It had been a good week. The response from my previous important blog was better than I could ever have imagined, I had been busy, mixing a good amount of working hours and volunteering at the club mixed in with sociable times. It was the perfect mix. My spirits at work on Friday were the best I have ever remembered. Even waking up on Saturday to go and help with manual labour at the club was absolutely fine. I was happy.
I was looking forward to a night out in Birmingham. For once, I felt like I had deserved it. Ok, I was a little tired and the train journey there annoyed me somewhat as I missed my original train and had to buy another ticket for a longer and ultimately louder train. But once I got there and the others had eventually turned up and we were at the travelodge, I lightened up a bit and was looking forward to a good night. Even if I did feel a tad left out as they had all bought matching t-shirts and I was left with nothing. Plus, they'd all created these phrases from their night out on Friday, that I had no clue about. But these were very minor details.
I don't know why I went mad. Again. It was one of those nights. Maybe I thought I had deserved it a little too much. Maybe I thought I could take all of the alcohol I had, but obviously, in hindsight I couldn't. And I really should have realised that. There are only so many times you can use it as a "learning curve". I KNOW what my limit is, but for some stupid and incredible reason, I somehow let it go beyond that again. In the past, these situations haven't been good ones to end up in, but I ended up safe. Only once did I leave myself in a compromising position, in Manchester on "that night" I mentioned. On Saturday night, I was not so lucky. I'm not going to say what happened. Frankly, I will do anything to go back and change what happened that night, but I know I can't. I've been stewing over it ever since it happened, trying to distract myself with typing seemingly humorous posts on Twitter and what not, but I can't ignore it any longer. This is the only way I can let loose my frustrations, as I tend to. Saying what exactly happened though will not help how I feel, so I never intend to, to anyone. The three friends I was out with know what happened, and hopefully they will be the only ones to know.
It wasn't their fault either. I was idiotic enough to walk off, in a drunken rage I suppose, on my own in a strange city, and ultimately I paid the price. Is it a lesson learnt? How many times have I said I've learnt a lesson and I do it again? Honestly, I have no idea when I'm ultimately going to grow up. I realised earlier that I have a reputation when it comes to drinking, alcohol and "going out" and although that was a laugh a couple of years ago, I'm not sure I want to be tarnished with that brush now. There is nothing wrong with going out, getting drunk and having fun. I will continue to do so, but I have given myself two conditions:
1) I'm not going to go anywhere that isn't Bedford, (or at MOST it's surrounding areas). Sounds boring? Maybe. But at least I can navigate where I am. Not get lost and end up in dangerous situations.
2) If I let myself get into a situation like I did on Saturday night again, (including being too drunk to realise what's happening), then I will take it one step further and leave drinking until special occasions. Not just going out for the hell of it.
I keep on thinking I have grown up enough, become mature enough and sensible enough, to not keep doing this to myself, but I haven't. I have the unenviable ability to get too hyped up on certain nights out, and this needs to stop. It's not healthy for me, and one day, it could get even worse. I was very, very happy to get back to work today. Which is a strange thing for me to say. A world of normality and in sensible surroundings is what I needed.
I'm glad I've typed this out. I might not have been as open about my weekend as I have been with other things, but that would only lead to a whole host of questions I don't want to answer. I think it's best if I move on, try and forget it ever happened, and carry on making progress. Progress has been good. Of course it has. This is just a setback. I was warned setbacks would occur, just I never thought they would be self-inflicted.
Onwards.
Monday 26 November 2012
Monday 19 November 2012
Thankyou
I don't quite know what to say. I'm completely overwhelmed by the response from my previous post, it is almost impossible to put into words. However, as I am accustomed to, I shall attempt to do it regardless.
Before posting the link to that post, I was a little nervous, but not as nervous as I made out. The people I had told before all took the news gracefully and without negativity, so I never really expected much in the way of contempt this time round, if any at all. What I was not expecting however, was the vast scale of support I received from every aspect of life, past and present, and for this, I would like to thank you. Each and every person who "liked" my Facebook link, or tweeted me your support, re-tweeted my link, left me an inbox message, text message or e-mail, thankyou so much. From the bottom of my heart. I never expected it, not for one second. Old friends from school, current friends who I spend Saturday nights sinking into drinking trousers with, friends from the cricket club and the refereeing community who I thought I had fallen out with altogether, and even strangers leaving me messages of support and commendation. All are to be thanked. Your comments will live with me for a long, long time.
The messages have still been coming in today. I have received a phone-load of texts and tweets and more comments on Facebook, so much so, that I shed a little tear myself earlier this afternoon. I could never have wished for a reaction like this.
I'm not going to make this longer than I need to. It was merely a post that reaffirms my love of humanity. This blog has been rather negative lately, but if you could see what this has done to me, you'd regain some faith in the human race that you may have lost. I'm visibly more cheery, bouncing along with a spring in my step and I'm convinced my face hurts, because a smile has been slapped across it for the majority of today. This is all down to you, and your acceptance.
I'm happy.
Before posting the link to that post, I was a little nervous, but not as nervous as I made out. The people I had told before all took the news gracefully and without negativity, so I never really expected much in the way of contempt this time round, if any at all. What I was not expecting however, was the vast scale of support I received from every aspect of life, past and present, and for this, I would like to thank you. Each and every person who "liked" my Facebook link, or tweeted me your support, re-tweeted my link, left me an inbox message, text message or e-mail, thankyou so much. From the bottom of my heart. I never expected it, not for one second. Old friends from school, current friends who I spend Saturday nights sinking into drinking trousers with, friends from the cricket club and the refereeing community who I thought I had fallen out with altogether, and even strangers leaving me messages of support and commendation. All are to be thanked. Your comments will live with me for a long, long time.
The messages have still been coming in today. I have received a phone-load of texts and tweets and more comments on Facebook, so much so, that I shed a little tear myself earlier this afternoon. I could never have wished for a reaction like this.
I'm not going to make this longer than I need to. It was merely a post that reaffirms my love of humanity. This blog has been rather negative lately, but if you could see what this has done to me, you'd regain some faith in the human race that you may have lost. I'm visibly more cheery, bouncing along with a spring in my step and I'm convinced my face hurts, because a smile has been slapped across it for the majority of today. This is all down to you, and your acceptance.
I'm happy.
Sunday 18 November 2012
My Coming Out Story
'Coming Out' is an interesting phrase. It signifies stepping out into the world, from a place of darkness, becoming yourself and independent. In some ways it sums up this deeply personal process quite well, but I've never liked the phrase. What may be 'one day' to some was in fact many years for me. I remember one particular day in Year 10 at school. I was 15, and sat in the middle of a French lesson. Looking out the window, in a world of my own, as French verbs entered one ear and left the other, I noticed a guy walking through the gates. He was older than me, probably about 17 or 18, and seemed to walk with a swagger that suggested confidence and aplomb. He was a good-looking lad... It was at this point where I first had thoughts that I might be "different". Only in the past 18 months or so, do I fully appreciate what these feelings meant. But this story doesn't just span one day. It spans many emotion-riddled years.
I was confused at this time of my life. At the age of 15, my peers were just starting to talk about dating girls, and being interested in the opposite sex, and I seem to remember compliments flying my way from a couple of girls in my year. I was unsure of how to feel. I remember thinking I should act normally, like everyone else, except I wasn't like anyone else. I have always been more comfortable in male company, whether I thought they were cute or not, its just who I am. I don't know why. I suppose it is just another attribute that makes me, me. Even so, at the age of 15, in the middle of the brutal school environment, I was still at that age where I felt like I had to fit in. I don't think I knew I was gay at this point. I was still too young to realise what was happening, but the confusion was certainly there. I entered a couple of relationships with girls, merely to mask the mystification of what was going on. They never lasted very long, as I never felt at all comfortable in them. It wasn't as if I didn't like them. They were good people and they were friends, but I knew deep down they were never going to be anything more.
The idea of boy-girl relationships is something that is socially accepted as "normal". It stands to reason then, especially as a teenager, that anything other than that isn't normal. At all. The quantity of homophobic jokes that circulated the school, during lunch breaks and PE lessons for example, were incredible. Coming out in school then was not an option for me. I don't think anyone should come out in school, at least before Sixth Form. I always felt that if you did, you'd become a social outcast. I remember one guy who did, and he was bullied non-stop. I laughed along, wanting to be involved in the right social groups, but I felt terrible at the same time. I was laughing at a young man who was similar to me. It didn't feel right.
It was when I turned 17 where things started to get more... serious. If that is the right word. I had matured slightly, gathered the thoughts of the past few years and collated them to arrive at one possible conclusion. I think by the Winter of 2008, I had worked out that I wasn't "straight". Yet still I was not brave enough to tell even my closest friends. I was still relatively shy, especially when it came to the concept of relationships, and with everything else going on in my life, this frankly huge event almost took a back seat in proceedings. It was of course, the start of the meltdown that ended in me walking away from that school with a set of grades that would have made a chimpanzee upset. But there was another hurdle to jump before I could even contemplate telling anyone. By the time I was 18 years old, I had spent many years listening to taunts of acquaintances at school, on the football pitch, in referee training sessions, with everyone labelling gay men as "fancyboys" and "Kings of the Camp". I'm not "fancy". I'm certainly not camp. Homophobia at school was, and maybe still is, a hugely potent subject. Gay people were the butt of a lot of jokes, (excuse the pun!), so much so, they might aswell have made it part of the curriculum. I started questioning myself, asking myself whether this was just a "phase". There was a point in this process where I wanted to be different. I'm fairly sure the majority of gay men ask themselves the same question. Maybe it's just hormones. Maybe I will have a wife and children after all? Maybe I'll grow out of it? I knew I had to accept it myself though, before gaining the acceptance of others.
Of course, now I know that's complete nonsense. You are born gay, and you discover it. It cannot be changed. But at the time, I was genuinely contemplating ignoring the signs, telling myself it was a phase, and set my mind on the life of a straight man. I was going to find myself a girlfriend and it was all going to be fine. Almost as if it was an illness or something. But gradually, slowly but surely, I started to realise how miserable a life that would be. Living a lie. I couldn't do that.
For the first time ever, at the age of 18, I knew for certain that I wasn't straight. Whether I was gay or bisexual, frankly wasn't an answer I was attempting to find. Merely accepting that I wasn't "normal" was enough to be getting my head around for the time being. For the past few years, I've asked myself that question, but only very recently have I settled on the fact I am gay. And most importantly, accepted that it isn't abnormal in any way shape or form.
But of course, the title of this revealing post insinuates that there is a story behind me "coming out". Oh, there is certainly one of those. But not until much later.
I remember the first time I ever told anyone I was gay. I was 18 and I was talking to a friend of mine, who I knew, but not that well. He wasn't a close friend of mine at this point. Somehow, he knew that something wasn't quite right, and after a few hours of discussion, he simply asked me if I was gay. He just came out with it. I was startled, and panicked a little. But deep down, I knew he wouldn't judge me so I decided upon this moment to start the story. Get the ball rolling and just admit it. I cannot describe the weight that lifted from my shoulders. It almost felt like the weight of the Earth falling off. His response?
"About bloody time!"
... Exactly. It was at this point where it dawned on me that people wouldn't care. I'm not the first guy to "come out", and I won't be the last. I'm not a different person because I'm gay, it is just another part of me. Like someone else who likes fashion but not football. Someone who likes Indian food but not Mexican. I am gay, not straight. It's as simple as that.
From then on, I told my closest friends one by one. For "coming out" doesn't happen once. I found myself constantly "coming out", (I do dislike that phrase...), to friends, to friends of friends who were merely curious and it became a frequent occurrence. I didn't receive a single negative reaction which was an incredible relief, and most importantly, I started to completely accept that I was gay. Except, there were still hurdles to jump. The biggest hurdle that faces anyone who goes through this journey is telling your family. The same people who brought you into this world, hoping one day to cradle young grandchildren in their arms and be at the head of a few generations of offspring running around at Christmas. To tell them I wasn't going to be this person, was my toughest challenge by far.
I had told all of my close friends before I turned 19, but it was almost a year before I told my parents, on one fateful, alcohol-fuelled evening in Manchester, which will always be remembered simply as "that night". I am not usually a person who does regrets. I tend to just move on, as there is nothing you can do about actions that have already occurred. But I do regret how I came out to my parents. I had ended up in hospital in the middle of Manchester after going way overboard on the drinking, and was in a dark, dark place. I had been in that place for months on end, toying with the idea of telling them, but never plucking up the courage. That night, surrounded by the extremities of a hospital environment, it all crashed down on me. It was 5am, but I just had to let it all out. I asked my friend if he could text my Mum, telling her everything, as I didn't know what to put. He typed out the perfect text and sent it, and I got a reply almost instantly, saying everything was fine and that she loved me. And that was that. They knew. And they didn't mind...
It turned out they already knew. Despite me not telling them personally, they already knew. God knows how. Whether someone else had let it slip in conversation, or whether I'd left a Google tab open with pictures of Mitch Hewer on them, I have no idea. I felt a bit of an imbesile, letting myself go through all of that torture over something they already knew about, but I was glad it was out in the open. I never really talked to them about it very often though, and still don't. The first time I have ever mentioned being with a guy was literally a few weeks ago, after a night out in Northampton. I do appreciate I am a closed book at times, especially when it comes to talking to family, but again, that is just me. Another part of my makeup. I'm doing this to show everyone that I am no longer ashamed of who I am. I'm going against my better judgment to help defeat the stigma. And if you are a regular reader of this blog, I do a lot of stigma defeating!
I'm putting this post on Facebook and Twitter for all to see then. I want everyone to know the journey I have been through to get to this stage. I may get negative reactions, but I no longer care, because I know there are people out there who love me regardless. There are sections of people in my life that don't know this. Most people at the cricket club will learn something new about me. Certain people at work will now know why I don't have a girlfriend. Even people I went to school with will now know, and I am all the happier for it. I see no need in tip-toeing around society, hiding it from people when it should be considered as normal as heterosexuality. One day, I wish "coming out" stories won't even be needed. People won't double take upon two men holding hands in the street or ask questions about your personal life, simply because you don't come under the social convention of what is "correct". This is the first time I've been so open with multiple people about this particular part of me though, so I am still nervous of the reaction. It's a feeling I have not forgotten.
I also want to show other teenagers who might be beginning this journey themselves, that it will all be ironed out eventually. There might be tough times, but if your friends are real friends, they won't care one jot. I've been lucky to have the best friends and family on the planet, who accepted me for me and helped me accept who I am. And for that I am so grateful.
I was confused at this time of my life. At the age of 15, my peers were just starting to talk about dating girls, and being interested in the opposite sex, and I seem to remember compliments flying my way from a couple of girls in my year. I was unsure of how to feel. I remember thinking I should act normally, like everyone else, except I wasn't like anyone else. I have always been more comfortable in male company, whether I thought they were cute or not, its just who I am. I don't know why. I suppose it is just another attribute that makes me, me. Even so, at the age of 15, in the middle of the brutal school environment, I was still at that age where I felt like I had to fit in. I don't think I knew I was gay at this point. I was still too young to realise what was happening, but the confusion was certainly there. I entered a couple of relationships with girls, merely to mask the mystification of what was going on. They never lasted very long, as I never felt at all comfortable in them. It wasn't as if I didn't like them. They were good people and they were friends, but I knew deep down they were never going to be anything more.
The idea of boy-girl relationships is something that is socially accepted as "normal". It stands to reason then, especially as a teenager, that anything other than that isn't normal. At all. The quantity of homophobic jokes that circulated the school, during lunch breaks and PE lessons for example, were incredible. Coming out in school then was not an option for me. I don't think anyone should come out in school, at least before Sixth Form. I always felt that if you did, you'd become a social outcast. I remember one guy who did, and he was bullied non-stop. I laughed along, wanting to be involved in the right social groups, but I felt terrible at the same time. I was laughing at a young man who was similar to me. It didn't feel right.
It was when I turned 17 where things started to get more... serious. If that is the right word. I had matured slightly, gathered the thoughts of the past few years and collated them to arrive at one possible conclusion. I think by the Winter of 2008, I had worked out that I wasn't "straight". Yet still I was not brave enough to tell even my closest friends. I was still relatively shy, especially when it came to the concept of relationships, and with everything else going on in my life, this frankly huge event almost took a back seat in proceedings. It was of course, the start of the meltdown that ended in me walking away from that school with a set of grades that would have made a chimpanzee upset. But there was another hurdle to jump before I could even contemplate telling anyone. By the time I was 18 years old, I had spent many years listening to taunts of acquaintances at school, on the football pitch, in referee training sessions, with everyone labelling gay men as "fancyboys" and "Kings of the Camp". I'm not "fancy". I'm certainly not camp. Homophobia at school was, and maybe still is, a hugely potent subject. Gay people were the butt of a lot of jokes, (excuse the pun!), so much so, they might aswell have made it part of the curriculum. I started questioning myself, asking myself whether this was just a "phase". There was a point in this process where I wanted to be different. I'm fairly sure the majority of gay men ask themselves the same question. Maybe it's just hormones. Maybe I will have a wife and children after all? Maybe I'll grow out of it? I knew I had to accept it myself though, before gaining the acceptance of others.
Of course, now I know that's complete nonsense. You are born gay, and you discover it. It cannot be changed. But at the time, I was genuinely contemplating ignoring the signs, telling myself it was a phase, and set my mind on the life of a straight man. I was going to find myself a girlfriend and it was all going to be fine. Almost as if it was an illness or something. But gradually, slowly but surely, I started to realise how miserable a life that would be. Living a lie. I couldn't do that.
For the first time ever, at the age of 18, I knew for certain that I wasn't straight. Whether I was gay or bisexual, frankly wasn't an answer I was attempting to find. Merely accepting that I wasn't "normal" was enough to be getting my head around for the time being. For the past few years, I've asked myself that question, but only very recently have I settled on the fact I am gay. And most importantly, accepted that it isn't abnormal in any way shape or form.
But of course, the title of this revealing post insinuates that there is a story behind me "coming out". Oh, there is certainly one of those. But not until much later.
I remember the first time I ever told anyone I was gay. I was 18 and I was talking to a friend of mine, who I knew, but not that well. He wasn't a close friend of mine at this point. Somehow, he knew that something wasn't quite right, and after a few hours of discussion, he simply asked me if I was gay. He just came out with it. I was startled, and panicked a little. But deep down, I knew he wouldn't judge me so I decided upon this moment to start the story. Get the ball rolling and just admit it. I cannot describe the weight that lifted from my shoulders. It almost felt like the weight of the Earth falling off. His response?
"About bloody time!"
... Exactly. It was at this point where it dawned on me that people wouldn't care. I'm not the first guy to "come out", and I won't be the last. I'm not a different person because I'm gay, it is just another part of me. Like someone else who likes fashion but not football. Someone who likes Indian food but not Mexican. I am gay, not straight. It's as simple as that.
From then on, I told my closest friends one by one. For "coming out" doesn't happen once. I found myself constantly "coming out", (I do dislike that phrase...), to friends, to friends of friends who were merely curious and it became a frequent occurrence. I didn't receive a single negative reaction which was an incredible relief, and most importantly, I started to completely accept that I was gay. Except, there were still hurdles to jump. The biggest hurdle that faces anyone who goes through this journey is telling your family. The same people who brought you into this world, hoping one day to cradle young grandchildren in their arms and be at the head of a few generations of offspring running around at Christmas. To tell them I wasn't going to be this person, was my toughest challenge by far.
I had told all of my close friends before I turned 19, but it was almost a year before I told my parents, on one fateful, alcohol-fuelled evening in Manchester, which will always be remembered simply as "that night". I am not usually a person who does regrets. I tend to just move on, as there is nothing you can do about actions that have already occurred. But I do regret how I came out to my parents. I had ended up in hospital in the middle of Manchester after going way overboard on the drinking, and was in a dark, dark place. I had been in that place for months on end, toying with the idea of telling them, but never plucking up the courage. That night, surrounded by the extremities of a hospital environment, it all crashed down on me. It was 5am, but I just had to let it all out. I asked my friend if he could text my Mum, telling her everything, as I didn't know what to put. He typed out the perfect text and sent it, and I got a reply almost instantly, saying everything was fine and that she loved me. And that was that. They knew. And they didn't mind...
It turned out they already knew. Despite me not telling them personally, they already knew. God knows how. Whether someone else had let it slip in conversation, or whether I'd left a Google tab open with pictures of Mitch Hewer on them, I have no idea. I felt a bit of an imbesile, letting myself go through all of that torture over something they already knew about, but I was glad it was out in the open. I never really talked to them about it very often though, and still don't. The first time I have ever mentioned being with a guy was literally a few weeks ago, after a night out in Northampton. I do appreciate I am a closed book at times, especially when it comes to talking to family, but again, that is just me. Another part of my makeup. I'm doing this to show everyone that I am no longer ashamed of who I am. I'm going against my better judgment to help defeat the stigma. And if you are a regular reader of this blog, I do a lot of stigma defeating!
I'm putting this post on Facebook and Twitter for all to see then. I want everyone to know the journey I have been through to get to this stage. I may get negative reactions, but I no longer care, because I know there are people out there who love me regardless. There are sections of people in my life that don't know this. Most people at the cricket club will learn something new about me. Certain people at work will now know why I don't have a girlfriend. Even people I went to school with will now know, and I am all the happier for it. I see no need in tip-toeing around society, hiding it from people when it should be considered as normal as heterosexuality. One day, I wish "coming out" stories won't even be needed. People won't double take upon two men holding hands in the street or ask questions about your personal life, simply because you don't come under the social convention of what is "correct". This is the first time I've been so open with multiple people about this particular part of me though, so I am still nervous of the reaction. It's a feeling I have not forgotten.
I also want to show other teenagers who might be beginning this journey themselves, that it will all be ironed out eventually. There might be tough times, but if your friends are real friends, they won't care one jot. I've been lucky to have the best friends and family on the planet, who accepted me for me and helped me accept who I am. And for that I am so grateful.
Monday 12 November 2012
A Confidence Lapse
It's been a pretty strange weekend. It feels as if I've been awake for the whole thing, never sleeping, never resting. All in all however, I don't feel like I've done that much.
I went out on Friday night. It was just your bog standard night out on Bedford town that seemed to go alarmingly fast. At one stage, we were playing some dodgy Geordie Shore drinking game, (don't get me started), and then I blinked and we were going home via some random chicken takeaway shop. All I remember from the night is eating a skinny little piri-piri wrap whilst watching the raindrops race each other down the windows... Otherwise, it's a complete blur and bearing in mind I didn't drink that much, I'm convinced that was because of the time.
Anyway. I got home just shy of 3am, knowing full well I had the cricket club AGM 7 hours later. It sounded like a relatively simple task, if a little tiring. Go to sleep, wake up and go through the rigmarole and discussion, cup of coffee in hand, and then go home and relax. However, I also knew I had to present a report summarising the adult section from the previous season and outlining what I wanted to happen in the coming season. Don't get me wrong. I'm proud that I have been given the task of propelling this section of our club to new heights, but I still have not quite got my head around being the lead person of one of the most important sections of the club. Part of me feels like I shouldn't be "Director". The image of the Director is an illustration of an old-fashioned, experienced ambassador, who has been at the organisation/club/assocation for years and has worked their way to that position. I have been at the club for 4 years, and although for two of those I have been captain, I feel like I have taken on a monumental task, much suited to a more experienced being. I do get the small impression that a few people at that club wonder why there is a young man sat at the top table. I also feel a little guilty. Still being young, I do still go out and drink, and I don't think I should stop doing that because I've now got a position of authority. If it was a paid position, a position in an organisation, then it would be a different story. This is voluntary, so I don't think I should be giving up the things I enjoy doing because of it. But me being me, I do wonder what the others think of me and my drinking habits. Going back to my original point, Saturday morning was the first time where this realisation got to me. It got to me so much that I quickly spiralled into a state of dour foreboding.
I could not sleep on Friday night. I probably turned the lights out at about 3.30am, but sleep eluded me until about 7.30. I was terrified. I did type in here, my thoughts of absolute consternation, complete fearfulness and the mountain of anxiety that I felt because of this meeting. Upon reading it back in the morning, I deleted it in fear of being branded an idiot. In the end, I was in such a state, that I did well making it at all. Upon arrival at the meeting, I took a deep breath and drew the veil, now layers thick, that masks the anxiety from the outside world, and got on with it. The meeting itself went relatively smoothly, with me sat at the end of the top table, trying to concentrate, but also keeping quiet until I had to talk. At times, I chipped in a brief opinion to let people know that I had not fallen asleep, but otherwise, I felt if I said anything, it wouldn't come out right.
This was until the time of the meeting where I had no choice but to speak. The junior cricket director had just spoken at length about the junior setup, and all of a sudden, I felt a brick hit me in the face with the force of a category 1 hurricane. I had drafted a report, that sat in front of me, but the words on the piece of paper seemed to drift into one, creating one long black line. I started talking, at a volume barely recognisable. It started off OK, as I looked up and saw a sea of concentrated faces focused in my direction. Why was I so nervous? As I say, it started off relatively alright, but then I found myself repeating things, then realised I was repeating things, and got even worse. It wasn't great, but then no one seemed to react negatively to it. At the end, I was asked a few questions from the membership, then we moved on to the next item. No negativity at all. I focused on that for the rest of the meeting, the fact that I had received nothing detrimental, and just about got through it. It could have gone better then, but bearing in mind I was in the middle of a "mini-episode", it could have been much, much worse. I let the positives into my post-meeting summary that took place in the confines of my brain, and told myself, "At least I turned up". And seriously, I did well to turn up.
I went straight to sleep when I got in at roughly 12.30, and woke up at 5pm, ready to go and eat a lot of pizza and watch the football in a surprisingly good mood. This confirmed that the anxiety I felt was simply over the morning's events, which was a relief.
Today, I had my first net of the winter training campaign which went alright. The quality of the bowling in the team I was training with was pretty poor however, so it wasn't the stringent opening test I was after. But a good warm-up none the less. Since then, I have just been dossing and ranting severely about the ridiculousness that is the X Factor and it's fans, before watching the opening of I'm A Celebrity. I was also reminded of the steep irony of complaining religiously about reality TV, then offering opinions whilst watching the rumble in the jungle. I know.
But the real story of the weekend, once again, lay with the frailties of my mind. They are still there, and will most probably be there for the rest of my life, but the most important thing of all is how I react to them. I did alright this weekend. There were positives and negatives to be taken from the negative situation, but I will fight on. As I tend to.
I went out on Friday night. It was just your bog standard night out on Bedford town that seemed to go alarmingly fast. At one stage, we were playing some dodgy Geordie Shore drinking game, (don't get me started), and then I blinked and we were going home via some random chicken takeaway shop. All I remember from the night is eating a skinny little piri-piri wrap whilst watching the raindrops race each other down the windows... Otherwise, it's a complete blur and bearing in mind I didn't drink that much, I'm convinced that was because of the time.
Anyway. I got home just shy of 3am, knowing full well I had the cricket club AGM 7 hours later. It sounded like a relatively simple task, if a little tiring. Go to sleep, wake up and go through the rigmarole and discussion, cup of coffee in hand, and then go home and relax. However, I also knew I had to present a report summarising the adult section from the previous season and outlining what I wanted to happen in the coming season. Don't get me wrong. I'm proud that I have been given the task of propelling this section of our club to new heights, but I still have not quite got my head around being the lead person of one of the most important sections of the club. Part of me feels like I shouldn't be "Director". The image of the Director is an illustration of an old-fashioned, experienced ambassador, who has been at the organisation/club/assocation for years and has worked their way to that position. I have been at the club for 4 years, and although for two of those I have been captain, I feel like I have taken on a monumental task, much suited to a more experienced being. I do get the small impression that a few people at that club wonder why there is a young man sat at the top table. I also feel a little guilty. Still being young, I do still go out and drink, and I don't think I should stop doing that because I've now got a position of authority. If it was a paid position, a position in an organisation, then it would be a different story. This is voluntary, so I don't think I should be giving up the things I enjoy doing because of it. But me being me, I do wonder what the others think of me and my drinking habits. Going back to my original point, Saturday morning was the first time where this realisation got to me. It got to me so much that I quickly spiralled into a state of dour foreboding.
I could not sleep on Friday night. I probably turned the lights out at about 3.30am, but sleep eluded me until about 7.30. I was terrified. I did type in here, my thoughts of absolute consternation, complete fearfulness and the mountain of anxiety that I felt because of this meeting. Upon reading it back in the morning, I deleted it in fear of being branded an idiot. In the end, I was in such a state, that I did well making it at all. Upon arrival at the meeting, I took a deep breath and drew the veil, now layers thick, that masks the anxiety from the outside world, and got on with it. The meeting itself went relatively smoothly, with me sat at the end of the top table, trying to concentrate, but also keeping quiet until I had to talk. At times, I chipped in a brief opinion to let people know that I had not fallen asleep, but otherwise, I felt if I said anything, it wouldn't come out right.
This was until the time of the meeting where I had no choice but to speak. The junior cricket director had just spoken at length about the junior setup, and all of a sudden, I felt a brick hit me in the face with the force of a category 1 hurricane. I had drafted a report, that sat in front of me, but the words on the piece of paper seemed to drift into one, creating one long black line. I started talking, at a volume barely recognisable. It started off OK, as I looked up and saw a sea of concentrated faces focused in my direction. Why was I so nervous? As I say, it started off relatively alright, but then I found myself repeating things, then realised I was repeating things, and got even worse. It wasn't great, but then no one seemed to react negatively to it. At the end, I was asked a few questions from the membership, then we moved on to the next item. No negativity at all. I focused on that for the rest of the meeting, the fact that I had received nothing detrimental, and just about got through it. It could have gone better then, but bearing in mind I was in the middle of a "mini-episode", it could have been much, much worse. I let the positives into my post-meeting summary that took place in the confines of my brain, and told myself, "At least I turned up". And seriously, I did well to turn up.
I went straight to sleep when I got in at roughly 12.30, and woke up at 5pm, ready to go and eat a lot of pizza and watch the football in a surprisingly good mood. This confirmed that the anxiety I felt was simply over the morning's events, which was a relief.
Today, I had my first net of the winter training campaign which went alright. The quality of the bowling in the team I was training with was pretty poor however, so it wasn't the stringent opening test I was after. But a good warm-up none the less. Since then, I have just been dossing and ranting severely about the ridiculousness that is the X Factor and it's fans, before watching the opening of I'm A Celebrity. I was also reminded of the steep irony of complaining religiously about reality TV, then offering opinions whilst watching the rumble in the jungle. I know.
But the real story of the weekend, once again, lay with the frailties of my mind. They are still there, and will most probably be there for the rest of my life, but the most important thing of all is how I react to them. I did alright this weekend. There were positives and negatives to be taken from the negative situation, but I will fight on. As I tend to.
Thursday 8 November 2012
Defeating the Stigma
I've felt pretty good the last few days. The last couple of weeks really, since that poor week I had, have been relatively grand. I've been motivated at work, sociable, happy, talkative. Everything I like about myself has been exposed in the last couple of weeks and I hope this continues for as long as possible. It won't last forever, of that I'm certain, but if it lasts a while longer, I shall be just fine.
There's no point in trying to convince myself that happiness is a constant feeling. For everyone feels dejected on occasions, although my despondancy comes in stronger doses. It's important to appreciate that melancholy will rear it's unwanted head on occasions, but its as equally important to enjoy the times where the illness gives you a break. It's also important to focus on life. It's a simple sentence. Focusing on different aspects of life is important if I'm to fight.
Sleep
This is a big issue for me, if not the biggest. I've jumped a lot of hurdles in the past few years, but a regular sleeping pattern still eludes me. It is possible to get by on an offbeat sleeping pattern, but it isn't exactly ideal. I've never been good with sleep. I'm not a morning person by any stretch of the imagination. It takes me a good hour or two to become properly aware in the mornings, meaning I spend the first hour or so at work drifting from consciousness to gazing into the distance. I'm not quite sure if this is anyhow linked to my depression, for I have never been at 100% in the morning hours. Maybe it's just me, and will always be me, regardless of mental state. When I'm in the mirky midst of a bad stage however, I can sleep for unbelievable amounts of time. One night I can sleep for 16 hours, and then sleep for 4 hours the next night, which starts to get to you after a consistent period. Only a few times have these outrageous patterns lasted longer than a week, but even after a couple of days of it, I find myself straying into the mindset of a person who isn't quite connected with the outside world. Sleep is important for everyone, but even more so for me.
Food
At my best, I have a healthy appetite, as most of my friends will tell you. But just like most factors when depression is involved, you can go either one way or the other - either indulging hugely or eating next to nothing, sometimes in consecutive days. There have been times in the past where I haven't eaten anything in a few days, simply because I don't have the energy to. Other days, I have had the equivalent of 4-6 meals a day with constant snacks in between. I imagine it isn't healthy for me, but the reality is just that. I remember one specific time, (approximately), where one day I had a full English breakfast, a few snack bars during the morning followed by a fair amount of sandwiches and then a pub lunch on top. In the afternoon, I ate a box of cookies, chocolate and then a lot of fruit on top because I felt guilty of the unhealthy balance of food I had had that day. I then had a large dinner, followed by two helpings of dessert, then had supper before going to the pub. After the pub, we went to McDonalds where I had a large meal of some sort, and then stopped off at Tesco's to buy some more cookies for my night-time television watching. The next three days, I think I had a banana and some cereal. That's it. The colossal difference between the two is frightening, but I can have periods like that. Some of my friends have witnessed the "fat git" stage of me, (as they like to put it!), and I do sometimes wonder what they must think as they see me pig out on anything and everything. It's almost as if I'm making up for it by not eating anything for days afterwards, which probably contributes when it comes to the lack of energy I sometimes feel.
Alcohol
Now then. I think we all know by now that I like a drink. Bearing in mind that alcohol and depression are about as useful together as a toddler and a chainsaw, I get the impression I shouldn't drink so much. I'm not exactly an alcoholic, but the amount of times I've been left in a state of no repair, quite literally drowning my sorrows, is really quite startling. I think this is the only factor that has contributed to my depression in the past, that I had real control over. I have gone "out on the town" when I have felt bad, convinced I will feel better after a few JD's, but instead feeling like a mountain has dropped on the mountain already sitting on my shoulders. I can think of a few examples where I really should have known better than to go out and get bladdered, but I suppose I can put it down to 'experience'. I think I've learnt my lesson. I was invited to go out this very evening, but I had just had a difficult conversation with a romantic interest, (I'll say no more on that one), and going out to drink would have been the worst possible thing to do. I was feeling slightly down earlier after that particular conversation, and the "old me" would have accepted the invitation as an excuse to forget about it, only to probably find myself in a worse state later in the night. I know better now, and simply talked it through with a couple of people, and now I have ... perked up. This doesn't mean I will never go out again, oh no! I have a reputation to uphold after all, but I have, and will carry on, putting more thought into the times I go out and socialise against my mood. I think it will help everyone, most importantly, me.
Work
My job(s) in the past have usually been the original source of any anxiety I feel. I put pressure on myself to succeed, because I feel like I'm intelligent enough to be much higher than I am. Past comments from teachers, ex-managers and others point to the view that I should be in a much better career than the one I find myself in. I used to worry about that, but now I know that doesn't matter so much. As long as I'm happy, that is the main thing, and the job I am currently in is the most relaxed atmosphere one can possibly hope for in a workplace, which is exactly what I need. There is little pressure to exceed targets, although they are there, and because of that I am doing much better performance wise than if I was constantly hounded to reach those targets. If I am under pressure at the place I spend most of my week, on past experience, I will tend to feel more unhappy for longer periods. Anxiety leads to depression I find, and the majority of the anxious periods I have experienced stemmed from negative happenings in the workplace.
Those are just a few factors, among others, that contribute to my mood. My sleep at the moment is as good as it ever has been, (although still not that great). I've been eating on regular occasions, but not too much or too little. I've had a little dabble in the alcohol world recently, but making sure I was in a mood that wouldn't result in disastrous consequences before doing so and work is as comfortable as it has been for the past few months, although the oncoming Christmas rush may test my resolve over the next 6 or so weeks.
It is a difficult illness to get your head around. 1 in 4 people suffer with symptoms conducive to mental illness, yet the stigma surrounding it is so great, that in times of loneliness and suffering, you are even more compelled to stay silent. People worry they will be looked at in a different light, but the past 6 months especially have convinced me that this isn't the case. It is important to talk about these things, in whatever way you think will help you. I type my thoughts on to a computer screen. Some occupy themselves using exercise as a tool of letting loose. Others may just want a chat.
Everyone is different, but everyone should appreciate that depression is one of the most laborious and gargantuan illnesses out there, simply because of its invisibility. It's ability to eat away silently at your personality is a scary thought, and one that is a reality for so many people. I don't want to stay silent, but educate people. And I hope this blog, whether it be 1, 100 or 10,000 people that read it, does just that.
There's no point in trying to convince myself that happiness is a constant feeling. For everyone feels dejected on occasions, although my despondancy comes in stronger doses. It's important to appreciate that melancholy will rear it's unwanted head on occasions, but its as equally important to enjoy the times where the illness gives you a break. It's also important to focus on life. It's a simple sentence. Focusing on different aspects of life is important if I'm to fight.
Sleep
This is a big issue for me, if not the biggest. I've jumped a lot of hurdles in the past few years, but a regular sleeping pattern still eludes me. It is possible to get by on an offbeat sleeping pattern, but it isn't exactly ideal. I've never been good with sleep. I'm not a morning person by any stretch of the imagination. It takes me a good hour or two to become properly aware in the mornings, meaning I spend the first hour or so at work drifting from consciousness to gazing into the distance. I'm not quite sure if this is anyhow linked to my depression, for I have never been at 100% in the morning hours. Maybe it's just me, and will always be me, regardless of mental state. When I'm in the mirky midst of a bad stage however, I can sleep for unbelievable amounts of time. One night I can sleep for 16 hours, and then sleep for 4 hours the next night, which starts to get to you after a consistent period. Only a few times have these outrageous patterns lasted longer than a week, but even after a couple of days of it, I find myself straying into the mindset of a person who isn't quite connected with the outside world. Sleep is important for everyone, but even more so for me.
Food
At my best, I have a healthy appetite, as most of my friends will tell you. But just like most factors when depression is involved, you can go either one way or the other - either indulging hugely or eating next to nothing, sometimes in consecutive days. There have been times in the past where I haven't eaten anything in a few days, simply because I don't have the energy to. Other days, I have had the equivalent of 4-6 meals a day with constant snacks in between. I imagine it isn't healthy for me, but the reality is just that. I remember one specific time, (approximately), where one day I had a full English breakfast, a few snack bars during the morning followed by a fair amount of sandwiches and then a pub lunch on top. In the afternoon, I ate a box of cookies, chocolate and then a lot of fruit on top because I felt guilty of the unhealthy balance of food I had had that day. I then had a large dinner, followed by two helpings of dessert, then had supper before going to the pub. After the pub, we went to McDonalds where I had a large meal of some sort, and then stopped off at Tesco's to buy some more cookies for my night-time television watching. The next three days, I think I had a banana and some cereal. That's it. The colossal difference between the two is frightening, but I can have periods like that. Some of my friends have witnessed the "fat git" stage of me, (as they like to put it!), and I do sometimes wonder what they must think as they see me pig out on anything and everything. It's almost as if I'm making up for it by not eating anything for days afterwards, which probably contributes when it comes to the lack of energy I sometimes feel.
Alcohol
Now then. I think we all know by now that I like a drink. Bearing in mind that alcohol and depression are about as useful together as a toddler and a chainsaw, I get the impression I shouldn't drink so much. I'm not exactly an alcoholic, but the amount of times I've been left in a state of no repair, quite literally drowning my sorrows, is really quite startling. I think this is the only factor that has contributed to my depression in the past, that I had real control over. I have gone "out on the town" when I have felt bad, convinced I will feel better after a few JD's, but instead feeling like a mountain has dropped on the mountain already sitting on my shoulders. I can think of a few examples where I really should have known better than to go out and get bladdered, but I suppose I can put it down to 'experience'. I think I've learnt my lesson. I was invited to go out this very evening, but I had just had a difficult conversation with a romantic interest, (I'll say no more on that one), and going out to drink would have been the worst possible thing to do. I was feeling slightly down earlier after that particular conversation, and the "old me" would have accepted the invitation as an excuse to forget about it, only to probably find myself in a worse state later in the night. I know better now, and simply talked it through with a couple of people, and now I have ... perked up. This doesn't mean I will never go out again, oh no! I have a reputation to uphold after all, but I have, and will carry on, putting more thought into the times I go out and socialise against my mood. I think it will help everyone, most importantly, me.
Work
My job(s) in the past have usually been the original source of any anxiety I feel. I put pressure on myself to succeed, because I feel like I'm intelligent enough to be much higher than I am. Past comments from teachers, ex-managers and others point to the view that I should be in a much better career than the one I find myself in. I used to worry about that, but now I know that doesn't matter so much. As long as I'm happy, that is the main thing, and the job I am currently in is the most relaxed atmosphere one can possibly hope for in a workplace, which is exactly what I need. There is little pressure to exceed targets, although they are there, and because of that I am doing much better performance wise than if I was constantly hounded to reach those targets. If I am under pressure at the place I spend most of my week, on past experience, I will tend to feel more unhappy for longer periods. Anxiety leads to depression I find, and the majority of the anxious periods I have experienced stemmed from negative happenings in the workplace.
Those are just a few factors, among others, that contribute to my mood. My sleep at the moment is as good as it ever has been, (although still not that great). I've been eating on regular occasions, but not too much or too little. I've had a little dabble in the alcohol world recently, but making sure I was in a mood that wouldn't result in disastrous consequences before doing so and work is as comfortable as it has been for the past few months, although the oncoming Christmas rush may test my resolve over the next 6 or so weeks.
It is a difficult illness to get your head around. 1 in 4 people suffer with symptoms conducive to mental illness, yet the stigma surrounding it is so great, that in times of loneliness and suffering, you are even more compelled to stay silent. People worry they will be looked at in a different light, but the past 6 months especially have convinced me that this isn't the case. It is important to talk about these things, in whatever way you think will help you. I type my thoughts on to a computer screen. Some occupy themselves using exercise as a tool of letting loose. Others may just want a chat.
Everyone is different, but everyone should appreciate that depression is one of the most laborious and gargantuan illnesses out there, simply because of its invisibility. It's ability to eat away silently at your personality is a scary thought, and one that is a reality for so many people. I don't want to stay silent, but educate people. And I hope this blog, whether it be 1, 100 or 10,000 people that read it, does just that.
Thursday 1 November 2012
What Am I Waiting For?
For the past couple of hours, I've been watching Stephen Fry in a documentary he made, many moons ago, called 'The Secret Life of the Manic Depressive'. It's a harrowing, yet somehow strangely enjoyable documentary about the lives of people who suffer from Bipolar Disorder, or Manic Depression as some may call it. I've seen it many, many times but I use it as a tool of realisation. A tool of perspectiveness and context, a way of seeding out my own feelings when I'm not quite sure what is going on inside my own head. I may act like I know exactly what's happening to me, and my knowledge of what is going on has increased ten-fold in the past few years, but sometimes I bloody well wish it would just go away. Please just leave me be, and let me have a chance of the success that I feel lies deep within.
For that is the problem. I have stages where I feel like I can do anything. I become inspired, intelligent, galvanized into doing something that changes the world, and even on occasions begin planning into a huge project that, at the time, will undoubtedly be a huge success. For a couple of days, I spend hours upon hours preparing to change my life, putting preliminary plans in place that will propel me to new heights, but almost as soon as that feeling has hit, I am suddenly paralysed by another, completely different realisation. Who am I to think that I can change the world? Someone who swings from energetic, happy and a little bit mad to a man who can hardly get out of bed in the morning and almost dreads a full day in an office. How can I put hours and hours of effort, every day, to make this work, when sleep is all of a sudden a more benefiting option? It must be quite an incredible sight for anyone who witnesses such a change, but inside my own brain, it is a vicious cycle that occurs once every couple of weeks.
I shall give you such an example into one of the crazy, crazy weeks I experienced, way back in March of this year. I have not told a single person about this event, as it is quite ridiculous to get your head around. For any person of a "normal" disposition, you'd do well to appreciate the madness of what you're about to read.
It had been quite a tumultuous time. I was struggling to get to grips with a new job, I had been banned from refereeing from the top dogs at the FA, and I remember feeling utter blackness for periods longer than I was used to. For the last couple of years I suppose, I've always wanted to tell people of what I was going through. How all this feels, what I do to try and combat the darkness. Maybe I can help some friends and acquaintances move a step further to try and manage what they're feeling, but I wanted to go further than that. I wanted to help people I don't know avoid what I was feeling. For, as I said last week, I wouldn't wish depression on my worst enemy. The invisibility of it, the feeling of utter uselessness that surrounds you when captured by its worst traits. I wanted to help anyone and everyone that feels similar to the way I do.
After a couple of weeks of going to work, simply looking forward to getting home and going straight to bed to escape from the demands of life, I experienced a huge influx of positivity. All of a sudden, almost with the literal blink of an eye, I had gone from a stage of complete anguish to mountaneous inspiration and creativity. Quite a scary change of feelings, I'm sure you'd agree, but a welcome change in light of the darkness I had been feeling before. I've had mad ideas in the past. This blog for starters, was a mad idea, way back when I used to spend evenings crying into my duvet. I felt I had to start telling people what was happening, and it was a huge hurdle I jumped, and a successful one I suppose. But in feelings of inspiration, and simple happiness, I am always looking to jump more hurdles. Hurdles that I simply cannot even run towards when I'm feeling down, or even "okay".
I'm waffling. Let's get to it.
On the evening of 19th March, I e-mailed many TV production companies, pitching an idea of a documentary. A documentary based around the stigma of depression including bipolar and S.A.D and I really, really believed I was the right person to carry out such an audacious project. I know. During times where I'm stable or feeling a bit shit, I wonder how on Earth I could do such a thing. Who would listen to a nobody from nowhere? But I genuinely believed I could do it. This was only fuelled by the fact that I woke up the next day to a reply from almost every single company I e-mailed. Over 20 e-mails all from different personnel working in TV. It was staggering. Although most of them simply said that they couldn't accept unsolicited ideas, there were 5 e-mails that were extremely positive. 2 of them offered an interview to explore the idea further, another 2 companies were currently working with other TV channels, (BBC Three being a prime example), on projects and wanted to get to know me further so they could potentially explore future avenues and one even offered the opportunity to go up to Manchester the very next week to start planning into a possible documentary at a future stage. All of a sudden, I thought this may be it. Could I ride out the initial stages of absolute terror and get it started? I felt that if I could start the project, I would be able to complete it.
But I couldn't. I ended up making excuses to these people, telling them I was looking elsewhere or that I was delaying the idea and I've never gone back to it. I lost my nerve. I lost the inspiration that began the idea in the first place and I went back to living the humdrum lifestyle. I was scared of what people would think, scared that people would assume I was simply looking for fame or fortune. I was also daunted of the work that would have to be done. What would happen on the days where I couldn't even get out of bed? Ok, I feel good now, but what if a major part of the process was scuppered simply because I felt bad? How many people would I let down if this happened? Would I have been able to tell my story to others bearing in mind I can hardly tell my parents? So many questions with a simple answer. Who knows. It would have been difficult, but I know, very deep down, that I have it in me to do such a thing. I am a fighter, I will speak out if I feel an injustice has occurred, but the hurricane of emotions I feel, drifting from week to week, is just too difficult to control sometimes. So much so, that I cannot really be stable for large periods of time. I cannot rely on myself to be sustainably useful. And even if I do find myself to be in a situation where I'm ok, and have been for a while, I never want to act on a mission that risks being taken back to the black, merely content with being... content. I have no idea if you understand what that feels like. I want to make a difference, but I just don't know how I can do it without losing my nerve. Or my mind.
It's a mad story. One that I haven't told a single soul, but that is just one occasion, probably the craziest, where I feel I could have made a big difference. A big difference that I want to make, but just can't. I've began writing books, only to delete them citing "absolute nonsense" as a reason. I want to be someone, but in the grand scheme of things, I am no one. So why would anyone listen to someone who is nothing? I have no experience in the creative world, no credible qualifications that say otherwise, and I hear so many stories of failure that one cannot help but think that it won't work out for me either. And I don't have the bottle to risk it.
Work tomorrow. A glorious 8 and a half hours of it, and I'm not looking forward to it. Sat in an office chair all day isn't my idea of a career, and I know I can do better. I just don't know how to do it.
For that is the problem. I have stages where I feel like I can do anything. I become inspired, intelligent, galvanized into doing something that changes the world, and even on occasions begin planning into a huge project that, at the time, will undoubtedly be a huge success. For a couple of days, I spend hours upon hours preparing to change my life, putting preliminary plans in place that will propel me to new heights, but almost as soon as that feeling has hit, I am suddenly paralysed by another, completely different realisation. Who am I to think that I can change the world? Someone who swings from energetic, happy and a little bit mad to a man who can hardly get out of bed in the morning and almost dreads a full day in an office. How can I put hours and hours of effort, every day, to make this work, when sleep is all of a sudden a more benefiting option? It must be quite an incredible sight for anyone who witnesses such a change, but inside my own brain, it is a vicious cycle that occurs once every couple of weeks.
I shall give you such an example into one of the crazy, crazy weeks I experienced, way back in March of this year. I have not told a single person about this event, as it is quite ridiculous to get your head around. For any person of a "normal" disposition, you'd do well to appreciate the madness of what you're about to read.
It had been quite a tumultuous time. I was struggling to get to grips with a new job, I had been banned from refereeing from the top dogs at the FA, and I remember feeling utter blackness for periods longer than I was used to. For the last couple of years I suppose, I've always wanted to tell people of what I was going through. How all this feels, what I do to try and combat the darkness. Maybe I can help some friends and acquaintances move a step further to try and manage what they're feeling, but I wanted to go further than that. I wanted to help people I don't know avoid what I was feeling. For, as I said last week, I wouldn't wish depression on my worst enemy. The invisibility of it, the feeling of utter uselessness that surrounds you when captured by its worst traits. I wanted to help anyone and everyone that feels similar to the way I do.
After a couple of weeks of going to work, simply looking forward to getting home and going straight to bed to escape from the demands of life, I experienced a huge influx of positivity. All of a sudden, almost with the literal blink of an eye, I had gone from a stage of complete anguish to mountaneous inspiration and creativity. Quite a scary change of feelings, I'm sure you'd agree, but a welcome change in light of the darkness I had been feeling before. I've had mad ideas in the past. This blog for starters, was a mad idea, way back when I used to spend evenings crying into my duvet. I felt I had to start telling people what was happening, and it was a huge hurdle I jumped, and a successful one I suppose. But in feelings of inspiration, and simple happiness, I am always looking to jump more hurdles. Hurdles that I simply cannot even run towards when I'm feeling down, or even "okay".
I'm waffling. Let's get to it.
On the evening of 19th March, I e-mailed many TV production companies, pitching an idea of a documentary. A documentary based around the stigma of depression including bipolar and S.A.D and I really, really believed I was the right person to carry out such an audacious project. I know. During times where I'm stable or feeling a bit shit, I wonder how on Earth I could do such a thing. Who would listen to a nobody from nowhere? But I genuinely believed I could do it. This was only fuelled by the fact that I woke up the next day to a reply from almost every single company I e-mailed. Over 20 e-mails all from different personnel working in TV. It was staggering. Although most of them simply said that they couldn't accept unsolicited ideas, there were 5 e-mails that were extremely positive. 2 of them offered an interview to explore the idea further, another 2 companies were currently working with other TV channels, (BBC Three being a prime example), on projects and wanted to get to know me further so they could potentially explore future avenues and one even offered the opportunity to go up to Manchester the very next week to start planning into a possible documentary at a future stage. All of a sudden, I thought this may be it. Could I ride out the initial stages of absolute terror and get it started? I felt that if I could start the project, I would be able to complete it.
But I couldn't. I ended up making excuses to these people, telling them I was looking elsewhere or that I was delaying the idea and I've never gone back to it. I lost my nerve. I lost the inspiration that began the idea in the first place and I went back to living the humdrum lifestyle. I was scared of what people would think, scared that people would assume I was simply looking for fame or fortune. I was also daunted of the work that would have to be done. What would happen on the days where I couldn't even get out of bed? Ok, I feel good now, but what if a major part of the process was scuppered simply because I felt bad? How many people would I let down if this happened? Would I have been able to tell my story to others bearing in mind I can hardly tell my parents? So many questions with a simple answer. Who knows. It would have been difficult, but I know, very deep down, that I have it in me to do such a thing. I am a fighter, I will speak out if I feel an injustice has occurred, but the hurricane of emotions I feel, drifting from week to week, is just too difficult to control sometimes. So much so, that I cannot really be stable for large periods of time. I cannot rely on myself to be sustainably useful. And even if I do find myself to be in a situation where I'm ok, and have been for a while, I never want to act on a mission that risks being taken back to the black, merely content with being... content. I have no idea if you understand what that feels like. I want to make a difference, but I just don't know how I can do it without losing my nerve. Or my mind.
It's a mad story. One that I haven't told a single soul, but that is just one occasion, probably the craziest, where I feel I could have made a big difference. A big difference that I want to make, but just can't. I've began writing books, only to delete them citing "absolute nonsense" as a reason. I want to be someone, but in the grand scheme of things, I am no one. So why would anyone listen to someone who is nothing? I have no experience in the creative world, no credible qualifications that say otherwise, and I hear so many stories of failure that one cannot help but think that it won't work out for me either. And I don't have the bottle to risk it.
Work tomorrow. A glorious 8 and a half hours of it, and I'm not looking forward to it. Sat in an office chair all day isn't my idea of a career, and I know I can do better. I just don't know how to do it.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)