drip of coffee-concentrate, revelling in your unwilling obligations to fight on, evocative of a cruel master and their slave. Your bloodshot eyes are pinned open, like the prized butterfly of an entomologist's collection who has it constantly on show to ensure nobody forgets, least of all, you.

I've heard people make statements like, "drugs are for people who just can't handle how kick ass reality is". I can see why some might think that but, I can assure them that many who've drawn up an alliance and contract with their mind-altering friend; that they've handled reality every morning, every afternoon, every evening, every. Damn. Day. It isn't an inability to handle it but an unwillingness to continue on the path that steepens. You just don't want to. Is that a sign of weakness? Perhaps, but who's to determine weakness from exhaustion? Personally, I didn't want to handle how "kick ass" reality is because I'm getting my ass kicked! I'm hooked-up by the very thing as reality prods and pokes my brain- a malicious sibling shouting, "what does this button do?!" So, my thoughts were, why not numb the pain? Self medicate as it were- and avoid the problem at hand. Yeah, that's right, I won't dodge the issue. I know that my drive to do so was to forget, to alleviate the torment... to sleep. Almost every night, I would light-up in a pursuit for dreams- though, more often than not, I'd forget them as a result (for which I am mostly thankful, as it seems my mind enjoys tormenting me in rest, too). I hid behind the smoke on which I relied. Since then, I have reflected on this issue and have begun the process of quitting, tackling my demons beneath clear skies instead of clouds atop the rocky grounds- something I beckon others to do. Go about it at your own pace, of course, but in order to accept our problems, we must acknowledge them first. If avoidance/denial is your first step, that's okay. You most likely aren't ready to face your shadows just yet so just listen out for your own voice to tell you when it's right; it'll echo through when it's time. A journey to recovery should never be rushed for fear of potential relapse. However, I will say this: don't allow yourself to slump so far into the habit, that you never want to escape it. Make movements to make change. Remind yourself, daily, of what you're trying to escape so you learn to get used to your past, then quitting becomes easier when facing the problems you've already pondered instead of avoiding. Don't lose yourself and become the habit, lose the habit and become yourself.

I won't pretend that everybody who has an addiction is afflicted. My intention is not to excuse every drug-taker, as it's clear that some people just enjoy having a good time, going on to form a non-dependent addiction. I do ask, however, that those who cast judgement on people who've seemingly developed an addiction, take a moment to think why they have and what you can do to help. A constructive pointer for you: attempting forced change definitely isn't the answer. You should talk to and listen to them. Be there for them. Support them for as long as they need until they emerge from their shell, ready to tackle the sands before the ocean. Be their friend. Just by listening, you can be the change that they need. To those who find themselves "handling reality", I implore you not to hide. Do not go through this alone, and don't lose your way. You're being called for somewhere, you just might not be able to hear it yet. Good luck.


If you or anybody else you know is going through drug addiction, here are a few links to help:

http://www.nhs.uk/Livewell/drugs/Pages/Drugtreatment.aspx - Getting help with drug addiction

http://www.nhs.uk/Livewell/drugs/Pages/caring-for-a-drug-user.aspx - Families of drug users

http://www.supportline.org.uk/problems/drugs.php - A list of support lines and other helpful links

About a Fly

Ladies, Gentlemen, all those in-between and the none-at-alls,

      There are times in which you'll have to hear me out on certain things because they'll, at first, seem bizarre or inane. This is one of those times. I'm going to be drawing comparisons you'll most likely find ridiculous, then again, you may also find them humorous... the ball is really in your court.

      On my way home from work, not long after writing my first blog post in fact, I spotted a little greenfly on the inside of the tram window. There it was, right next to me, making futile efforts to pass a seemingly invisible wall to escape to its rightful place outside. Me being me, I began to feel sorry Frank (he has a name now), managing to draw some obscure sense of empathy for him. His battle resonated with me, feeling his frustration as he battered against a mysterious wall- not visible, but felt. I watched as Frank scaled his battlefield, climbing up, attempting to fly through, then being knocked back down to restart his endeavour once more. I watched as this process was repeated over, and over, and over, and over until he fell all the way down to the gap between the window and the ledge. This bothered me. Not only had he seemingly given up, stood leg-locked in a dark place, probably wondering how on Earth he would successfully encounter this issue in his lonely and condemned state, but now I had to somehow help him out of there so I could get him outside! He literally didn't move from that space for the rest of my journey. It was exactly as though he'd given up, something I wasn't going to allow to happen: don't worry, Frank, I thought, I'll help you when I get off the tram. Then I did! I quite literally saved a greenfly because I felt I was able to relate to his struggle (as well as my overbearing sense of respect for life, big or small, of course). Judge me as you will, but I'd have felt guilty for a long time had I not saved him!

      If you weren't already able to notice the parallels between our friend, his wall, and mental illness, allow me to enlighten you: The fly is you, outside is your eventual goal, and the window is the mental block you put in place to stop yourself (I know we don't knowingly put them in place, but your brain is you, yada yada, you get the drift). In a fly, I saw determination, motivation, exasperation, then nothing. I saw self-defeatism. I saw loss of purpose. I saw myself. Throughout my years of internal struggle, I've battled against an unconquerable wall so erected by myself. It hadn't really occurred to me until recently, but only I know the weaknesses to this wall- only I can be the wooden horse, pregnant with an army to take down my enemy, probing it's walls to find the darkness to be vanquished inside. However, just like Frank, I couldn't do it alone. I needed an outsider to read my reports (that's you), a benevolent officer to hear of my reconnaissance on the enemy within (my trusted few) and, finally, the stability to carry out my mission (that's me). Do not go headstrong into this with the belief that you can go it alone; war is a time in which we should make friends, connections and enforce trusty support systems to enable success. A war is never fought unaided. Don't allow yourself to fall into a solitary, dark place, only to be scooped up by a sorry onlooker's monthly tram pass. Pick yourself up, cast away whatever thoughts that isolate you and ask for a friend; you'll be surprised by the response you get.


P.S. I realise many oppose the view that we are our illness, referring to my "yada yada" bracket. Many would say, "when you have a cold, you're not a cold!" which is true. But for something as complex as mental illness- something so hardwired into the workings of your brain, for all intents and purposes, is you. It affects your behaviours, your behaviours create your character. When we change these behaviours, we're changing ourselves. I find that accepting your mental illness as part of you enables you to fight it in a much more efficient manner because "nobody knows you better than you, right?" I found treating it as some form of viral invader put me at a distance from my illness, yet everyone knows the best way to work with something is the get up-close and personal. However, don't take this as fact, this is just my opinion.

Introduction to Diary of a Downer

      Mental illness: the bracket title for many various afflictions and illnesses of the mind, each one so diversified and uniquely tailored to the individual sufferer and their backstory, that it's comparable to a personalised book and its blurb.

      While sufferers are grouped into sub-categories of mental illness, no person has had the exact same experiences as another before their diagnosis. I believe, that because of this, our ability to help ourselves is greater than any other: nobody knows you better than you, right? Belief in oneself and one's convictions is greater than belief in others- or so we'd like to think.

      Unfortunately, while we know this is the case, it's incredibly hard to see how you can help yourself when you feel so... well, helpless. It's difficult to imagine pulling yourself from the doom and gloom of life when there seems to be no ladder out of the ditch into which you've fallen. You're expired. You're almost constantly sore on a world that seems to be beating you down and doing you no favours- or does it? Are we just so downtrodden and soulfully dilapidated, that even when we're given chances, we fail to see them as such, leaving us to continue on our skulk through life as we bear our creeping, weighty shadows- melancholia personified in torture-inducing hypotheticals, uncomfortable reflections, and horror-filled fantasies. No doubt these are thoughts that have crossed your mind. In fact, I imagine everybody goes through moments of dark thought, but when that darkness doesn't shift; when no excitement grips you, no more passions enthral you, no final goals move you, no more- just, no more. The words that you tell yourself daily in lieu of "let's do this". Rather than making positive movements, you're in a battle to halt negative behaviours, seemingly unaware that one cannot happen without the other so you say, "no more" to your hindrances while doing no more to move on. You stagnate, and the longer you do so, the more sour you turn and more oblivious you become (or undeservedly you feel) to all the opportunities that present themselves.

      This blog is my attempt to help myself in hopes of helping others, too. I've always found my drive to help others is greater than my drive to help myself, so shifting my motive is, in part, selfish. I suppose you can call this project something of a "selflessly selfish" movement (or would it be "selfishly selfless"...? Hm. Anyway, you get my meaning). I hope to assist in ridding the world of a stigma that is unreasonable and unnecessary, because in a world of increasing mental bruises, broken emotions and fractured thoughts, people need to know that it's okay to be dealing with these illnesses and it's okay to talk. Not talking merely adds to the problem.

My name is Lance, and this is my introduction to Diary of a Downer.