I used to find it quite easy to be sad. Anything that went wrong could be blamed on the fact that I was depressed. If I didn’t want to do something, or neglected to do what was expected of me, I could blame it on the fact that I wasn’t quite right in the head. There was a calming simplicity to it, a peaceful comfort found in knowing that, whilst everything was shit, there wasn’t really anything I could do about it, so there was no need to worry. It never occurred to me that the only person who could help me was myself, or that my behaviour was self-destructive, because I was convinced that the forces dominating my life were completely out of my control and there was nothing I could do about my own suffering other than endure it.
It’s not as easy being sad anymore. Whilst I have no doubt that I am better off for having sought help and faced my demons head on, the solace I found in assuming that I was helpless has been replaced by the brutal knowledge that, when I’m sad, it is my own responsibility to do something about it. This doesn’t necessarily mean that it’s always my own fault, but it does mean that I’m now aware that, if it is my fault, I have to do what I can to rectify the situation or, if it is beyond my control, it is down to me to process the sadness in an honest and healthy manner.
The problem is, after being where I have, it constantly feels as though I am on the edge. Any slight downer on my mood immediately triggers a violent worry that I’m on my way back to the dark place. Although I now realise that there is a large grey area in between the black and white of emotionality, I still struggle to comprehend the fact that, quite a lot of the time, I am actually in it. Surely, the logic that’s been ingrained in my mind leads me to ask, if something is going bad then that means that nothing can be going well? If you’re sad about one thing, how on earth can you simultaneously be happy or content with anything else? It seems that unlearning years of unhealthy emotional coping mechanisms isn’t quite as easy as one may assume it to be.
Anyway, this should hopefully shed some light onto why I am sad on my birthday. Logically I know that I shouldn’t be sad and deep in the complexity of my warped mind I know that I am not. I am, of course, sad about the same thing I have been sad about for months now, but whenever I have the opportunity to be happy I instead find myself having to fight a battle against this sadness, trying ardently to prevent it from infecting everything else. It is emotionally draining and completely pointless. For example, I don’t have any plans today, which is entirely my own choice. Lots of my friends suggested we should go for food or drinks this evening but I declined because I’m trying to diet and we’re going out on Saturday anyway, yet somehow, in my mind, I attempt to convince myself that I’m actually alone because everyone hates me and no one wants to see me. It’s nonsensical to hear in my own head and even more so when I write it down now. So there we are, that’s my insane thought process for this morning written down and on display for all to see. Shall we move on to something a bit lighter?
I’m not sure why but it doesn’t really feel like my birthday today. One potential reason I’ve come up with is because it’s my first birthday as an official adult – I’ve had to book the day off from my full time job and almost none of my friends are around to do anything because they too have full time jobs. I was supposed to be playing 18 holes with Harry this morning but the Championship course is closed because of the weather, so in effect it just feels like I’ve wasted a day’s holiday, which is horrifically depressing. I can’t even go for a walk or do something on my own because it’s pissing it down. Nonetheless, I’m off for lunch with Liz shortly and then I have no doubt that Hayals will shower me with fuss when she gets home from work, so it’s not all bad.
Another reason not to be too downbeat is because I know I’ve got Saturday to look forward to. There are fifteen of us heading to Birmingham for the day to celebrate me being a year closer to my well deserved death. We’re starting at 12 and have places booked until just before the last train home, so it’s sure to be a messy one, and I have no doubt that Sian will be vlogging the whole thing so I can watch it back and die of embarrassment on Sunday morning/afternoon (depending how hungover I am). I do sometimes wonder how it’s possible for me to be so fucking miserable about things when I have a group of friends as wonderful and a social calendar as full as my own. Life is good.
Don’t feel obliged to wish me a happy birthday, I’m about as arsed for today as you probably are. I hope you’re well x
