For the past couple of weeks, I've been reading an autobiography written by Robbie Rogers, a professional footballer in the USA who happens to be gay. He speaks about how he couldn't communicate his secret in fear of the reaction. That's the best way to describe why I can't open up. The fear of the reaction. Everything from my sexuality to battling depression, I would always be scared that those closest to me would turn around and laugh it off, or tell me to get on with it. When you think that way for so long, it becomes a deeply engrained part of your personality. A particularly stubborn stain on your bright white shirt.
It was the very reason I started this blog in December 2009. Writing things down was a way of getting things off my chest. It wasn't as effective as physically telling someone, but it was better than nothing. Writing was, and still is a form of therapy for me.
Robbie Rogers used e-mail to communicate his secrets, which reminded me of the time when I used to as well. Except in my case, the recipients were sat in the same building as me. I would be upstairs in my bedroom while my parents sat downstairs watching TV, and I would type out my feelings and e-mail it to them. I would never get a response via e-mail. I would wait anxiously for the unmistakeable sound of footsteps up the staircase and the faint knock on the bedroom door. Mum would be on the other side, as she'd try and coax answers out of me.
It sounds ridiculous now, but I was so scared of actually talking about it, that I felt it was the best way. Reading about Robbie Rogers' emails reminded me of the email I sent to my parents when I admitted I needed psychiatric help. A huge moment for someone so young and it was the signal for the long journey to recovery.
Due to the wonders of modern technology, I managed to find this email. I have read it back countless times this evening, as the memories of typing it come flooding back...
...
Dear Mum & Dad
I have no idea whether or not I am doing the right thing here, by typing out my feelings like this, but I cannot keep my feelings to myself a day longer. Every single night, I lie here telling myself that I will face up to my problems tomorrow. I will tell Mum what is going on, and I will go to a doctor and seek help. Every single night, I cry myself silently to sleep, hoping that tomorrow is the day I finally face up to it. When morning comes, I have lost my bottle. This is why I am typing this out at 3am, and emailing it to you. I know I won’t be able to tell you face-to-face, and by the morning, I’d have somehow lost my nerve. Somehow, in the few hours I have been asleep, I have convinced myself that I can continue fighting this on my own. A wave of disappointment hits me, and most mornings, I do not want to be awake. I suppose this is why I try and stay in bed for as long as possible. I don’t want to face the outside world. All I want is to forget what is happening to me, and go back to sleep, the only place where I don’t have to think about what is going on. From the outside, it just looks like laziness... And even now, it sounds like an excuse... For years, I have felt I stood a chance in fighting whatever is going on in my head, by myself, without needing to involve others. I know it can’t go on like that.
I cannot imagine how frustrating I must be to live with. The expectation when I start something new, the feeling that maybe I have found something that I can stick to, only to watch me fall apart and fail, again. However much it looks like that I am not bothered with what I do with my life, I can guarantee that no one is more ashamed of it than me. I want, more than anything in the world, to be normal and happy. Whatever lives inside my head is stopping me from being that. Not every day is a bad day. Some days, as I’m sure you’ve noticed, I can be myself. But on the bad days, (what I call the ‘dark days’), I can see only black. The description sounds stupid, but all I can see is negativity, no light at the end of a never-ending tunnel and darkness. I see no future, so I see no point in trying to fight for a future that isn’t there. Reading it back, it makes little sense. But that is the only way I can describe it.
I’m finding it very difficult to explain how I’m feeling, even without the pressure of talking face-to-face. My head is an absolute mess. I usually get the impression that you don’t understand how I’m feeling. To be honest, I don’t blame you. I know on countless occasions, you have told me that going out and keeping busy will make me feel better, but on bad days, this is the last thing I want to do. Again, I wouldn’t expect you to understand. You say things like, “everyone has miserable days", but this is different. Not everyone cries themselves to sleep at night. Not everyone has the best friends a guy could ask for, yet feel so alone. Not everyone has something inside them that physically stops them from progressing. For that is what this is. A physical illness. It is not a case of “something to get over” or to “get on with”. Whatever this is, is physically stopping me from getting on with my life. It is physically stopping me from applying for jobs, it physically stopped me from surviving University, and it will continue to physically stop me until I sort it out. I know that now. I need you to understand that this is physical. It is very real. It is not a figment of my imagination, or something I can beat with a bit of “positive thinking”, or giving it some time to go away on its own. I need a program of sustained professional help, from some sort of counsellor or psychiatrist. It is this I need help with. Quitting job after job, and quitting university was not a case of avoiding hard work, but a case of this ... This thing inside me. This thing that makes me panic and worry and think the worst things. I cannot get past it.
I have said many times, that all I want is to be left alone. It sounds incredibly stupid, but these are the times I need you the most. Like last Tuesday, (and a few other times), where Mum shouted at me for still being in bed. I know what it looked like. It looked like extreme laziness, but that was me in an extremely fragile state, of which you weren’t to know. All I wanted was to be shut off from the world, until I felt safe enough to come out. One thought led to another, which led to what you could call, a breakdown. I have had these in the past. The time I ran away from home, when I was still in Year 13. The time I ended up ringing you at 5am, after a heavy night in Manchester, and revealed all about my sexuality. My sexuality is something I am not bothered with anymore. I have accepted who I am on that front, and I talk openly to my friends about it, and even take a bit of “banter” about it from them, all in good faith. However, both of these times, and a few more that you do not know about, I genuinely thought about taking my own life. It had got so bad, and I could see nothing good about anything, that it seemed like the only option. Thankfully, I think I could never do anything like that. But I know for certain I cannot live the rest of my life, fearing the next day.
I’m sorry it has had to come to this. Writing it down in some sort of letter, and e-mailing it. Even the thought that I cannot open up normally to my own family sends me into despair. You may still not understand a single word of what I have written, but that is the best way I can describe it. When you read this, probably tomorrow evening when you open your emails, I will most probably be upstairs in my room, trying to avoid things. If you come up and speak to me, I will most definitely try and avoid answering questions, and persuade you to leave me alone. I don’t know why that is. Show me this letter, and tell me it has to be sorted now. We can plan a trip to the doctors and take it from there. I need you to do this for me because, as extraordinary as it may sound, I will probably have convinced myself that there is nothing there to treat. I will have persuaded myself that this is nothing I can’t handle myself. It sounds crazy, I know. I will probably need you to come with me to these sessions as well, however much I dislike the idea at the time. It is an impossible situation to put you all in, especially Mum, seeing as you are home more often than not. Despite probably running on empty with the patience you have given me, I need you now more than ever.
I hope you are not angry reading this. Clicking ‘Send’ on the e-mail may well be the hardest thing I’ve ever done, but it is my last shot in letting you all know what is happening to me. It’s going to be a long road, but I need you all to help me through it. At times, I will be incredibly reluctant to seek help, as I am the sort of person that doesn’t like other people helping me. I cannot thank you enough for the help you have tried to give me, even if it has looked like I have thrown it straight in the bin. I will understand if you don’t want to help me anymore, but I hope you have enough left in you to help me overcome my biggest hurdle.
Tom x
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