My Troubles With Alcohol

Continuing on with the series of deep blogs and vlogs I've been creating recently, this one is possibly the most difficult to talk about. Contributing to my mental health issues, education, careers, family, friendships and probably physical health. I am writing this, along with other pieces, to clear my conscience and start again. This is my fight against the drink.

I want to make it clear from the outset, I am not and never have been that stereotypical alcoholic. I never reached a stage where I'd wake up in the morning and need vodka for breakfast. I never went through a day needing to take a sneaky gulp from a hip flask without anyone noticing. I was never that TV soap alcoholic that drank all day every day. But I did have a problem.

My story begins three days before my 18th birthday. 17th May 2009 at Vesuvio's restaurant in a nice village called Sharnbrook was the scene of my first legal pint. More than that, it was my first ever pint. Even more than that, it was my first ever alcoholic drink. I am possibly one of the only people of my age to not have touched a drop of alcohol under the age of 18 (I'm sure you'll let me off 3 days!) Before that, the concept of being drunk was not one that interested me. The smell of lager was enough to put me off alcohol at all in all honesty. With that rooted deeply in the innermost workings of my brain, I genuinely believe that fact played a small part in what was to follow. I threw myself at the clubbing lifestyle when my body didn't know alcohol existed. Three days later, on my actual 18th birthday and coincedently slap bang in the middle of my A-Levels, my mates took me out for my first ever night on the town. I drank a lot, including the initiation shot of Wray and Nephews and proceeded to get absolutely wrecked. So much so, that I ended up arriving to the third day of a five-day IT exam the following morning still heavily intoxicated.

I was predicted a 'B' for that exam. I got an 'E'.

Three days later and I was on my first ever Saturday night out in Bedford town. I barely remember any of it, as it included me being banned from a fast food establishment for throwing up over the staff and ending in the back of an ambulance attached to a drip. My first week of drinking really should have been enough to put me off alcohol forever. It didn't.

I proceeded to screw up my exams to such a degree, (or not), that my predicted grades of BBB ended in DEE. Was I fussed? Honestly, I wasn't. My brain was already on a journey to hell and school exams were the last thing on my mind. My need to go out and party, to pull girls on a weekend, (I was still fighting that battle), and to get drunk and forget who I was was number one on the list. At that time, I used alcohol to escape my sexuality.

For those who know me
at all, you'll know whiskey
was my choice of drink.
I even had my own
personalised glass!

So, I'd left school. I was still going out three or four times a week and getting bladdered until the early hours, despite the new job. I would regularly turn up for work severely hungover. At the weekends, I would travel around the country visiting my friends at different universities. Manchester was a regular haunt of mine, although as I wasn't yet "out", Canal Street was off the radar. More about Manchester later...

I jumped from job to job, completely oblivious to the link between my excessive drinking and the medication I had started to take for depression. Citalopram, albeit a small dose, was completely cancelled out by vodka and JD. I know now that the link does exist, but my reluctance or stupidity in not allowing the medication to work led to deeper problems and the depression getting worse. It was getting to a stage where I was addicted to the party lifestyle. Playing up to the tag of 'Party Animal' that I had unsurprisingly received, leading to me being the joker in the pack and doing stupid things. My need to be popular amongst my peers, (as I feared they would soon hate me for being gay), was overriding and my priorities were completely out of sync. My job, (I was now working weekend night shifts in a petrol station - it didn't change my drinking habits) was just a necessity to fund the midweek jaunts into town for student nights and the occasional weekend blow-out in a different city around the country. I knew there was an issue with me - that I wasn't as happy as I should have been - but I put it down to the odd working pattern and ploughed on. The damage my drinking habits were doing barely crossed my mind.

I haven't mentioned my family yet. While I was out drinking with my friends, a completely normal thing for an 18/19 year old to be doing, I hardly even considered the effect on my parents. Rolling in at 6 in the morning, sometimes coming face-to-face with a very disgruntled father going to work, sometimes throwing up in the middle of the night due to over exertion and waking everyone up. For some people only throw up once or twice before they know their limits, I managed to get into my head that I could drink unlimited amounts. In my life, I must have thrown up about twenty times because of drinking too much. My mum has never been a drinker. She has a glass or two of fizz at Christmas and that's it. Her voice telling me to calm down still rings in my head to this day. If only I had listened to the old adage of 'your mother knows best'...

I carried on drinking. Occasionally spending over £100 on a single night as I tried to appease my friends, who were still none the wiser over my sexuality. I did eventually come out to them as bisexual, (I saw it as a stepping stone - but I want to stress it isn't usually and bisexuality does exist) and everyone carried on as usual. It was a confidence boost, but my drinking habits didn't change. The thought of coming out to my parents filled me with dread. I carried on in the same drinking vein, until I was out on another mega night in Manchester. I don't know what I was doing, but I thought it was a wise idea to down a pint of JD, vodka and coke. A third of each in one glass. From there, I remember nothing until I was once again lying in a hospital bed. It was 5am, with my friends sitting next to me, when I burst out crying and told Dan to text my Mum everything.

I came out to my parents and I didn't send the text telling them. That is one of my biggest regrets.

I didn't drink for a month after that. The longest time I had gone without any alcoholic drink since my first ever one, way back in that cosy restaurant. I think everyone presumed I'd stopped, but I hadn't. I started again in the Summer, wanting to be involved on those magical summer nights and went back to the same old routine. I thought the worst was behind me and I'd know when to stop. But things don't quite work out that way...

Over the next couple of years, I drank and drank and drank. I continued to do so, with the defence that I was only drinking at weekends, just like everyone else, so I'd be okay. In truth, everyone is unique and reacts to alcohol in different ways. It isn't for everyone. Some people can pack it away and be fine. Some, like me, could also pack it away, but without consciously knowing, each drink would nibble away at my sanity. I was 21 when I first attempted suicide. New Years Eve 2012, I found myself on the roof of the multi-storey car park next to the bus station. A shiver always goes down my spine every time I walk past it, remembering the scores of emergency services as my tears dropped on to them from above. I was very drunk. And very, very sad. I spent three days in Weller Wing. For those of you who aren't Bedfordians, Weller Wing is the mental health unit at Bedford Hospital.

Mum suggested I probably shouldn't drink anymore and she was definitely right. But I was 21 now, with history behind me and a new lease of life ahead. I didn't listen. I took another month off and it became the first of my Dry Januaries. On the first Friday of February though, I was back at it. Same old routine. "I'm old enough to know my limits now. I'll be fine." He said.

With each hangover came worse feelings of depression. Still, the connection between the two had not clicked. My need to feel included in friendships drowned the obvious truth. Alcohol was killing me. My depression got so bad that I pressed the 'Fuck it' button. I did things I just was not capable of before. I stole money. I went to London and spent £500 on a single night and did coke. I went to casinos and blew my wages, leading me to steal more money to pay the bills. I can't tell you how ashamed I am of those days. How I did not trigger what was happening to me, months before. Years before. I hope you don't think any less of me for knowing that, but I was out of control.

Alcohol is the explanation for everything. EVERYTHING. All that vodka and whiskey compressed my brain in such a way that I couldn't react properly to situations. Any sign of difficult times, my brain would shut down and severe thoughts took over. I lasted one week at university. I lasted one week on a trip of a lifetime in Australia. I lasted short amounts of time in jobs. Every single job I've ever had has ended because of the effects alcohol has had on my brain. My last stint in hospital, at The Priory in September of last year was the result of an ordinary nights drinking that led to a psychotic episode. I drank no more or less than usual, but that night, my brain went over the edge. It opened my eyes. The doctor showed me a scan of my brain and it was "dented" in numerous places. The usual circular(ish) shape of my brain looked more zig-zagged. Because of that, the nerves in my brain occasionally go mad, only made ten times worse by the depressant that is alcohol. I may well owe my sanity and my life to Dr. Gurusamy.

It sounds drastic. It sounds over the top and melodramatic, but that happened to me. People associate heavy drinking with the liver, but it affects the brain just as much, if not more. Alcohol and I do not go together. That is a fact. It's a fact for a lot of people. Ever since leaving hospital last year, I have fought against the urges that alcohol brings. I cannot tell you how much I miss the party lifestyle. I am the party animal that my friends labeled me with. I love to party. Very recently, I have given in a couple of times and have felt extremely guilty at taking the risk. Any night that includes alcohol has the risk to send my brain mad. It risks sending me literally insane and I cannot do it any more.

Reading this post again, I changed the first sentence of the second paragraph. I originally put, "I am not an alcoholic", but have changed it to "I am not your stereotypical alcoholic". Because I suppose, in a way, I was. I was an alcoholic. I was addicted. Not to the alcohol itself, but to the lifestyle.

You now know everything about me. I owe it to everyone around me to change and of course, I owe myself a chance at life. I owe myself a chance to be happy. Proper happy, not drunk happy. I've been given a second chance, a third chance and a fourth chance at life and I deserve no more. I've landed on my feet more times than the most daring of cats and I'm not sure I have another life left.

Which is why I want to make the most of this one.

Autobiographies

As a writer myself, I have always been fascinated with the written word. The feelings that language can evoke are feelings beaten only by the tingle of excitement as a ten year old at Christmas. In my time, I have read many books. I have read the fourth edition of the Harry Potter series a full 13 times. Quickly followed by the fifth edition, that was only read a measly 8 times. I think I only read the sixth instalment twice, but I do believe it is over 700 pages. Oh, I do love you J.K.

However, although fictional stories can be full of magic and wonder, pure love and sadness, there are fewer ways of entertaining a cold, dreary January day with a brutally honest autobiography. From the simple days of clowning around with Peter Kay to the resonation of the darkness of Marcus Trescothick. From Tony Blair's journey from the streets of Sedgefield to Number 10 all the way to the self-indulgance of his Royal Highness, Sir Kevin Pietersen. From drowning on pedalos with Andrew Flintoff to growing to be the only openly gay footballer with Robbie Rogers. So many sincere and brilliant accounts of lives, (maybe "sincere" isn't the best word to describe Pietersen's!), the autobiography reminds us that everyone started somewhere. Peter Kay went from packing loo rolls to being one of the most recognisable comedians. Just one example.

As well as this, the autobiography feeds the human need to be a little bit nosey. Not so nosey as to appear rude, but nosey enough to keep in the loop. At the moment, I am engrossed in the third part of Stephen Fry's memoirs, where I have learnt that he was jailed for credit card fraud and an avid cocaine user for 15 years.

There's hope for me yet.

Talking of which, I do wonder if I will ever be in such a position to write my own autobiography? Will I ever be well-known enough to write my own memoirs, eventually seeing my face in the discount bins of pound stores all over the country? Maybe, at a stretch, I could be found next to the '19' sign in WH Smiths behind 'The Life and Times of Alan Pardew' and 'Nigel Farage : Where Did it all go Wrong?' in the bestsellers list...

On New Years Day, I began my own private journal. Those thoughts not allowed on to the far reaches of Tim Berners-Lee's invention. Maybe one day, the words that lay in my brown leather diary will be used to entertain a budding young writer, unable to step outside due to the melting ice caps, on a dark and dank January night.

Or maybe I'm getting carried away... Maybe I took some of the arrogance of ... Kevin Bloody Pietersen...

The Future and The Past

In terms of blogging, this site has (once again) become redundant. However, I want to use this space to let loose some honesty. Every now and then, events happen in life that cause people to begin gossiping. The number 1 past-time for the Great British public.

Other people.

I remember, just over 10 months ago, I wished everyone a fabulous 2014 before drowning my liver with copious amounts of cider and Jack Daniels. That New Year's Eve night was brilliant, but the year as a whole has been one catastrophe after another, with odd moments of brilliance sandwiched in to make it bearable. Some of them created by mistakes from myself, some of them not. Within these very pages, there have been commitments to the future that have passed me by in the blink of an eye and not adhered to. The apparent happiness of accomplishments that, long term, throw me into another shit storm of uncertainty and unpredictable behaviour. The diaries of the dark days, now with an explanation that matches the madness. The prose that left its readers feeling down, let alone the author...

The last few months especially have been extremely difficult and eye-opening. In many ways this stage of my life has also provided inspiration, so there's a piece of positivity for those of you who, like my Dad, are the glass half-full types. I've met a lot of new people, most of whom have been exceptional people to meet, and have really got me thinking about my own life and where it is heading. Am I the kind of person who could feasibly manage working in an insurance office? No. In all honesty, it didn't take me that long to work it out, but no. Let's be honest here, I don't want anything like that. I want to write. So, I've invested in time to do just that. Write. I'm writing an anthology and have just restarted a novel and I spend my spare time, notebook in hand, jotting down ideas that pop into my head and developing characters and plots. I've reached a point in my life now where I just don't care for other people's views on what I should do with MY life.

In the last six weeks or so, I met a group of 35 inspirational people in the heartland of capital city. I was invited to go on the Stonewall Talent Programme - A program that teaches you to be authentic in life as an LGBT role model. The three days I was there were extremely eye-opening, emotional and quite frankly brilliant. I walked away from the programme with a whole new idea of where I wanted my life to go. 5 weeks later and I was back in London for the reunion and everyone seemed shocked yet inspired by my choice to go for my dreams. I suppose its kinda Hollywood but so what?

 Life is indeed too short right?

That lesson is one that was horribly confirmed to me last night when someone reminded me about the loss of someone who has a special place in my heart. Mattie was my first boyfriend, secret, and special. The times we spent together were magical. He was the most caring, understanding person in the entire world. He knew I wanted to come out in my own time, and didn't pressure me whatsoever into doing it for the purposes of our relationship. He helped me do just that. He was also one of the funniest guys I've had the pleasure of meeting. He used to joke with me that I wasn't a proper gay because I'm not particularly camp! All in jest of course. Meeting him for the first time, (of course in a bar - where else?) left me gob-smacked with his openness and honesty. I suppose I learnt the positives of being as open as I am because of him. We just clicked. I haven't felt like that since, and I miss that feeling. And now he's gone, another victim of the roads. So young.

But, as my Father says, life goes on. I have to think of my own future and do what's best for me instead of just tip-toeing around other people's opinions of what I should do. Its a lesson most people learnt years ago, but I'm just getting to grips to.

Memories From The Tour

As you can probably tell, my mood lately has been quivering between 'bad' and 'insanity'. Things haven't been great lately, but with the distinct possibility of an upward turn in events from tomorrow plus a pretty good weekend lined up, hopefully I've reached the core and can start working my way back up to the crust.

In the meantime, I've been reading through older posts, as I'm sometimes accustomed to doing, and realised that I never blogged about "that tour". Oh yes, back in April, myself and 15 cricket club comrades took to the road and toured Wales for the weekend. It was a 4 days I will never, ever forget...

I remember the Wednesday night before. I was all packed and literally couldn't sleep through the excitement. I was like an 8-year old waiting to go to Disneyland. It was only when I was drifting off that I woke up startled that I had packed everything apart from my cricket whites. Bearing in mind we were indeed playing some cricket on this tour, my actual kit may well have been useful! I only got a few hours sleep then, when I decided to get up at about 8am and give the car I had been given for the weekend a spin around Bedford, (Thanks Craig!) I went to Tesco's, I went to Mum's for a cup of tea and even then there was still an hour to go before we actually left. By then I just decided to go to The Bury (our home ground) and wait. I walked around the club for an hour, soaking in the sporting atmosphere and remembering scorching hot days of the past, scoring runs and taking insane catches. At 9.30am, the first people turned up, each looking as excited as the next and it was 10am by the time everyone had turned up. There were four groups of four cars and we had decided beforehand to compete for a first victory of the tour. A Top Gear style race to the Copthorne Hotel in Cardiff. The first ones there get a drink bought for them. The last ones there face a forfeit.

I refused to come last.

Along the way, myself driving with TK, Ben and Dom alongside me, we cracked some jokes, throwed some rumours about what everyone had brought for their fancy dress costumes for Saturday night and I was in the best possible mood. Every now and then we checked on the locations of others and we quickly realised we were miles out in front. One team had forgotten something so had to turn round and go back half an hour in, (they inevitably came last), another team was stuck in traffic after going a different way (they finished 3rd) leaving us and Force India to battle it out for victory. We thought we were miles in front, even taking a brief stop on the hard shoulder of the M4 so Ben could piss in the bushes, (pulling into the services was not a risk I was willing to take). We didn't see Force India until the very last roundabout leading into the hotel when we pulled in behind them before the traffic lights. They would win. When the lights turned green, I fully expected them to turn left into the hotel, but they didn't. They'd missed the turning! We had won! It was the first of what was to be many memories!

After dossing around the hotel for a few hours, we made our way to our first game. It was a Twenty20 match in Newport. I won't spend too much time talking about the cricket, but we won by 7 wickets. I even bowled and got a wicket myself! On Friday, we had a glorious tour around the SWALEC stadium, where they hold some England test matches and is Glamorgan's home ground. Most anticipated this to be the low point of the whole tour, but it was actually really interesting learning about the history of the game in Cardiff and Glamorgan CCC. We even had a two-hour training session in their complex which was pretty cool. We each got a go against the high-tech bowling machine. Now. Me, rather unwisely, thought I'd use this time to work on my weaknesses. I told the boys to notch up the pace to 70mph and set the machine to bowling short. In other words. Very, very fast and at my face. Obviously I was wearing a helmet, but the very first ball I faced cracked me in the ribs. Not perturbed, but wincing a lot, I carried on. The 2nd ball clean bowled me. The third ball smashed me on my arm. The fourth ball glanced my helmet as I JUST got out of the way before I decided enough was enough. Back to a normal length and a normal pace, but by then I was so scared, I just kept getting out. It wasn't a wise move. And it was a move that won me the 'Dick of the Day' award. A forfeit was on the horizon...

Friday night however was when the real stories begin. Drinking in the hotel was funny enough, as we all naturally got drunk along with the youngsters of the group who wouldn't be able to come into the city centre with us. Michael, just 14, was the subject of a cruel experiment but he didn't let us corrupt his youth too much with excessive cider! By the time we went out, everyone was suitably lucid and the night ahead was one not to be forgotten.

We went to a couple of bars, joked around and danced, met Kev from American Pie and danced some more. It was hilarious. Things after though notched up a level. I won't say names, but one of the party invited us all to the local "exotic bar joint" as he so aptly put it. Most of the party said "no don't be stupid", and bearing in mind I really should have been at the front of that party, I was as surprised as everyone else to find myself saying, "Why not". It really wasn't long before I realised that this place, as if I didn't know before, wasn't really for me... I left and found the other guys carrying on the drinking some place else. The chaps I left behind spent literally hundreds. One of the guys I had found was then promptly kicked out of the new bar for trying to scoop beer from the taps himself into his own mouth. It was extraordinary! By 3.30am, there were 3 of us left, and even then, it was so much fun. We eventually got in at 4am and proceeded to wake everyone up. Such fun!

I'm not sure about everyone else, but I certainly woke up with a sore head. What was worse was that I had my forfeit to complete. After my antics against the bowling machine the day before, my forfeit was to wear my fancy dress costume a day early. For the whole day. Basically, I hadn't had any time to buy anything new for the fancy dress part so I went with an old idea. An idea that resides in this blog.

Yes. I had to be dressed, for the whole day, as The Stig.

Trust me when I say... You can't see an awful
 lot out of that visor... 

Turning up to our opponent's ground for our game on Saturday sure was interesting. Not only did I have to dress as The Stig, I had to act like him as well. A WHOLE DAY, of pure silence in a roasting hot white racing suit. There was a long walkway from the car park to the changing rooms, and I could hear the opposition laughter from a long way away. The reaction was exactly the same as that party from months ago. People loved it.

It turns out we were very early for the game, so I gave myself a chance to survive and took the visor off in the changing room. I was determined to not let any of the opposition see. I wasn't captain for the day, (captaining while silent is tough!) so when Monty came back in and announced we were batting, I was delighted. I was to open as The Stig, and when I walked out donned in pads, gloves and holding my GM, everyone was roaring with laughter. The opening bowler must have wondered what he was bowling at. I could barely see a thing as the first ball approached. I could just about see the outline of the ball leaving the bowlers hand, and managed to glance my first ball for a single, to rapturous cheers from both sets of teams. Even I was stumped as to how I had managed to hit that. It didn't quite go to plan for the 2nd ball though as I was clean bowled. Naturally, I stood there for a while, before walking off.

I wasn't going to survive the whole day wearing the visor as it was extremely warm, so decided to allow myself to take it off when I wasn't on the field to allow some breathing space. The rest of the day went along without any hiccups, despite fielding at slip wearing the visor, and we got thrashed. Not that it mattered.

Saturday night was even better than the Friday night. We all got very drunk again, but this time, we ALL went out in fancy dress. Of course, I was still stuck in my Stig costume, but others joined me in the fancy dress fun. There was a couple of monks, Danny Zuko from Grease, a Guantanamo Bay prisoner (he's the controversial one of the group!), a bottle of Jagermeister, a superhero of some description, and even 53-year old Charlie joined in the fun dressed as a Ghostbuster. It was just brilliant.

The touring party in all its fancy dress glory.
(A couple of them were lazy in getting changed in time!)

That night goes down as one of the most interesting and funny nights of my life. If you looked at the night on paper, you'd see a group of lads going to a club. No biggy. But but what happened inside that club was truly memorable. 53-year old Charlie, led a conga line around the club, consisting of a good 30 people to the Ghostbusters theme tune. He also downed a fair few shots in a night he will surely remember. Myself, dressed as His Stigness of course, got chatted up by more girls than the rest of the other guys combined and Dom simply melted in his Jagermeister costume. Bless him! It was just indescribably glorious though!

There's not a lot more to describe as our game on Sunday, rather thankfully for me as I was seriously struggling at this point, was rained off. We drove home, almost in as high a spirit as we came, running through the events of the past 4 days.

17th-20th April 2014. A trip I will always remember.

Happy Little Pill

That's the title of a new song by actor, YouTuber and singer, Troye Sivan. I can relate to the lyrics quite well. Catchy song as well. I now have happy little pills of my own, (technically I've had them for nearly two months now), not that they're making any sort of difference.

I know what's going on. Its all me. I have been given every opportunity under the sun and I have everything. I have or have had a loving family, friends, hobbies, a proper education, experiences, freedom. I've been given everything and now I'm not and I don't know how to handle it. So much so that I'm just giving up. Things happen in this life where in the past, it would have made me upset. Now I just don't care. Why don't I care? I've gone past the stage of being upset and crying at everything to just... Complete blankness. I've never felt like this before. I've never reached this stage.

The only time I feel alive is when I'm drinking. I know I can't turn to that as a long term solution, as I am more intelligent than that, but every weekend, I go out and feel alive again. Just for those few hours every week. I shouldn't. It doesn't help me and the doctors say alcohol is off limits, but without it, I'd be a literal recluse. For the rest of the week, I'm locked away, quarantining myself in my bedroom or if I'm feeling adventurous, the kitchen. The animals we have are getting on my nerves more than they should do. The only reason I go to cricket on the weekends is that I don't want to alienate the only people who don't really know what's happening to me. Most of them anyway. Even then, I can't concentrate on the job in hand. My thoughts fly around before I realise a red ball is coming towards me and I have to do something with it. After a while of trying to bat normally and like I have done pretty successfully in the past, I just throw a bat at it. If I get out, so what? There are more important things my mind needs to be occupied with. But then when I sit there, out for single digits again, I can't think of anything. Round and round my head goes. How much longer can I extend this act for before team mates start realising that something is seriously wrong?

And then I get home, walk straight through my door and in a straight line to sleep. No shower. No dinner. I just need to stop thinking. Take me back to the world of my dreams where I can be anything I want to be and not this mess I am at the moment.

I want this to end.

Head Above Water

I'm still here. And still struggling. So much so, I'm properly convinced now that this is my life. Things like this do not last for 6 weeks and more. They just don't. Does that mean this is just me from now on?

That question has crossed my mind countless times. Will this one ever end? I'm still not completely interested by anything. Cricket is more of a chore than an enjoyable hobby. I only carry on doing it so I don't disappoint more people than I already have. I'm becoming more and more of a recluse and I never went back to that job. They thought I was lying so began procedures to get rid of me. I'm fairly sure what they did was illegal, but I haven't got the energy, the inclination or the know-how to challenge them. I can't even describe how much my blood boiled upon reading their thoughts. Who on Earth lies about this sort of thing? Who?

So now I'm a few days away from being a literal charity case. My worst nightmares are coming true and this is reality. My dreams are becoming more and more real, maybe in desperation more than anything else. I can physically feel the black cloak drape itself over me as I open my eyes from long spells of sleep. I hate it so much that I attempt to close them again but my body wonders what I'm trying to do after being asleep for 18 hours already. It takes me a few seconds to realise what day it is. It takes me more than a few seconds to do anything useful. I am now a burden. And I hate it.

I feel so sorry for Mum. So, so sorry. She is trying unimaginably hard to get me up and going, but I just can't. By God, I want to. I just want to be me again. That confident young man of last July who was dancing around the Barley Mow, confidently strolling up to guys I'd never met and chatting to them. That confident young man who expressed himself on the cricket pitch and scored 153 at Sandy. That confident young man who got promoted at work. What happened to him? What happened to me? I feel scared to leave my own bedroom sometimes, for a reason I don't even know. Its the impending doom that may lay on the other side of that creaky door of mine. And the guilt... The never-ending guilt...

I don't know when this will end. Or whether it ever will end. Or whether I'll recover and experience my usual winter of discontent. I just don't know.

Crash

And burn.

Following on immediately from my previous post, I made an unbeaten 51 the day after. I had told myself that another failure would result in my break from the game. We won by 10 wickets and I was due to buy my first jug of the season. All was well.

Since then... I don't know. I don't update this blog very often any more, for no actual reason, but as this blog used to be a place to turn to in times of hardship, the idea doesn't cross my mind anymore. I turn to more tangible resources such as my Mother for some sort of support, as difficult as that is for someone like me. And anti-depressants. Citalopram. And beta-blockers. Propranalol. The last couple of weeks have become the worst of my life, and now I shall tell you why.

Throughout the past six years, I've had what my mother has described as "episodes". I'd be coasting along quite happily, just doing this thing we call life, when suddenly, crash. I stop. Literally overnight, I go from a bubbly personality to a lifeless corpse. It's depression, and its completely debilitating. These pages are filled to its depths with tales and memories of these times, but the last couple of weeks its been ... Different. Its been prolonged and more real. I feel like a cat that has lost the 8th of its 9 lives. I feel like, with more responsibility in my life now, that my illness is making other's lives worse. I feel like a burden. Unable to go to work, I won't get enough money to pay the bills and that makes me more anxious. Problems make more problems that lead to more problems. The longer I leave going back to work, the more difficult it'll be, and the idea of doing so even now fills me with dread. And here we go again... Yet again...

I've spent my days literally asleep. For being asleep means I am not awake. I went back to the doctors and they gave me a form:

- Do you feel helpless? Yes.
- Do you feel like you have lost enjoyment in everything? Yes.
- Have you lost your appetite? Yes.

I answered yes to all the questions. The only one I didn't answer 'Yes' to was the one about suicide. I don't want to die, but I don't exactly want to live either. I have most certainly lost enjoyment in everything. Work feels more like a sentence than anything else. Its Friday evening, the most magical part of the week, and I have a full weekend of cricket ahead of me, but I'd rather stay in bed. I'm not entirely bothered if we win or lose, or if I score 0 or 100 tomorrow and Sunday. I'm not really all that bothered if I have any food in because I won't be hungry anyway. I haven't really eaten a lot in the past week.

 One sentence that can sum my mood up entirely? Nothing really matters anymore.