When premenstrual tension kick-starts anxiety and depression

I’ve been particularly angry today for no reason.

I put it down to PMT, premenstrual tension.

Something men with depression and anxiety don’t have to deal with. How lovely for them.

Anyway, I was speaking to my mother about having a heart to heart with my cousin, who is just a few months younger than me, and who left work because life got too difficult for her.

Well, I compared her situation to mine, and my mother said: “well, she’s worse than you”

I just thought, well there you have it. Yeah, she’s worse than me, because while she has taken two years off work and stressful life events, I’ve hauled myself back into the office after 11 weeks because we have no money. And I make myself run errands, like shop for food.

But yeah, she’s worse than me, because while she may have contemplated suicide, I think about it every day. And I am seriously considering it.

But yeah, she’s worse than me, because whilst she might have had a good childhood, I spent my years anxious out of my brain.

But she’s worse than me. I don’t want to work tomorrow. I don’t feel like I can face it. I cant face the stresses of work, the responsibilities, the difficulty in getting up in the morning. The difficulty of spending hours of your life holed up in an office. Either that, or hours of your life doing fuck all inside your house. Good choices.

I don’t want to see anyone. I don’t even want to leave my room at this point. My PMT just comes into my life and says, hey remember that depression and anxiety your trying to fight every day of your fucking life and you’ve been doing okay going to and from work and with life in general? Yeah well, here’s a bit of a kick-start. HOW DO YOU LIKE THEM APPLES!?

So, I think I’m just gonna fuck it and not go to work. Whatever, she’s worse than me.

I don’t want to live in this world anymore

I don’t want to live in this world anymore,

If I’m a woman I’m obviously a whore.

If I’m a daughter I belong to a man,

And if I’m getting older only marriage is my plan

I’ve tried and failed to be worthy of air,

Suffocating whilst people don’t care.

I don’t know how to tell you, that I’m losing my will.

The voice inside me tells me that I’m ill.

I don’t know how to say I don’t want to live,

Or that I have nothing left to give.

I am truly exhausted I’m sorry to say,

Trying to live until today.

I’m ending my life, and I’m sorry I must.

Though I hope the world I leave will turn fair and just.

I find no point in continuing to breathe,

And if there’s a God he’ll know there’s no need.

For in my mind I know I’m already dead,

My wishes unfulfilled, these fires left unfed.

Look, I’ll be honest with you I have tried,

But in the end these tears I’ve cried,

Would make you an ocean, or a raging sea.

The same I must take refuge in if I’m to be free.

There’s no point to me, don’t you see?

The sea is calling, it calls to me.

 

(A poem by me.)

It’s ride or die… all or nothing

(Trigger warning: suicide)

I’ve been off work and doing nothing with my life for almost 10 weeks now.

I cry less, but maybe that’s because I feel as though a solution is on the horizon.

And though I’ve tried to rest, I can’t seem to properly, because I am so stressed about money and family all of the time.

My solution seems to be ride or die. All or nothing.

I can either die, or start living again.

I have some serious issues with high-functioning anxiety, depression, burnout, stress and exhaustion.

But, if I go back to work, maybe I’d be too busy to feel any of it.

When I was working I had some sense of purpose. Right now I have none. I feel worthless.

I’m trying to tackle these feelings of worthlessness, but it’s not easy.

I have to be honest with you, killing myself is not the easy way out. It’s incredibly difficult to think about it, and though I have prepared for it, by leaving ways to settle my affairs and working out how I am going to do it, it’s still so hard to do. People who have done this are so brave. I am weak.

So, keeping myself busy in life by working a semi-decent job seems like the next best option. And though my anxiety and my depression is killing me slowly, at least this way I can feel like my life is worth something, than nothing at all.

Rejection is a bitch

After having gone through the stages of grief; in my opinion – denial, shock, distress, anger, sadness, acceptance, I’ve now come to the point where I am looking to rejoin the land of the living.

I won’t lie to you. Financial pressure is one of the reason I am considering this.

I’ve taken two months off work so far. But I still feel like I am not ready to go back to work. I am still largely unable to function properly. I can’t complete simple tasks, even at home in my personal life.

I was feeling okay recently, and applying to a couple of jobs – when I received a rejection for a role I was particularly interested in. Needless to say, rejection is a bitch to deal with, and so it has sent me on a downer.

It’s made me feel like I need to claw back desperately to cling onto anything this world is offering me to feel like I am worth something. That I am not just left red-faced on the back of the humiliation of rejection.

Now, I am wondering whether to beg for my old job back. The one I just couldn’t face day to day. Is it really the answer to push yourself back into doing something you know is not making you happy out of necessity?

The job was fine though. It is just difficult. And I am trying to avoid anything difficult in my life right now. That’s funny; seeing as all I’ve ever done is make my own life difficult because I’ve never felt like I am good enough.

And here comes the crux of the matter. It is purely BECAUSE I feel like I am not good enough, that it costs me A LOT of mental energy to participate in society. This is why I am finding life (and working) difficult. And that COST is what is killing me. It’s what is making me tired. It’s why I needed a rest.

So – I may go back to work very soon. But at what cost? If I go back and I am not ready, will I just fall again? How long do I wait, till my debts and my finances are at such a stretch that everything begins to fall apart?

We all live our lives like zombies – to pay the bills. Right? That’s what it boils down to.

So who am I? What is the point of me? Do I work to live, or live to work?

 

 

 

 

I always want to be raw and honest about my struggles in this blog. This is what it is for.

My anonymity is what is keeping this blog in the public domain.

But I am wondering whether to join the battle in exposing taboos around mental illness by making Youtube vlogs. I will be considering this.

I grieve, but not because of death

Is it possible to grieve without death?

To grieve is to mourn a loss. A loss so great that it hurts every day.

Today, after having cried so hard last night before bed that my blood vessels burst in my face, and after having cried again this morning after pushing myself to go running in the woods (the only thing that makes me feel like I’m moving forward) I talked to myself about what I am grieving over.

I listed all of the things I am mourning – and in most cases they are not losses in themselves. They are a grief for what could have been; not what once was. If you catch my drift.

I tried to give myself therapy, by asking that same little girl inside of me, the one so humiliated, and that same woman that I was ten years ago, the one so degraded from then up till this very day, to feel comforted because I was here. The older me, the learned me, the experienced and knowledgeable me. I’m here, and I’m proud of me.

But that only works to some degree. I’m a writer. That’s what I did for work, that’s what I have done since I was a child. Dear reader, I CANNOT WRITE.

I spend my days eating too much, watching films and TV. And spending money I don’t have. The only things I do of any significance towards my supposed recovery are running and swimming. I guess that’s something. Some of the time I am okay, most of the time I present to my family and friends as okay. But I am not.

Yet, I know that doing nothing and spending time at home, after quitting my job, is supposed to be helping me get over my grief. So that I can live some sort of life.

But I don’t seem to be healing. Or maybe I am, and I just don’t know it.

The fact remains I am grieving now, more than I have ever grieved since I was a child.

And the only death involved in this griefpexels-photo-302804.jpeg will surely be mine.