The times when I get like this it’s best to write. Sometimes just for myself, I’ll write things that go in a forgotten corner of my laptop never to be seen until another maudlin day comes to pass and I find myself dwelling. I don’t know what it is that I have. Low self esteem is a part of it, paired with an innate sadness that never really seems to go away, a feeling that life is insurmountable and pointless, a fear that everyone that I love is going to die, and an occasional urge to repeatedly stab myself in the stomach that raises its head every now and again like a jack in the box that it takes my entire body weight to keep shut. These are just some of the thoughts and feelings that go through my mind in a spiral, torturing me into submission until all I can do is just stare into space and cry.

So I’ll sit and cry, and cry some more, until my tear ducts swell and my face feels sore to touch. It makes my head cloudy, full of oppressive forces that tighten and twist my brain from within so I can’t see or think straight. I feel weak. Like a nagging housewife my mind berates me for not being good enough, smart enough, strong enough to stop the cycle from happening, until I relent and cry some more. It can last days, weeks, or just a couple of hours. Different things trigger it. It ranges in severity according to the amount of separate triggers that cause it and it goes without saying that I handle stress incredibly badly. I internalise rejection to the point of no return and beat myself up daily for all of my imagined failings. Out of every 100 positive comments it will be the one negative one that I will take to heart, even if it came from some ignorant arsehole whose life is just a giant karmic shitty dick suck, with AIDS as an aperitif.

Hate and resentment build up inside. Life looks as bleak as one of those millennial disaster movies. THERE IS NO HOPE FOR HUMAN KIND! Or at least, there isn’t for you. You become like the man whom everything he touches turns into Skittles, except yours are all shit-flavoured. You start to resemble a 3-headed dog monster, except with more body hair. You feel like Gretchen Wieners. Life is a drain.

I see everyone going out, doing stuff, having fun, and feel like it’s this other world that I can’t participate in anymore because I have nothing to say. I’m just stuck in my flat that smells like dead rats, staring at the wall trying to will myself into doing something productive, a list which right now runs as far as ‘get dressed’ (I’ll do it tomorrow). I long to be funny again. To laugh. Instead I’m just filled with terror and my head aches.

I still don’t really know what I’m describing. First come the tears, then the howls that come from some primeval place within, that lead to the retches, the panic attacks, the wails. The belief that somehow if you cry hard enough you’ll self combust into yourself and disappear. The way the sobs wring out your insides, you’d think it was possible. 

If you haven’t experienced it it’s hard to understand. It has ruined most of my relationships. Other people feel responsible, and often times helpless like there is nothing they can do to make things better, but most of the time all I need is someone to sit there with me until it goes away. Which it always does.

I’ve lost friends from being like this. Friends not worth having in hindsight, bad friends, terrible friends. Friends who were out for what they could get. But I’ve also nearly lost close friends. Good ones. Ones who had to drag me to A&E at 3am because I was threatening to jump in front of cars. Friends who had just come out of mental hospital themselves and were in no position to help. My bestest friends are all what you might call mental. I am deeply suspicious of normal people. Normal people make terrible friends. So do a lot of mental people (models especially), but the friends I have found seem to strike the balance just right. It’s just a shame people like that are so few. Ironic for someone with so many perceived virtual friends that they don’t have many real ones, but that seems to be the way things work. In real life gangs of girls terrify me. Their relationships don’t seem based on genuine friendship but on seeing who can out-bitch the others, which is not what I’m about. Anything I say about someone I will say to their face. It’s a policy. If I don’t like someone, it’s pretty safe to say that they know it. Having said that, I won’t slag someone off for no reason and keep my opinions to myself most of the time.

If you have a good heart people will seek to abuse it. If you speak the truth people will seek to undermine it. It’s not cool to be nice, to be honest. We all seek to belittle, to bring people down a peg or two to make ourselves feel better. But what are the consequences of that? 

It’s not easy for me to write this but it’s harder for me to lie. To pretend that everything is okay when it’s not. I’m putting this out there for all the people who feel the same. Judge me all you want if that’s your brand of shitty behaviour. I don’t give a single fuck anymore. Suck a karmic dick. I made super fucking sure that it’s dogshit flavoured.