My Days

I've read a lot of inspiring pieces today. And I've written similar things to this before, but it's something I want to talk about.

It was 16 when I first started to feel depressed. Beginning my A-Levels after a fairly successful exam period the Summer before felt like a huge step. Going to school in your own clothes felt almost adult-like, but the level of education went up a notch. With other distractions, like my sexuality and a modicum of jealousy about my sister's high-flying ways left me feeling second rate and useless. Not only was I stupid, I was abnormal.

I survived though. I had a couple of moments, like bursting into tears in the middle of an IT class, surrounded by my classmates, who looked on in horror and disbelief as I was dragged into Ms Samosa's office.

"Your Dad told me he would be proud of you even if you stacked shelves in Tesco", she said.

But I wasn't proud of me, and that hurt. A lot of the feelings around these down feelings are a haze. A collection of foggy memories, bound into one very long period of pain. Yet sometimes, that period of pain was replaced by absolute nothingness. I'll explain that later.

But at school, the fear of my gay ways and fear of underachieving led me to do just that. Underachieve. Predicted grades of straight B's turned into E's, not helped by complete lack of interest or motivation in the last six months of my A-Levels. I barely turned up to school at all, trapped inside the four walls of my bedroom, crying. Every now and then, Mum would rampage up the stairs, bursting into the room to shout at me for not getting out of bed. Of course, she only wanted me to do well and give myself a chance, but my head was so cloudy, I just could not see any sunshine. When the argument finished, I'd drag myself out of bed and wipe away the tears.

And repeat.

It all got worse when I left school. My first job ended in a tearful phone call to my boss one lunchtime, three months in, when I simply told him I would not be returning for the afternoon. I went to bed and cried, awaiting the fury of my parents upon their return. My second job, albeit lasting a year, was 'the night shift phase'. Working 10pm to 6am, going home and sleeping until 9pm, before going to work. My days off were nights watching YouTube videos, occasionally trekking to the 24-hour Tesco to buy junk food. And more tears.

After a year's worth of night shifts, I figured something had to change. I threw myself at a university application, being accepted on to a Sports Development course in Brighton. Yes, I chose Brighton simply for being Brighton. I didn't research it at all. I merely chose Brighton because I could be gay in Brighton.

I had a mental breakdown and lasted one week in my University experience before finding myself back in my own bed. Crying.

I didn't move. I'd sleep for 18 hours a day, desperately wanting to fall asleep so I could dream about anything. Anything apart from living. My dreams turned into reality and my reality became a genuine nightmare. More tears.

And then, a light. A life-changing opportunity manifested out of nowhere. Six months in Melbourne, Australia playing the sport I loved? 'Dreams do come true', I thought. So I went. Flights paid for, accommodation sorted. It was a free six-month holiday in the Australian sun. Finally, my break. What could be better?

At 3am in the Australian morning, I found myself at the airport, asking for a one-way ticket back to the UK. I had a mental breakdown and lasted one week before finding myself back in my own bed.

Crying.

Because that's what this illness is. It isn't cured by dreams coming true. It takes a finite understanding of your limitations and constant, conscious reviewing of situations. It's tiring to stay well.

This experience of mine is odd. Or maybe not. I only remember a select few memories of the dark days. Very, very specific memories. When I had moved out, by the age of 21, I had lost another job and began to barricade myself inside my new bedroom. Not only was this illness killing me, it was leading me to make horrendous decisions. I felt nothing. I stole money. I did drugs. I drank myself to oblivion. I simply did not care, because I felt nothing. I didn't even feel sad anymore. I just felt nothing. I turned to all of the "quick fixes" you hear of because I'd given up hope of feeling. The only time I felt any emotions AT ALL was when I was drunk, high or buzzed from stealing. As my counsellor later said... I'd pressed the 'Fuck It' button.

As I've said many times, I cannot explain how ashamed I am of those days.

I should be dead. I make no bones about it, I should be a dead man. I am only alive because of the quick thinking of the driver who swerved out of my way and the policeman who talked me down from the edge.

Earlier, I was reading a piece from a young man who had been raped at the age of 16. I read his words and I'm so incredibly proud of him for being able to tell his story, despite never meeting him and only chatting to him a few times. Everyone has their tales. For those of you who read the words above and nod along, feeling like this is you, just know that the days you're unfortunately experiencing now will make you a stronger, better person in the future.

I'm very thankful for the people who stood by me when they could very easily have walked away. Frustrated by my lack of fight. Disgusted by my drug-taking. Run out of patience with me. A whole host of reasons why they could have walked away. While some did walk away, the ones who stayed are more precious to me than ever.

I really struggled to get out of bed this morning. I really, really, really struggled. But I did it. I was marginally late for work, but I did it. Sometimes that's all you need to kick-start your life.

Just one plus.