First published to my Medium page: https://medium.com/@3amreflections/introduction-07f854c8fc20

Maybe it doesn’t need to be perfect – I don’t know why that still matters to me at this point. It shouldn’t. Almost nothing matters, everything feels so dull and hopeless. I’ve been fighting my illnesses for so long now. It all began when I was seventeen. Or, perhaps that’s wrong. Things got out of control when I was seventeen. It began before my birth, with my parents – their relationship dynamic, their bizarre beliefs (especially around my birth – they believed that I would be a supernatural being of sorts). I’m not.

I’ve failed to meet any of their expectations. I barely see them. I have no close connections with family. I have no siblings. I have one close friend (if you’re reading this – thank you for sticking with me through everything). He has tried so hard to help me, but we’re both tired. This has been a tough fight. I barely leave the house. I have no idea how to be around people. I feel so lost. I’m struggling to hold on anymore.

Despite that, I have this huge, somehow-still-faintly-burning story inside of me – it presses against my tired skin, it wants out. I think that I need all of this shit to mean something – to help someone, to be heard. If there was no point to any of it…I don’t know. I’m numb to what a tragedy that would be – I just know that, in an almost robotic-like way, I need to tell my story. I owe it to myself. I owe it to others. I can’t be the first to live through what I’ve lived through. I can’t be alone. I doubt I’ll be the last. What I’ve just said will only make sense with context – so future posts will help to clarify that.

I’ve kept it inside for many reasons – mostly to protect other people. Also, because I’d hoped to become a Psychologist and I thought that telling my story might be a problem. I mean – I’m hardly an example of good mental health. I have a very recognisable personal history. I can attempt to hide my identity, but it’ll be obvious to anyone who has known me (if it is shared widely enough). Who knows? Maybe nobody will read it – but I’ll know it’s out there. That’s better than nothing now.

I’ve kept silent because I’ve been confused, too. I’ve wanted to be honest, yet at times haven’t known what was true with certainty. There are still things that I have no way of knowing. Now, though, telling my story – for myself, for others – it matters more than these things. I’m barely holding on. I’ll do my best.

I must have seen a hundred Psychiatrists in my life – there’s no consistency in their diagnoses, with the exception of OCD. Other labels thrown around have included BPD, DID, Schizophrenia, Schizoaffective Disorder, Bipolar Disorder. I’ve given up on labels for the most part. I think that I’m simply a mixed bag. People love to categorise things. How many of us truly fit neatly into one or two diagnostic boxes? I don’t know, maybe not so many as they believe. It feels like there’s this pressure, though, to render oneself comprehensible to others in that way. In other ways, too. In my opinion (as someone who isn’t a healthcare professional), these fields need a higher dose of philosophy added into the mix.

Anyway, I’ve survived a tonne of crazy shit in my life. I know that I’m not alone in that.

I probably shouldn’t still be here. In my opinion, I made it through because I was an insanely enthusiastic kid – I carried that with me throughout most of life. It was my most fundamental nature – an enthusiastic soul, passionate about life. I wanted to experience everything. I wanted to run, jump, play in the mud. Though, when I first started school – I’d hide under desks sometimes. I could be kind of weird and shy, but I wanted to fit in. I wanted that so desperately. I wanted to feel accepted enough to be myself. I think that’s what everyone wants.

That enthusiasm transformed into determination and perseverance when life demanded it. I’d find myself in impossible situations and imagine a better life. I’d create a very detailed vision of a life that’d be worth living – then I’d fight like hell for it. I had this powerful drive, constantly propelling me forward. Although, that’s fading now.

I feel like a desperate, tired, dying animal – trying to find water, lying down, forgetting about water, remembering that I need water, desperately trying to find it…then lying down and accepting that I cannot find water. Then, I’ll get up and find some. I’ll drink. Then, I’ll run from it and end up lost, unable to find any. That’s my current cycle. I watch myself swinging between desperation and acceptance. I try to numb myself, distract myself. It is exhausting. I am so damn exhausted.

I’m in my early thirties, but I feel far older (mentally and physically). I long for connection and belonging, yet I make almost no effort to leave my bubble and find it. I’m afraid of it. Rejection hurts. Those little misunderstandings between people hurt. I have no easy answers to those standard questions (“What do you do?”, etc). I can tell the truth – that I’ve been on the Disability Pension for my entire adult life…but that isn’t an easy thing to explain. I look healthy.

Mental health issues are still stigmatised. People prefer to hear that “I’m on a break from Uni” – yeah, this is just a really, really long break from Uni…everything’s normal. I’ll be well enough to continue with my degree soon. That idea is a beautiful lie, and one that I sometimes catch myself believing for a moment. Hoping. Wishing. I don’t think it’s realistic right now, though. I don’t know if it ever will be.

I had friends from psychiatric hospitals. They were good people – honestly, some of the most beautiful people I’ve ever met. Those relationships could sometimes be intense, though, and I got so overwhelmed by life at one point that I withdrew from everyone. It wasn’t just about my friends specifically, it was my mental health declining. I couldn’t deal with life anymore. I couldn’t cope with other people. I deleted my social media accounts. I blocked my ‘old life’ out. That was probably a mistake. I don’t have the courage to fix any of it now – being rejected by them would hurt too much. I’ve basically ghosted my ‘old life’ for five years or so.

I’m so tired. I know that there’s one solution – find friends. Keep going back to new social situations, actually allow people to get to know me. I just struggle with that. I leave people after meeting them once or twice. People don’t get to know me beyond my first messy attempts at communication. Yeah, yeah, that’s ‘normal life’. ‘That’s what life is for everyone’. Other people push through it. After surviving what I have, why can’t I face normal life? Why do I lack that everyday bravery? I sometimes wonder that. I guess life has left me broken. Broken, yet brutal with myself. Wiser. Stronger. Weaker. Tired. I don’t know, it just hurts to be around people. Being alone is a more familiar hurt. I can predict it, I can control it.

I intend to share my story soon – though it might be in a few weeks or months (or years). I don’t know – I can’t predict what I’ll do. I might never share it. I hope that I do though.