Bullied

I have created a new blog.

Bullied: A Recollection

After a year, my counselling sessions have finally concluded. By the end, I was starting to gain some insight into the causes of my depression, and I fear that I may have only scratched the surface in my sessions. A blog seems like the next best thing.

Leo is still on the waiting list to begin therapy. He was assessed as "severe" in August, but since then there has been no word. He has peaks and troughs, and his medication has been changed more times than I can remember in just this year alone. Right now, he seems to be glad that I am spending this Christmas with him.

I too am taking new antidepressants. The side effects are unpleasant, and the medication I take to counteract these is not always effective. I am expecting my latest appeal against ATOS to go to tribunal in either February or March. Thankfully, Leo was successful in his appeal in October. However, the equal and opposite reaction to this was that the council cut his housing benefit, despite his entitlement to it remaining unchanged. Our landlord is kind, and I am grateful. Many others are not so lucky.

I am now estranged from most of my family. However, my brother currently lives with Leo and I. He is an immense help to us both, although I am not sure if he realises this.

Healing continues to be anything but straightforward.

Life goes on.

Strands 2

One

My new pharmacist is lovely. Yesterday I had a medicine review with him, and he is kind and encouraging. He complemented me not just on my inhaler technique, but also on the effectiveness with which I control my other symptoms. I no longer dread collecting my prescription every month.

Two

Since I began counselling, I have developed a number of new techniques to help me to cope with everyday life. I have a diary to write my thoughts into, so that I don't dwell on them at bedtime. I drink hot chocolate to help me relax. I have a morning schedule and a night-time schedule. I give myself points for every good thing that I do in a day - even something as small as feeding the cats or doing the washing-up. My current high-score is 30.

But most importantly, I have thrown myself into my hobby - crochet. I have started to sell my creations online, and it stops me from feeling useless, even on my bedridden days when nothing else makes sense. There is a book on crochet and depression that I am eager to read when I have the money and the time.

Three

I have started going to gigs again, meeting up with friends and adding old acquaintances on Facebook. I've started to feel that perhaps I may not appear to be such an idiot as I once thought I did. One of my particularly close friends from my university days has a habit of playing Cupid amongst her particular circle of friends, and upon hearing that Leo and I are amicably separated, decided to introduce me to another single friend of hers, believing that we might have a lot in common.

Perhaps unsurprisingly, things did not go well - but not due to my depression or anxiety. He loved the sound of his own voice too much, interrupted me when I finally managed to get a word or two in edgewise, had no regard for my personal space, and seemed genuinely surprised when I wanted neither to kiss him or to go home with him. In fact, the whole experience left me quite upset. Are all men so narcissistic these days?

Leo had been ribbing me for days before the event, but seeing the look on my face upon my return has thankfully silenced him.

Four

In my attempts to re-engage with society, I fear I may have taken on too much. Four blogs, four Facebook pages, two online portals to my crochet business and a social life - inevitably I end up slipping, and neglecting one or more of these duties I have created for myself.  Perhaps I should set up a routine for these things too. I wouldn't want to intimidate myself with an enormous workload, and undo the progress my counsellor and I have made so far.

Counselling

My first counselling session took place on December 5th, nine months to the day since my formal diagnosis. Just that fact alone makes my heart ache. I understand how tough these days are, and that so many people are in the same position I am - adrift in life and suffering as a result - but to make a person who considers suicide daily at least wait for professional help for such a long time seems risky to the point of counter-production. What if events had been worse than they were, and I had found myself unable to cope? How might I have coped without Leo to turn to? It seems that I am alive through sheer luck, and it scares me to think of the variables that might have led to a different situation.

Still, here I am and in the care of my counsellor. She is a very sweet and patient lady, and it is remarkable how much she reminds me of my previous counsellor, separated now by three hundred miles and ten years. They have the same hair colour, dress sense and glasses, and at first sight I felt completely comfortable talking to my current counsellor. She has a southern accent, which also helps - sometimes, even being surrounded by Mancunian voices makes me feel isolated. My previous counsellor was Scottish, but then I am always calmed by Scots voices. Perhaps that is a throwback to my ancient Scottish ancestry - something my new counsellor was very interested to hear about.

I have had three sessions with her so far, and I have surprised myself with the things I have spoken about. It seems as though my sense of self has evaporated amidst my worry for my nearest and dearest, Leo in particular. I love him as fiercely as ever, despite our mutual inability to love romantically rather than platonically, but I was shocked to discover how much his mood impacts upon my own. If Leo's mood is low, I worry about him. If I can do nothing to lift his spirits, I feel useless as a result. Without a job of my own or anyone else around me every moment, his happiness is my only purpose. My counsellor has told me that this is far from strange, as so many of my friends tell me. In the absence of any other job to do, this is good for me - although she tells me that balancing Leo's mood with my own must be hard work indeed.

Then there is the rest of our family to worry about. Both of our fathers are suffering with memory problems. Leo's mother has been diagnosed with Korsakov's syndrome, and does not know him. My parents continue to hang on the brink of divorce. Leo's sister has had awful financial difficulties. My grandmother battles through her health problems, but trying to imagine life without her fills me with dread. My sister Alba is the only one of the three of us siblings without a degree, yet has the best career and is about to buy a house with her partner. I keep having to borrow money from my mother's pension, which causes me great shame. Her poor relationship with Leo continues to put me in the middle of a strained, awkward situation. I have not slept through the night in over a year. There is no respite and no hope that I can see.

My counsellor has given me two sets of homework so far. First, she gave a me a mood diary to keep for a week. It turned out to be one of those rare "good" weeks, with only one bad day. With Christmas nearing, I had a lot to do, and it kept my mood level. My second assignment, however, has been less easy to maintain. She asked me to do one thing a day that I enjoy, which in theory should have been easy. Visiting my parents over the festive period made it almost impossible. Christmas for my family revolves around food and television, and there is often a sense not so much of togetherness as there is of claustrophobia - made all the worse this year by the cluttered and cramped state of the house my grandmother and aunt share, which is where I have spent every Christmas of my life. The gifts I worked so hard to make by hand seemed to disappoint their recipients, and by lunchtime of Christmas Day all I wanted was to run back home to Leo and his dad.

Luckily, Christmas comes but once a year, and home brings enough freedom to do the best I can do for myself. Leo has recently been referred to a psychiatrist himself - not a moment too soon - but he is still my greatest comfort and my best friend. Having someone that understands you completely, even if they cannot always lend you the best support, is a great gift. Having a neutral party to turn to for that support is even greater. It's too early to know whether I feel stronger for it, but the potential is there. I am lucky.

Guilt

A little after midnight, Leo and I were walking home from Pops' place when we were accosted by a homeless woman, asking for spare change. I was made redundant last year from a job helping the homeless, so my heart immediately went out to her.  My experiences have taught me that homeless people generally fall into two categories: good people who have suffered disastrously bad luck, and horrible people who have created their own situation and deserve nothing better. This lady certainly fell into the former. She was polite and sweet, and I felt awful as I rummaged in my wallet, knowing that I had no change to give her.

She thanked us anyway, and we started to walk again. My feet dragged. I couldn't leave this person out here with nothing while I was going home to my fridge and my cats and my bed. I could just as easily have been in her situation had it not been for meeting Leo. So I stopped.

"Can we invite her back to ours?" I asked Leo.

We both turned around and invited the lady to walk with us to our flat. She politely declined - she had somewhere to go but was having trouble getting there. Once again, she thanked us, and we wished her well as we went on our way again. I walked faster than before, my conscience clear. I had done the right thing.

Guilt is my constant watchman, my personal plague. I am convinced that whatever I say or do will hurt someone, and I cannot abide that thought. The slightest wrong-doing on my part causes sleepless nights and seemingly endless embarrassment. I apologise for every action, just in case. Leo tells me off for apologising too much and it makes me feel worse, knowing that I have offended him so.

It horrifies me to think of my family worrying over my state of mind. I sit in my flat,  unable to do anything with my life, afraid to go outside, draining the resources of others. My university degree is being wasted, along with all the investment I and my parents put into it. My talents gather cobwebs in corners, unused and all but forgotten. And poor Leo! He has to live with my doubts and fears along with all his own troubles. For all I want to help him, my fears of hurting him further prevent me from doing what I know I should.

Thus the cycle continues, the ouroboros of guilt feeding into itself. I have long since given up hope of freeing myself from its grip; there is no way out of it that I can see.

Fire

Leo is made of fire. He radiates, he smoulders. People are either drawn to him like moths to a flame, or scared of being burned. At his best, he is a storm candle, a lantern, a glowing fireplace from which to draw comfort. At his worst, he is a raging inferno, bent on fury and destruction until his energy is spent. Yet he is energy, composed of it and adept at manipulating it. He gives it freely to those he loves without a thought for himself. Those who love him in return wish he would direct his flow inward from time to time, but how do you tell a wildfire to change direction?

I saw all this in Leo when we first met, before we had spoken a word to each other. I couldn't articulate it then as I can now, but even on first meeting he was as magnetic as though he were the centre of the universe and I had no choice but to gravitate toward him. In crowds of strangers he becomes the centre of attention, the campfire that all the happy scouts sit and sing around and roast marshmallows over. He has an innate talent, of which I am certain that he is barely aware, in bringing out the best in others. He makes you feel cool, accepted and important. That was how he made me feel during our first conversation, and I see that feeling in the new friends he makes.

A counsellor once told me that people in social situations generally fall into two categories: givers and takers. Leo is a giver, first and foremost. There is no doubt that he revels in the attention he gets, but he feels rejection acutely, much as he feels shame when he lavishes his attentions on those undeserving of it. When all one's energy is directed outward, there can be nothing left to make sense of oneself - that is his downfall. Like me, Leo suffers from depression, but his springs from a source quite different to mine; in many respects, his comes from the opposite direction.

Sadness and anger are two sides of the same coin. Sadness is negative emotion internalised; anger is externalised negativity. My sadness fills me up inside, and the occasions that I burst or overflow are private affairs, whereas Leo has difficulty keeping his anger in check. His GP says that she has never known a patient so angry. To his credit, his anger has never turned into violence, but he finds it impossible not to express his emotions. He has never been able to lie to me about his moods. His demeanour, his posture, his tone all leave him an open book. I have learned over time how and when to approach him when his eyes are burning and his mouth is full of smoke, and I have learned when the flames are too high for me to come near. His state of mind suffuses him entirely; his flame may constantly change size but it is always visible.

For my part, I cannot say whether my presence in his life has pacified or enraged him. If Leo is fire then I am air, both the fuel to his flame and the gale to extinguish him entirely. In a lifetime of playing peacemaker, I have never been able to find the middle ground to his inner conflicts. Perhaps this is only right; only he can find peace, if that is indeed what he wants. He has often told me that he needs me more than I need him, to give him direction and control. If truth be told, I need him more than I could tell him. To be loved is a great responsibility, and Leo has never dealt with being loved very well. But he gives me warmth and courage. I am braver and better for knowing him. If not for him, I would have been more acutely depressed much longer ago. Perversely, he feels responsible for my depression. He is convinced that he has caused it by bringing his problems into our relationship, and I cannot change his mind. Leo's fire lends him a great deal of stubbornness; once the flame is lit, it cannot be changed - only extinguished.

I love and admire him immensely. He moves and frustrates me equally, but I could not be without him. Trying to instigate as big a change in our relationship as I did has taught me this. Nothing has changed except the terms by which we refer to each other; if anything, our break-up has merely been an exercise in balancing our inseparability with individual freedom. I needed to stop smothering him as much as he needed to burn ever more brightly. Leo is unpredictable and dangerous, but a life without him would be dark and cold.

Cleanup

Leo and I cleaned up Truman's newly vacated room. Leo stacked the remainder of Truman's belongings on the bed, then fell over something and broke his toe, putting him out of action. He wouldn't put ice on the swelling, and spent the rest of the day alternating between swearing profusely and talking nonsense through a haze of codeine.

The vacuum cleaner broke down once and for all, pitiful specimen that it was, so it was me and my asthma against the carpet of dust, crumbs and cigarette ash Truman had so thoughtfully left behind. Thankfully our flat has laminate floors throughout, so all it took was a broom, a Swiffer, several inhaler breaks and a long string of curses.

With the hard work out of the way, I was able to set up my beloved Wii once more, complete with balance board and yoga mat. I rewarded myself with an evening of BBC shows via the Wii, with a pile of crochet in my lap and Lola, the youngest cat, asleep amid the stacks on the bed.

I despise feeling angry - I have never found a way to express it constructively - but Truman's actions have enraged me. I am used to people in this city being mercenary, being selfish, yet having that sort of behaviour in one's home feels like a violation. We took Truman in when he had nowhere to go, yet as soon as another opportunity came along, he dropped Leo and I like a hot potato. We still cannot contact him, yet his belongings are still in our home. If he ever paid us rent, as per our agreement when he moved in, I certainly haven't seen any of it. He left the flat with no warning, no thanks, and no thought to the trash he left behind him.

This is not the first time that Leo and I have offered hospitality, only for it to be abused. But coming from Truman, this hurts - Leo especially. He often defended Truman to me, particularly through the trauma we all went through when he first moved back in. They have been best friends for years; in his desire to create a family around himself, Leo often called him "brother". After the many betrayals and upheavals he has experienced since I have known him, Truman was his last remaining "brother".

Just this once, I am able to look past what I fear is a burgeoning addiction to painkillers in Leo. In his situation, I would want to shroud myself from reality too; from personal experience, codeine is a short and sure route to comforting illusion.

Crochet and television have put some time between myself and my anger, but I wish they were so effective at solving the underlying problem. This is the second time that Truman has made my home feel unsafe and unwelcoming to me. My home is my refuge from the outside world and all the people in it that scare me so much, and this sense of violation I now feel does all sorts of damage to my state of mind. Truman never considered the effect of his leaving on my depression, just as he never considered how the state he left his room in would affect my asthma. Having written about his tendency toward self-destruction, it deeply grieves me to have to write now about his destructivity toward the people that care about him. Neither Leo nor I can tolerate any more destruction than that which this year has already brought us.

Before medicating himself, Leo told me he was washing his hands of Truman. Knowing what that must have cost him to say proves how deeply Truman's offence runs. A few days ago, I feared for his future. Now, I only hope that he can lie in the bed he's made.

Depression

Every day I wake up without a plan, without a routine. I drift through the day, hour by hour, unable to see what lies beyond the next few minutes. There are things I should be doing - in the back of my mind, I know this - but they all seem unimportant, as if they belong to someone else. Yet when someone asks me to do something, I'll do it right away. Pleasing other people, you see, is my priority. And there are seven billion people on the planet, so it'll be a long time before I get around to pleasing myself.

Every day I remember how things used to be, and wonder when it went wrong. I look out of the window and imagine what it might feel like to be unafraid to go outside on my own. I hear parties going on in the houses around me and try to remember, unsuccessfully, the last gathering I attended at which I didn't feel frightened or claustrophobic. I see people getting on with their lives and smiling at each other, and I envy them. I am a drain on all of them, soaking up their hard-earned taxes, and I feel useless and guilty by turns.

Every day ends with the thought that I've wasted yet another one. The light goes out and I lie awake in bed, staring into the dark and willing sleep to come. Most nights it does, but never easily. I used to be scared to sleep without a light on, but lately being alone in the dark seems to be the only thing I get right about my day.

Some days I forget myself entirely. I forget to eat and I forget to sleep. My hair goes unbrushed and my toes are cold all day because I forget to wear socks. My roommates have conversations with me, and I forget them the instant we stop talking. I forget to answer questions. I forget to attend appointments. Worst of all, I forget to take my meds.

Some days I feel close to okay. Items on my to-do lists get checked off. I pay the bills without panicking. I can walk to the shop across the street or the pharmacy round the corner alone and with a smile on my face. My memory starts working, and living my life doesn't seem so difficult after all.

Some days I cannot face people at all. I do not pick up the telephone or answer the door to visitors or log into social networks. I dare not even look out of the window for fear of someone making eye contact with me. I close the blinds and draw the curtains and stay inside where I know it's safe.

Some days I stay in bed and cry all day for no reason.

Some days my head is filled with silence like cold water, and I want nothing more than to die and let everyone else be happy without me to ruin it for them.

I remember how it was to feel happy, to feel normal, but I can no longer summon up these feelings. I used to know what life was and to enjoy it whilst I could. Now, my existence seems like a slow, protracted death. There is only myself for company, and I do not like myself very much at all.