I’ve searched high and low for solutions. Internal and external. Each works for a while. Then I return to the same feeling. Flat. Dead. Numb. I do not want to carry this cross anymore. Its weight is slowing me down. Normal things in normal life seem pointless. The joy of the simple has been taken away. My energy has been removed. This morning I spoke to a doctor about the situation. I didn’t want to be there. I didn’t want to acknowledge that the work I had done over the years hadn’t worked. It left me scared. Scared that it was all for nothing. All the recovery. The meditation. The exercise. Travel. All pointless if I’m going to end up feeling the same… it was a warning sign.
I know where the feeling leads. It isn’t a good place. Ignoring the feeling of hopelessness costs lives. Nobody wants to be sat in a GP’s office spilling their guts to someone they hardly know. But it is a damn sight better than standing on a bridge hoping for a miracle. Life is fucking short. It shouldn’t be spent in misery. Yeah, we have to do shit we don’t like to survive. But there are numerous days between should be enjoyed. It’s difficult to do when the dark cloud descends. The world seems ominous. The future without help is scarier than reaching out. The ego will tell you to walk tall. To soldier on and prove the world wrong. There are no winners in a one-sided war.
Last week, I was working at home and burst into tears. It lasted a few hours. I didn’t know why? It had been building up over the weeks. Each day a little harder than the last. Body getting heavier. Mind getting foggy. I didn’t drink. I didn’t want to drink. There was alcohol in the house I was staying at. I looked at it and thought what fucking difference would that make? I wanted to not feel the way I did. But I knew escaping wouldn’t change a thing.
I booked the wrong train tickets. Then I got on the wrong bus, twice. Had a panic attack. Mind started barreling around. I felt lost. I was less than a mile from my house. It was scary as fuck. I’ve been in places around the world and felt fine. A mile from my house and I was freaking out. I felt embarrassed. I had no option but to admit defeat.
I went to the doctors. I told them what had happened. I got prescribed Prozac counselling and a blood test. The works. I have been against antidepressants forever. Now I am out of options so I will try. I am sick and tired of being sick and tired. The same situation as when I used alcohol to escape. That eventually stopped working also.
Even after six and half years of not drinking I still am not immune. Mental health is a tricky bitch. Even with a clean-living life, it is possible to succumb. I didn’t want to reach out. I felt ashamed. I felt weak. I felt like less than a man. Even in the waiting room I still wanted to run. Didn’t want to acknowledge it. History has taught me that denial is a fool’s game. So I stayed. I spoke. I felt better when I had got it out in the open.
We all have to do things in life we don’t want to do sometimes. Sometimes it saves your life. I didn’t want to quit drinking. It saved my life. A result of quitting is that I’ve had to face myself. Look inside and acknowledge problems. But even with that introspection, it is still possible to ignore issues. That is a dangerous road to walk. Last time I started feeling depressed I bottled it up. Eventually, I became housebound and suicidal.
Quitting drinking might not have made me invincible. But it has made me aware enough to not have to get to that extreme again. It isn’t easy. It is far from being cured. Thankfully, I don’t have to suffer in silence.