It's happening. I'm scared because I think it's happening. I don't know how to stop it. I've debated about this post all day because I'm starting to feel like The Girl Who Cried Depression, but I swear I know this all too well.

I feel sick. So sick. I don't know what to do. In my mind, the voice begs me not to go back on drugs. It tells me the counseling is useless. I agree. I say I want hypnotherapy. It says I'm too far gone for that. Like I'm supposedly in a place where no one can help me now.

Why is this happening again? Why am I slumping back into those periods of being out of it? Where I sit here with the boys around me, and drift off into some sort of weird trance where I have no clue what's going on? Will someone track me down and take away the boys if they read this blog? If they know where I am? Will they have them taken away from me?

I don't want to do this. At the same time, I don't want help. I want everyone to just leave me alone, so I can sleep. So I can sleep for a really long time and then maybe I won't have to talk to people. I can stop the fake smiles and give myself a break. I can just be nothing, nobody will ask any questions, no one will care where I am.

The fake smiles hurt now. I tweet; I text; I google wave; I google chat; it's all fake. With every single stupid smiley emoticon, I feel like some kind of fraud. Like I shouldn't even be allowed to converse with these people because why should they have to take on my crap?

My crap. There has been so much lately, it's been too much. It's now got to the point where the smallest most ridiculous things push me over the edge. There's too much going on and I can't cope. I want, I don't know. I want out. I want escape. I want a break. BUt I know I'll never get the kind of break I want. I don't know what kind of break I want.

I'm struggling with so many people at the moment. I hurt so much because of these people, and none of them get it. I've spent so much time holding my tongue, saying it's ok, that we all live and learn and if they ever bother me again I'll just use my ammunition but I never do. And now, with every day, with every thought, with every breath, I feel more destroyed. It's not like I blame everyone else for the things that are wrong with me; not at all. But I've been hurt. Yeah I said it. People have hurt me. So horribly. And lately I've started to retaliate. There are people who I hate with a seething passion, because of how they've hurt me. How they've helped me get into this incredibly fucked up state, and now I can't seem to get out, and they've fucked off completely, blissfully unaware of what they've done. I wonder whether they care. I don't think they care. How could they care?

That's my problem. I care. I wish I didn't care. Or at least, care so much. I wish I could take a step back and just not give a shit and let everyone deal with their own crap. I wish I could say, "yeah you think you've got it bad? You should hear MY crap! It's far more important."

But I'll never do that. I spend so much time listening to everyone else. That's not a bad thing, I think. But I suppose the problem now is that I'm not so great at seeing when someone else is actually GENUINELY interested in what I have to say. I sit there feeling like shit, with that plastic smiley emoticon on my face, pretending everything is ok, and inside I'm willing them, so desperately willing them to ask me the right questions and get this crap out of me. To ask me things like...like...fuck I don't even know.

I don't want to hear "do you want to talk about it?" because more often than not, I'm too exhausted to talk. I wouldn't know WHERE to start. Do I want to talk about it? Talk about WHAT? Which bit? And do you have all day? People ask if I'm ok. Of course I'm going to say "yes". I'm not going to say, "No mate, I feel like utter fucking shit, I blank out sometimes, have no idea what I'm doing, would like to sleep for a fucking long time. And by fucking long time, I'm talking MONTHS, if not years. So, how are you?"

For as long as I can remember, I've been an agony aunt. I don't mind that so much, but it goes both ways. And I can't deal if it just goes one way. And that's why I want to hide. Everyone is keen to tell me their story. Everyone is keen to talk over my story, which inevitably reverts back to their story.

I don't even know what my point is now. I have no point. There IS no point to this. To any of it. It's all a load of bollocks. My life is a load of bollocks, and there's been no point to any of it. I don't know anything. I don't know how to deal with this, I don't even know what the fuck there is to deal with, I don't even know what the fuck I'm going on about. I don't know what my problem is, I don't know how to ask others to help me, and when I do ask for help, I have no idea what the fuck they are supposed to do.

At the start of the year, everyone was saying what they were doing 10 years ago. I didn't. I purposely didn't. Because 10 years ago, everyone was wondering if I would live to see my 21st birthday. I'd attempted suicide several times already. I didn't want to draw attention, it wasn't a cry for help. I wanted to escape. And now, 10 years on, I find myself sitting here, older, slightly wiser maybe, thinking the same thing; I want to escape. I don't want to die; I couldn't do that to my family. I couldn't burden them with that. That very idea is just so wrong. Who would look after the kids? How could D work if there's no one to look after them?

But I still wonder to myself, it must be easier to cope without having my miserable state around, right? When shit happens, I bury it. People think I just want to deal with it on my own. So many people just assume I just get get on with it. That's what I try to do. That's what I must do, because no one can help me with this crap, for some reason. I want to ask for help. I DO ask for help. I WANT someone to help me, so badly. Sure I can talk about it. That's easy. I can talk it, I can blog it, hell I'll put it out here for all to see. I don't care. If anyone's truly interested, they'll read, or listen, tell me it's going to be ok. But no one can help me fix it. And I'm in too deep. And now I'm stuck behind this fucking fake smile.
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4 Responses
  1. BNM Says:

    The worst thing about being so caring that you listen to other people's problems is that you forget how to share your own problems. You need to get them out there and share them but as a person who cares too much too I know its hard.
    Use your blog to get it out but also remember that we are all here to help otherwise we wouldn't be following. I am here if you need help and to know that some of us can see through a fake look, that some of us have perfected the fakeness ourselves that we can see others at it.

  2. Cassandra Says:

    I wanted to write a comment, but I actually cant put it any better than BMN. So Im seconding all she says. We love you and we're here, if you want or need. xxxxx

  3. pipper Says:

    I'm new here, but I just wanted to say, I get this. I really really do.

  4. Linda Says:

    Hiya, you write with such power and beauty, your life is not a load of bollocks, thank you for writing this post and for pointing me here after I wrote about how I was feeling. I recognise aspects of what you write here, and I am sending you all the love I can through a computer screen. xx