Do Not Be Frightened

Do Not Be Frightened

When I made a grand for every time that I heard the term "somebody has it worse than you," I probably would not be composing. I would be on a island somewhere with no internet and no arseholes and alive like a king dressed like Robinson fucking Crusoe!

Yes, there are individuals who have it worse than I do, however there's nothing I could do for them when the destructive tide of my mental disease frees me up and smashes my helpless head against the eroding stones of my destroyed life. Think about that for a minute. As analogies go, that's nearly like beating a homeless man to death with a bag full of money. That is actually not far in the present tone from which society sets its own criteria.

Nevertheless, it's not that the world depresses me. It does, but it is not the main reason behind my illness. Some people are just constructed incorrect. Their biological contraptions are not made to last or they suffer faulty wiring. I guess that the latter is me personally and as a result I probably care more than I need to when I have it in me to care. But depression for one is not just about feeling bad. Most often I feel nothing at all besides a constant feeling like I'm being crushed slowly to death by gravity.

And the funny thing about living with depression and anxiety is that what breaks at once, both your mind and the body suffer exactly the exact same aching feeling of despair and the more you live with this, the harder it is for messages to get back and forth between both. I'm a zombie.

I'm barely more than thirty and I have lived with it because my final years in high school. Until recently there wasn't much that did function. The majority of the time I felt like a hot corpse, wearing down the terrifying novelty of carrying up a lot of my mum's cash, patience, time and distance. And then on the better times I just felt like I had been twenty to thirty years old ahead of my period.

Simply to give you an concept about what I've lived together since my mid-teens, I have been suicidal off and on; thankfully largely off, in relation to urges. Some days your brain has a voice of its own and your feelings look utterly alien. If you do not do what that person says, it will try to find a means to act without your collaboration and that's a frightening thing - particularly when it shows you precisely how helpless you are against it.

Then there are the suicidal days where it isn't an urge or a voice but less or more a feeling of exhaustion so good you don't possess the will to rationalise from the irrational. You just sort of shuffle around, accepting that it's not going to end well, and you let it eat you since you haven't even the capacity to make choices. You can die rather than give a damn and that will be no significant loss.

Hearing about folks who have it worse doesn't make me want to fucking smile. If you feel otherwise, then clearly the wrong guy got sick!

If this account of current events sounds disjointed or dispassionate, please let me assure you this is not my purpose and it surely is not laziness. But I wanted to let you know about something which occurred between me and my sister Eve.

Admittedly it is a tiny bizarre one, but hey, that's Eve; my beautiful human being with a sister!

I could inform you about that which made me such a way. That might take a complete university study in itself in psychology and medicine, but as a result my immune system became perilously near non human as of hospital and late tests resulted in the discovery that the same goes to most of my other hormones.

I could hardly get it up to most of my twenties. Each one of the antidepressants left my behaviour pretty unpredictable and sometimes harmful, so we needed to try to find another route. Testosterone treatment made me barbarous also, so gradually I just slunk back into the same routine of living in a dark corner to not empty anymore of mum's savings, whatever was left.

Eve did not just hate to see me like that. She was terrified. Five years ago one of her closest friends out of the blue, threw herself into oncoming traffic. That put Eve to a melancholy but the tablets worked for her. I wasn't bitter in any way. I was grateful that using the mourning process leading up to coming from the funeral, she managed to recuperate over a matter of months. However, in all honesty understanding that she desired me shut and actually having the ability to help her made me feel someplace nearer to regular for a little while.

All of my life I have only ever cared for Eve so far I could tell her I love her and believe that it signifies something. I tell mommy exactly the exact same but - and this might appear odd considering - she is just mum. We have grown up with a regular of times and places when it was polite to say "love you, mum..."

Together with Eve, I inform her when I sense it and she does the exact same. We've always been really close. Some think we've always been closer than most sisters, regardless of the fact we seldom hang out (I am the only person as you can probably imagine).

So I couldn't bear to see her so upset, realizing that there was nothing that she could do. However, being that I fought urges I did not want and refused to accept, I needed to be brutally honest with her at some point or another. Her friend might have been helpless against her battle, but for whatever the reason, she lost the ball. Not that I phoned her greedy for it. However, it wouldn't have been selfish to ask for support either. Eve owed nothing.

What mattered to me then was that I'm there for her at which many other household would continue to keep their space and to wait for communication to occur rather than to direct her throughout her mourning. And part of me thought, if a buddy could have such effect, then what would I've done for her had I accepted my life?

We spent a 3 months leaning on one another, phasing in and out of consciousness through the dark days and poor weather. I let her cry on my shoulder before I had been moist with saltwater, until the mourning itself became a lot. Soon it was the perfect time to let go and to move on for her own sake.

But she wasn't happy about leaving me, as she placed it. I agreed that it was not reasonable that she could recuperate so easily and that I could not, but what would we do? We might happen to be peas in a rabbit although she was the best one. She said she would do anything for me.

Putin let's down on those army supply drops we inquired for. So I wasn't likely to become a millionaire any time soon. I asked her to quit being so smart and really go get a job at KFC therefore she could bring me chicken each night. To be honest, she wouldn't have suited the top and cover anyway, not after I have seen her at a teddy bear onesie.

Eve is five years younger than me and includes a few extra pounds, however in all of the perfect ways. She is the most appropriate for cuddles, that I never got enough of, until I get into where that story's led. She's well endowed (F cups I think) and kept her coating of puppy fat and made it work to her benefit.

She's a bouncy brunette, likes to wear her hair up and retains a pale tan throughout the year and she's the sexiest grin and brown eyes that have never been off limits to me personally. I love her dearly and it's always hurt me more to know that they are wasted on this stupid disease.

I often feel as though she must do it for me personally, and worry that she's left feeling she fails me when out her and proud love for me just does not do the trick. I am a lousy brother!


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