#22 Just because I'm losing, doesn't mean I'm lost

Because no one gets me quite like Chris Martin does.

I’m sitting wrapped in a towel on my bed. I can’t seem to get myself to moisturise my body and put on clothes, although the fact that I showered and brushed my teeth seems pretty miraculous at this stage. Honestly, I wouldn’t know what’s clean or dirty right now as my clothes cover the entire floor of my room, with some empty bottles of wine plotted here and there.

I don’t really know what to do with myself so I just grabbed my laptop and thought perhaps this would be a good time to write. It’s been a while. I’ve gravitated towards writing poetry these days, it really is the strangest thing. I think it’s probably due to laziness, knowing that I need to get my thoughts out somehow but not knowing how to do it in long form. Also, if I must admit it, I’m scared of what I will reveal about myself here, as words of brutal honesty seems to be the only form of writing I’m able to do recently.

I haven’t left my room in 24 hours. I haven’t left this house since coming home from work on Friday. I no longer have a broken foot so I keep promising that today is the day that I’m going to take a walk - I mean, it’s only bloody seven minutes by foot to my favourite beach, Bakoven. Every single person I’ve spoken to about my latest depressive hole I’ve found myself in mentions how good it would be to take a walk. If only I could find the energy to lace up my shoes that I haven’t used in six months. How to access that place in my soul that couldn’t wait to go on a run at the end of the day, because I knew for a fact that it would, without a doubt, do my mental health wonders and back then, I was all about doing whatever it takes to do what was best for this troublesome mind of mine.

I messaged my best friend at 1:30am this morning to inform her that I need help. She called me almost immediately and I battled to find the words to tell her that I think I need to go back to Healing Wings, the long-term facility I was at for over three years until January. “And then what?” she asked. Good question. The same question my psychologist asked when I called her this morning to ask her what I should do. Both these people in my life see my return to Healing Wings almost like a delay in what I actually need to face, which is real life. How to make it in the real world without fucking out: 101.

It may sound strange to you, but going back to that environment would actually be the easy way out. I think fondly on my programme there, before becoming a volunteer and staff, and the hardest thing I had to deal with back then was facing myself as I am for the very first time. Shit, now the emotional stuff seems like it would be a breeze, I’ve done so much work on myself that I’m all worked out. Even the physical work of gardening and washing dishes seems like a dream right now, at least I’d be productive.

The thing is, I had what I cherish most in this world, what I derive the most joy from and that’s belonging and community. All I’ve ever wanted in my life was to belong and when I didn’t, I turned the sense of rejection on myself like I always do. Back in the day it was through self-mutilating thoughts and brutal self-criticism and these days, I’ve just added substances to the mix to try and get away from my own thinking for a while.

I’ve started a new job and I’m, quite honestly, the most unreliable employee, although the work should be setting my soul on fire as it would if I were in a good space. Unreliable in terms of friendship and relationships as well, if I, for once, follow through on plans I make that would be a completely unique experience. Before I relapsed I was making it to six AA / NA meetings by choice and looking forward to them, now I can’t seem to get myself to one. About a year ago, we had to do a peer-evaluation task with members of our team at work and my boss, who I admired the opinion of, said my strengths were discipline, reliability and consistency. Who is that person and what did I do with her? And um, can I have her back?

These past three months have been a shit-show. I am truly unable to get a grip on life. I can’t remember what it feels like to do things that I enjoy in my free time or what it feels like to be the funniest or kindest person in the room, because if you have seen me at my best, you’ll know that neither of these things take much effort for me. I miss the days when people, especially kids, would feel at ease around me. Or when I would simply speak without thinking and evoke unexpected laughter from those I was spending time with.

I don’t have the answer to life right now which is why I needed to call my therapist and ask her, straight-forwardly, what the fuck I should do in practical terms. She suggested a clinic just to get to a place of thinking clearly because then the fog in my brain might disappear and my rose-coloured glasses might fall off.

For now, it would be wonderful if I could find the energy to put on some clothes and clean this room of mine. But somehow, no matter how much energy I put into cleaning things up, the mess keeps piling up and piling up. Well, I guess I’ll just pop an anti-anxiety pill and try to tackle it in a bit, one little area at a time. That’s all I can do, right? Fix one the entire picture bit by bit by bit. I’ll get somewhere eventually.