Hello, my name is Paul-Ethan, and I'm...
This week's been a weird one, actually. The Bank Holiday weekend was... Well, it was. I've recently come out of an absolutely screaming depression, it's not something I'd advise you try for yourself.
I actually wonder whether I'm quite well. I've just been so down, worthless in abject misery. And not the kind of depression where one feels acutely sad, with a definite cause for upset, or a worrying about something yet to occur, no, that kind where one feels completely blank and empty. And, from what I can actually gather, for no real reason. Just... Ugh, what's the fucking point? It's not as if I haven't felt sad enough to feel empty in the first place as well. Various family deaths, relationship breakdowns and even watching those train carriages curl around the corner and out of sight have all been the root of episodes of a kind of existential ennui, that even being has seemed like an insurmountable challenge and that maybe nothing really is better than anything, so that's something at least.
People tend to forget that I still get bad. I suppose that must be to my credit, like they forget I'm autistic or that I'm lactose intolerant (there's some reminders for you, you're welcome); I live my life in such a way that it seems to slip the communal mind that I do not enjoy these obstacles, these problems that colour my daily life in order to keep me occupied and interested, paying attention to things that others need not. Things like elementary social interaction, not making an ass of one's self, speaking appropriately to people you've just met, not having to worry about running across a beach (not a joke, sadly), or even just the how much butter I can realistically spread on some toast (still haven't found the Lacto-free alternative butter, see). Ironically, it's things like this that raise the daily grind from simply boring to mindlessly distracting. It's the simple things.
As I've said before, I'm often loath to speak out too seriously about my depression for the simple fact that it reminds me that I am in fact, quite seriously depressed quite a lot of the time. Usually I kind of trick myself into not being aware of it, that I live my life in such a fashion that even I myself am blissfully unaware of the yawning emotional, hormonally imbalanced abyss inside of me. Looking back on these episodes is always the same: full of a special kind of disappointment, where I have allowed myself to fall prey to this foolishness, that I have almost indulged myself in this witless and groundless depression. It's tough. If you think I'm bad about lashing out and taking my frustration out on other people, then you should consider what I take out on myself first. I have stopped myself from taking all sorts of opportunities, personal and professional, just because I look at myself and I see a person - mostly I don't even see a person - who does not deserve to succeed. I'm sure my detractors are lapping this up, lining the streets and waving their palms, waiting for my inevitable self-destruction... Actually, I'm sure nobody is really. I like to kid myself.
It's so strange. I ride a knife edge of avoiding help even though I probably need it quite desperately. I won't even think about taking medication because I have a terrible relationship with pills; I won't even take sleeping tablest because I'm terrified of accidentally overdosing. One of my best friends in all the world whom I am nothing without hospitalised themselves last year. I don't want that. I choose life. I even look at writing as a means to escape singing: I still have a voice without having to make people listen to that ridiculous noise I make. I am just so... Afraid, I suppose, of actually succeeding, I mean Jesus Christ could you imagine if I was actually confident in my abilities? That I would want to put myself forward, that I would strike out and that I would grasp wildly at the chances in front of me? Pahahaha... I't's not very me though, is it? Stick to what yer know, kid.
So here I am, sat propping up a desk answering phones, sending emails and ordering stationery like a pro. I am regularly told I am good at this job. I am regularly told I am a pleasure to work with. I am regularly told how much they like seeing me. Do I pay attention? Not really. It feels rude saying that, because I'm not doing so to insult these people who pay me such lovely compliments. I just don't really think that I deserve it.
Anyway. I'm alright now. Improving. I'm fortunate to have some good friends who do more good than they even know. Maybe one day I might take that first step and have someone with a qualification in a frame on their wall talk me through all this. I already understand I really shouldn't think and act this way, but it's as if I can't do anything about it. I don't have any real control over it. It's like being in a madhouse sometimes.
Wait a minute...
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