World Mental Health Day

We’ve been here before. Just under half a year ago now.

When writing about mental health, I always feel like I have to find a perfect balance. Something too direct and concise will miss the emotional triggers of my intentions. Something too detailed and vivid, although it creates the perfect image of how I feel, may seem too over-the-top for those closest to me to believe. Maybe I care too much about what other people think.

If you’re reading this, I assume you know what happened to me around late April/early May time. You’re a select few. Not even my family know about it, and that’s how I intend it to remain.

It still haunts me. The feeling sinking in, the realisation that life wasn’t worth living, the resigned tears flowing as I penned last goodbyes to the select few who really have had a huge and positive impact on my life. They were almost apologies, and that made it harder.

Ten letters atop the golden box. I was shaking. Not because of nerves, not because I was cold, but because it had settled in once and for all – in that moment I was ready to die.

My plans were quickly intercepted. A couple of security guys managed to get into my flat and… saw, what I was about to do. They sent in a ‘specialist’; I’ll come back to this later.

When he left, I saw my friends at the door, all panicked and frenzied, the first time I’d ever seen them like that. They came over to hug me, and they were shaking as well. I felt ashamed. I didn’t believe I was deserving of them, but it made me feel warm in my coldest night.

My friends back home scoff at the topic of mental health, and it’s made transitioning back and forth between London and Portsmouth all the more difficult. I threw my first punch this summer at one of them because of a comment that hit me hard. It made me realise that it’s probably a good thing I’m small, otherwise I would have been a far more violent person over the last few years.

I guess that’s why I’m an angry person. Always feeling aggrieved, ‘shouting at the world because no one’s listening’.

I never really sought ‘help’ after that night. I hate counsellors. The idea of talking to a stranger doesn’t strike a resonant chord with me. I’ve had three in my life; one was a treasure, but the others have scarred me. I can’t open myself up to someone totally new in the hope they’ll have all the answers. That ‘specialist’ falls under here.

What else is there though?..

I’d be lying if I said that I haven’t thought about ending my life since that night. I’d be lying if I said that this wasn’t a recent occurrence.

Every day I wake up, fatigued and flat, scared to shift myself for the day ahead. That was fine in the summer; I rarely had somewhere to be. Now though, it’s simply an anxious chore.

I’m meant to be an adult right now, and it terrifies me that no part of my life fills me with joy or optimism. On the face of things I’ve looked well for a while, but I’ve been passively fighting this battle, going manic all day every day. Some of you have still been talking to me, even today, and it appears everything is fine.

It’s easy to mask how low you feel through texts.

I haven’t locked myself away physically like I did in the Spring, but inside my head I’ve been cowering, running away, trying my best to hide from the harsh reality of my life.

At night, that’s when everything is extreme. It’s taken over me. I realise I have no direction, no hope, no happiness. My breathing fastens, and I cover my ears with my pillow. The fear, the paralysing fear that your life is going to total hell. Laying back in bed, tears rolling down your face, no one able to understand your pain. It keeps me awake, and no matter what I do I can’t shake it off. It’s a lonely horror.

That’s really what I feel. Alone.

As I type this a couple of nerve endings clicked in my head – there’s absolutely no way I can portray my fear and despondency through words. Nothing I write and publish will fully demonstrate the extent of what I feel. I’m trying my very best, but that’s all I can ever give.

I just want to be happy. It’s all I’ve ever wanted. And I’m still a long way off, not even close.

.

First thing I should point out is that I’m not dead, and this isn’t a suicide note or my will or anything like that. I am still alive.

Whether I want to be, however, is another matter.

For those who know me well, you’ll know of some big events in my life, particularly my attempted suicide and, more recently, the spiral of events after my relationship ended. Neither are pretty, and the former had laid dormant in me until the latter occurred.

It wasn’t an extreme at first, but to be pried apart from someone you never thought you’d lose… well, here I am now. A diminishing slob lacking motivation and any sight out of the abyss I’m living in. One train wreck of an event after the other.

My friends in real life have said how much better I’ve been doing since the autumn. But then again, they don’t live with what I live with, they don’t feel what I feel. I can change my aesthetics all I want but ultimately this isn’t going to change with a snap of my fingers.

On Tuesday, everything heightened. I was laying in bed, listening to music. And it hit me. It was like I could feel the nerves in my head sparking in unison. I didn’t want to live anymore. I just laid there blankly as tears rolled down my cheeks as I came to that realisation, staring at the ceiling. My breathing began to quicken and I started sweating. I was ready.

I've always told people who go through the same thing to always hold on because it does get better. That was my experience the first time. So to already go through this twice before I even turn 19... does it ever really get better for me? If I'm this unhappy during what's supposed to be the best years of my life how do I know if I'll ever be happy again?

I began a few drafts of a suicide note, but everything I wrote didn’t feel right. I’d written one before but I can’t really remember what I put in it. At first I started writing individual goodbyes to those closest to me, but when I got around to the 7th or 8th person, I froze up. It wasn’t so much writers block as… I was 99% sure this was the right thing. But 1% is all you need to be hesitant. It didn't bother me that no one would see me alive again, that I'd never see my parents again. Not one bit. But I thought of the 1%.

I eventually scrapped that idea and went back to bed. I picked up my phone and started recording some voice notes. I cancelled them all before sending any.

As someone who has tried to end it all before in the heat of the moment, I thought I’d try and survive the night and get to the morning – everything always seems worse off at night.

When morning did roll around, I felt… empty. Sometimes the mornings make a bad night all better, but this was different. It was as if I was already dead, and my routine was simply my body going through the motions. Well, I say routine, I mean I showered and got back into bed. I’ve probably had breakfast about three times since November. It’s rare that I have even two meals a day now.

I didn’t even check my phone, which I’m usually glued to. I checked Twitter once and briefly went on Snapchat but I’ve neglected my phone recently.

I was glad I didn’t take the plunge, but the idea was still floating around in my mind.

I decided to go back to sleep, with the help of some sleeping tablets and painkillers. A bad idea.

The dream itself wasn’t that bad, but I was awoken in a hot frenzy, sweating and gasping. I didn’t try going back to sleep, but I didn’t get up either. I felt truly alone. I just sat in the dark. I had to write a match-report for the Atletico-Bayern game, and I didn’t want to be a bother to Shoot at such short notice, so I carried that out at least.

That’s another thing that’s bugged me. I’ve lost all confidence in my writing. I have about five drafts on topics I feel strongly about, but whenever I get halfway through one, I start questioning myself. Why am I doing this? What’s the point when no one will notice? You’ve always been overshadowed so what’s going to change now?

After a few days, my friends at uni had figured I hadn’t been in contact with anyone for a while. A group of them came to my flat. I was reluctant to let them in, but it was apparent they weren’t leaving without seeing me alive. I literally couldn’t face them at first. I faced away and hoped that’d be that, but they came over. They hugged me, but I couldn’t look them in the eye. These are genuinely some of the best people I’ll ever meet and I couldn’t find the strength within to properly greet them. I don’t tell them that enough.

I felt ashamed, not worth it, but I’ve been feeling that way for months.

I guess that’s also partly why I’ve stayed off my phone. I didn’t feel man enough to even read my messages or go through social media. It's been hard enough writing this with the intention of you all reading it. I could've easily just deactivated and gone into hiding or something. I'm sure I'm going to hesitate over the 'publish' button when I'm done with this. Sometimes my tiny room scares the shit out of me, but sometimes it’s the safest place on Earth. It’s like a box where only I can exist, and that’s both blissful and terrifying at the same time.

I’ve never really defined myself as anxious. Shy, timid, depressed – yes. Anxious? Never. I guess years of doing Drama at school helped me beat off that adjective, but I’ve started sensing nerves in a new way. Sometimes when I leave my room, I feel like something bad is destined to happen. I don’t believe in fate or destiny or anything like that, but stepping out of here scares me. Earlier I did leave my room and a bald man who said he'd just been released from court demanded I give him my spare change. 

Maybe I'm hardwired to expect the worst from now on, maybe I’m on to something.

Sleeping is the same. Some nights it’s a long-arse blackout in an attempt not to dream, and others I try and stay awake to minimise that dream time. Back during term time I used the sleeping pills to encourage that, because I simply had to stay well enough to go to lectures and keep improving.

Now though… what’s the point? I'm at my wits end. Living in Hell.

As much as I want this to be a statement about how I’m out of the woods and on my way back up, it unfortunately isn’t. It’s more of an explanation, an apology. I'm sorry.

I just looked at my phone now and I’ll try and reply to everyone as quickly as possible. If you have something to say then DM me or text/iMessage/Whatsapp me (07592774949).

I love you all, and that will never change.