10 … 9 … 8 … 7 … Sh*t

In 10 days my home country is set to depart from the European Union. As a British expat living and working in Belgium, this is a period of grave uncertainty for me.

Like most expats, both British and mainland European, living and working within the EU28, I’m still unsure about what the 29th of March will mean for me or them.

Will I be able to stay in my newly found second city? Or will I have to pack my bags on March 29th and bid farewell to the place I’ve called home for the last 6 months? Will the deadline for departure be extended until June, so I can live on borrowed time and in denial for a little longer? Or will we actually leave at all?

In short the will we won’t me of the situation is driving me a bit barmy, I hate the uncertainty. Not just this uncertainty, but all uncertainty. A somewhat ironic notion, as I love spontaneity.

A realisation I made a month ago, during an impromptu visit from a former colleague and friend, where a bottle of red wine on a Friday night resulted in a weekend trip to Amsterdam, the following day, because “Flixbus tickets are only €10!”

Following the 3 hours coach journey, we arrived in the Netherlands and I was washed over with a sense of calm. I often feel this way when I visit different cities and countries, despite the fact I often don’t speak/know the language, I’m usually alone, and my entire life in that moment is dependent on my mobile phone and EU data roaming.

As an anxiety sufferer who has struggled with my identity and finding clarity of thought throughout my life, arriving in an unknown place without understanding should probably feel me with dread, but it doesn’t. I didn’t realise this, until I saw that expected dread in another person.

I began to question why someone with my past life and current experiences, that could make up enough content for at least three series of a tabloid talk shows, was so calm with uprooting myself and placing myself in an unknown place without understanding.

After a day of thought the answer was simple: I inject cultivated chaos into my life which allows control over uncertainty, because I have chosen to place it there, and it is not something that is being done to me without my consent. If my world is going to be uncertain, I want to be the one to make it so. I want to find method in the madness and order in the chaos.

Unfortunately for me, and many people like me this isn’t always possible. Currently my external and internal being is uncertain, and I hate it.

I have a tri-factor of mental illnesses, which I attempt to subdue with a small yellow pill each night, but this doesn’t equate to the certainty that I’m not going to wake up screaming soaked in sweat because I had a flashback, because the chemicals of my subconscious decided to put on a private show of my nightmares and my memories … again.

These flashbacks of course stemming from the memories of uncertain things, which went against my individual autonomy and resulted in such a impactful mental blow it manifested as PTSD.

As someone whose internal being is so often against them, I often look to my external surroundings to find grounding in my life, but in this suspended moment that looks to be impossible.

My country is a shambles heading over a cliff’s edge into uncharted waters without a paddle or even a boat for that matter, and I find myself feeling hopeless and scrambling for something to hold onto in order to protect myself as my world descends further into madness. I don’t know what March 29th will bring, but I hope I can survive it.


If you’re experiencing similar mental health related thoughts or feelings to those expressed in this post, it’s okay to reach out for help. You can find information about what mental health crisis services are available, how they can help and their times of operation here: https://www.mind.org.uk/information-support/guides-to-support-and-services/crisis-services/useful-contacts/


Is it more acceptable to be blackout, than blue?

I’m pleased to say that my dry January of 2019 was a success, not a single drop of alcohol entered my system for the whole month, even when temptation reared its head. I haven’t stayed sober in 2019, having had a few social events where an open bar and want to let loose have taken over.

Having abstained and indulged in alcohol this year I’ve come to realise a few things about myself:

  • I drink when I’m anxious, I drink heavily when I’m anxious, as someone with severe anxiety I’m anxious a lot;
  • I drink so I have an excuse to act out of character and a bit wilder than usual, alcohol gives people an excuse to let their inhibitions free – say what they like and do what they like all under the guise of ‘sorry, I was drunk;’
  • I still have blue days when I’m sober;
  • Other people will have a bigger problem with you not drinking, than you have with not being able to drink;
  • My social life revolves around beer and wine;
  • My nationality influences my relationship with alcohol greatly, and people expectation of it.

Circling back to the top of that list, anxiety, particularly social anxiety is a big problem for me.

Crowds freak me out. People freak me out. Life freaks me out. Since I was a teenager social situations fill me with dread, not because I dislike them but because I am convinced that people don’t actually want me there. 

You could probably link this back to an early childhood memory of mine, where I distinctly remember my two closest friends at the time running away from me under the pretence of play, often leaving me in tears on the other side of the playground, feeling rejected and abandoned, having spent a few minutes running after them – my small stature and naturally non-athletic ability rendering me fairly easy to leave behind. This memory has stuck with me throughout my life, and resurfaces when I experience similar moments in my adult life almost two decades later. 

As an adult, I realise that social events are necessary if you want to avoid becoming a hermit. Particularly when you live almost 400 kilometres/200+ miles away from home, away from your closest friends and family, away from the comforts, and the routine you had spent years crafting and altering to suit your needs.

However, like most people I’m still marked by the memories of my past, I still fear rejection from my peers so often find myself appearing rather defensive or cold as a means of protecting myself. In order to counteract my anxiety in social situations, I drink – because drinking is a socially acceptable coping mechanism, staring at people awkwardly from the corner, wide eyed, like a deer in the headlights, is not.

Even when you drink until you drunk dial your exes and wake up with hangover that feels like a 4am hotel fire alarm, realising that the pharmacies are shut and wanting nothing more than to crawl up and die, this isn’t considered as odd; when compared to saying that your anxiety is kicking your arse, your fight or flight is having a domestic in your brain, and you’re finding it difficult to breathe.

The month I didn’t drink was hard. I didn’t have a social crutch, and it was noticeable. People noticed I wasn’t drinking, and people questioned it. Part of the reason I chose to do ‘dry January’ was because it was a pre-existing premise, so I thought it would removed at least some of the questioning, but it didn’t. I still found myself explaining that the reason for my choice to not drink was because I wanted to see how it affected my mental health, which made for a very awkward set of conversations, because mental health still carries a very negative stigma which often makes people feel uncomfortable.

Another thing I realised in my month of sobriety was that the blue days didn’t disappear, as I was hoping they would. I hoped that not drinking would be the cure all to my depression, an easy fix if you will. Unfortunately, there is no easy fix to depression. It doesn’t go away overnight, and is something that many people struggle with throughout their lives.

I did however realise that drinking when I was blue exasperated my negative thoughts and feelings, turning pale false spring skies into the depths of an inky ocean, the monster within it spiralling in my mind and tormenting me until my emotions leaked out of me like waves crashing against the shore line in the midst of a tempest, toppling unsuspecting (relation)ships and swallowing them whole, with no remnants left behind.

I’ve suspected this correlation for a while but never really addressed it, the fear of being ostracised from the social circles which I’m desperately trying to infiltrate due to my loneliness has blinded me somewhat from this reality. However, following an unexpected visit from a friend last week, a spontaneous trip to Amsterdam, and a string of sunshine days following I have been able to see more clearly, and I hope this clarity will allow me to tackle life’s obstacles head on, from the root. Disregarding the opinion of others, and the societal expectation which I am supposedly meant to adhere to. I live for me and only me, I care for the people around me and who are in my life, but ultimately I take centre stage in my reality. 


If you’re experiencing similar thoughts or feelings to those expressed in this post, it’s okay to reach out for help. You can find information about what mental health crisis services are available, how they can help and their times of operation here: https://www.mind.org.uk/information-support/guides-to-support-and-services/crisis-services/useful-contacts/ 


 

Blue

If you have known me for more than a month, it is likely you’ve seen me on a ‘blue day’ – a period of time (sometimes a day, sometimes longer) where my depression and anxiety are royally kicking my arse, and I find it near impossible to cope.

During this time my insecurities manifest to point where I am convinced that I am sub-human, everyone secretly hates me, and I’d be better off if I just removed myself from the equation of life.

I also become insecure about the fact that I’m feeling depressed and anxious again, and am probably irritating my nearest and dearest with my apparent inability to be a happy person, instead I’m stuck in a seemingly endless loop of sadness, despite my best efforts.

My blue days are not always obvious, in fact I hide them quite well. Over the past few years I have created a facade of being a happy, smiley, confident person, which makes them almost undetectable.

Most people know about my blue days because I talk about my blue days. This is a recent revelation, which came about due to my hope, that by admitting my vulnerabilities, insecurities and flaws they could not be used against me, as well as being tired of pretending to be okay.

My platonic loved ones often tell me how much I mean to them; I am told I am brave, strong, beautiful, funny, admirable, smart, loyal, kind, as well as many other positive attributes either based on my personality or my appearance, unfortunately if I’m having a blue day I do not see this.

On a blue day I am in fact incapable of seeing this. On a blue day my internal vision is clouded by every negative thought, feeling, and experience I have gone through, I try to filter it out but the filter usually breaks, and the blue hue rushes over me, leaving me stained and bruised.

It’s a constant battle between myself and my own brain and it’s exhausting – a bit like playing Street Fighter when you and your mate want to both play as Ryu, so you end up playing Ryu v Ryu, and inevitably end up yelling at the screen because you can’t differentiate which Ryu is your Ryu, and you know it would have been far easier if you just played as Ken v Ryu, or Sagat v Zangief, or something, but instead it’s you v you, so you’re stuck in a paradox, scrambling for a way out.

Unfortunately, I have also found that my blue days are a breaking point for a number of people, and has laid waste to numerous relationships in my life, mostly romantic.

I have struggled with romantic relationships since my adolescence, having been bullied for my appearance in both my teenage and adult life, and having been in a series of emotional and physically abusive relationships, it’s often difficult for me to view myself as desirable. Adding to this the times where I have been desired romantically have been marred with ignorance, racism, and fetishism, which has made me sceptical that I will every truly find someone who loves me for me.

I often hear that in order to find love, you must first love yourself – that you have to be more confident, more positive, more … just more, but why do we always need to be more than who we are? Why can’t we be insecure, why can’t we be vulnerable, why can’t we be flawed? Why can’t we openly be shaped by our past?

People are not perfect, far from it in fact, so why are we so hellbent on pretending that we are?


If you’re experiencing similar thoughts or feelings to those expressed in this post, it’s okay to reach out for help. You can find information about what mental health crisis services are available, how they can help and their times of operation here: https://www.mind.org.uk/information-support/guides-to-support-and-services/crisis-services/useful-contacts/ 


 

Eternal clouds of the anxious mind

Three weeks ago I moved to Brussels.

In the process of doing so I left behind my friends, my family, my hometown, and my sense of security and comfort.

I have moved cities once before, when I was 14. It was a move I did not want to make, but as a child at the time I did not have a choice in the matter.

Once I regained autonomy of my life and its decisions, I moved back to my hometown, after being accepted to study at the University of the Arts. I was the first person in my family to attend university, so for me this was a big deal.

Looking back at this moment, I harbour some regret.

I often feel that I should have moved further afield for university, like many of my friends did, although I have come to accept that at the time this was the right decision for me.

Eight months prior to starting university, I experienced the most traumatic experience of my life. An experience which altered my life permanently, and almost cost it entirely.

The fallout of this trauma includes; a criminal proceeding, countless therapy sessions, numerous suicide attempts, five years (and counting) of anti-depressants, flashbacks, panic attacks, breakdowns, homelessness, and a medical diagnosis for PTSD, major depression, and severe anxiety.

A difficult and trying adolescence/early twenties, with few constants, meant that my hometown, of London, became my safety blanket. The decision to leave it behind was an arduous one to say the least.

Although, over the past couple of years, I have felt like I have lost touch with my hometown. I used to know London like the back of my hand, and it made me feel safe.

However, following the Brexit Referendum and subsequent occurrences since, I began to feel like home was no longer my home. The negative aspects of my life seemed to become more prevalent, and so did my desire to escape my life there.

I applied for my traineeship in March, and was officially accepted in August. After securing a career break, I packed my worldly possessions into a storage unit (filtering out two suitcases of ‘essentials’), said goodbye to my friends, my family, and my home, and set off for Brussels, the new city which would act as my surrogate home.

Unfortunately since arriving I have started to experience increased feelings of fear, sickness, and hopelessness.

I felt fear when I first arrived, not knowing a single soul and not speaking either of the primary languages, served as a stark reminder that I was no longer surrounded by the familiarity of home, and that I was alone.

I felt sickness a week prior to moving, I began showing physical symptoms of ill health, centering around stomach pain and seemingly random bruising, which I attributed to stress. However, once I arrived the symptoms continued, and although they could be due to the stress of moving, I am concerned that they may be a sign of something far more sinister.

The hopelessness came following the sickness and the fear, as my anxiety and depression have worsened. I spent the last two days confined to the walls of my Airbnb, mainly sleeping and binge watching Netflix series. I’m at a loss of thought, I’m honestly not sure if I’ll survive this chapter in my life.

Looking over the trajectory of my life, through my adolescence and my adulthood, do things really get better with time?


If you’re experiencing similar thoughts or feelings to those expressed in this post, it’s okay to reach out for help. You can find information about what mental health crisis services are available, how they can help and their times of operation here: https://www.mind.org.uk/information-support/guides-to-support-and-services/crisis-services/useful-contacts/ 


 

Travel, stereotypes, and being a coconut.

If you follow me on social media you may have seen that I spent the first 2 weeks of July country hopping in Eastern Europe and Germany.

Following the breakdown of a long term relationship in 2016, I subsequently was bitten by the travel bug, and have since visited 18 different cities (19 if I count the hour spent in the Eurostar terminal in Brussels).

In other words I embarked on a budget friendly, I’m a 20 something renting in London, and trying to maintain a full-time job, version of ‘Eat, Pray, Love.’

Travelling for me, like many things I do, is not only a way for me to broaden my view of the world – learning about new cultures, people, and experiences – it’s ultimately a way for me to understand myself and who I am, and how I fit within the society that surrounds me.

Figuring out who I am and what my place is in society is not a new concept to me, it is one I’ve struggled with my entire life.

I’ve previously written about growing up in British Indian household, and have touched upon aspects of my less than ideal childhood, from the stigma surrounding mental health in the South Asian community and also my relationship, or lack thereof, with my estranged father.

However, I’ve never really spoken openly and honestly about my experience growing up between two cultures, and how this has shaped the person I am today.

In an ideal world both my cultures would coexist peacefully, my Britishness and Indianness would no conflict in the slightest, and they most certainly wouldn’t lead to a conflict of existence in my inner being, more articulately describes as an identity crisis, which fuelled most of my childhood, adolescent, and early adulthood angst.

For me growing up with two cultures often meant choosing sides or being stuck in the middle, there was rarely a neutral point, I was either one of the other but never both.

Memories of my childhood visits to my father’s family in Yorkshire mainly consist of judgement and disappointment from my extended family over my apparent failure of not being Indian enough, and or appearing/behaving too ‘Western’. Visits often included questioning by various aunts and uncles over my ability to speak and understand Gujarati (my mother tongue) – with my elementary grasp of it often being considered a betrayal against my heritage, which was often accompanied by negative comments on my appearance and attire due to my choice of jeans and t-shirt over a ‘traditional’ salwar kameez.

On the other side of this, I spent a majority of my school years as a spectacle for my peers to examine, the curious minds of children never ceasing to amaze as well as the ignorance of some teachers – which I would grow to become amazed at and wished would cease. Each wrongly directed “namaste”, “I wish I had a tan like yours,” “when did you come over to England?” and “but where are you really from?” starkly reminding me that I was different and didn’t quite fit into their predetermined idea of what was British.

It didn’t take me long to realise that in the eyes of my family I was too ‘Western’ to be a proper Indian, and in the eyes of my British peers I was too brown to be a proper Brit. I was a ‘coconut’, stuck in the middle of constant reminders that I wasn’t enough of either of the two cultures I’d grown up in to be considered a legitimate part of them.

The separation I felt between the two cultures worsened following the breakdown of my parent’s marriage when I was 9. As I has opted to stay with my British-born mother as a opposed to my Indian-born father, I found myself assimilating with my British surroundings more and more, as our tie with the Indian community I had grown up knowing was severed – due to my mother’s apparent ‘unthinkable’ and subsequently ‘unforgivable’ act in their eyes (this act being my mother’s bravery to stand up to a man who was meant to love her but instead forced her to live in constant fear of him, through a myriad of psychological and physical abuse).

We were ostracised and isolated. I still had my melanin and my name, but my connection to that part of me was lost. As I had been shunned by my family and community I began acting in ways directly opposed to their values, I shortened my name to make it less Arabic sounding, I denounced my childhood faith becoming a kaffir, I started drinking alcohol with my British friends, and at 19 I got my first tattoo.

However, despite all these acts I was still a ‘coconut’. Instead of appearing British, I was just a non-traditional Indian girl who drunk and had tattoos, I still didn’t quite fit in.

The constant reminders of my otherness was apparent in multiple aspects of my life, from going to the shop to buy a pint of milk and explaining my entire family background to the shopkeeper out of politeness, to the backhanded compliments and fetishism that would paint my love life (my earliest encounter of this being at the age of 12, where I was informed by a boy in my year that none of the other boys would be as “open minded” as him as to like a brown girl).

To this day, dating and romance often comes with a caveat, usually accompanied by overthinking on my part. I spend a lot of the time wondering if someone genuinely likes me for who I am, or whether they hoping I fit a preconceived set of of stereotypical traits they think I have (which I will inevitably disappoint).

The constant exposure to phrases and sentences like “sari seduction”, “Asian persuasion”, “I’ve always had a thing for brown girls”, “I bet you make a great curry”, and a multitude of Kama Sutra references that I’m not even going to start on, have left me weary and skeptical about love (although I still remain a hopeless romantic despite this).

However, the more I travel, the more places I visit, the more people I meet, and the more cultures I am exposed to, the broader my view of the world has become.

I’ve come to realise that for every person who says I don’t belong, there is always another who says I do, and this has given me hope.

I wish I could say I’m no longer affected by the commentary which comes with being British Indian, but I would be lying.

Although, I am confident in referring to myself as both British and Indian despite growing up with the two cultures conflicting and I’ve learned that I don’t need acceptance from others to be myself, and I certainly do not need their permission.

Harry Potter, caramel cardigans, tumeric, and stigma

My morning routine is pretty standard; I wake up to the sound of my alarm ‘flow’ and try to figure out why I’m still so tired, despite using my sleep aids. I listen out for the creaks and squeaks of the stairs and door hinges and wait for the shower to free up, I do my make up, sometimes attempting a cat eye, which often looks like I’ve framed my eyes using a Sharpie instead of with the intended subtle flick, and then I do my hair.

Until a few months ago I only wore my hair parted to the side, this was in part due to style trends but also due to two insecurities. The first being a squint in my left eye, which has since been surgically corrected, and the second, a scar in the middle of my forehead at the start of my hairline.

My forehead scar unlike Harry Potter’s doesn’t have a cool backstory about battling ‘he who shall not be named’ as a infant and bringing about a whole epic saga involving trolls and magical goblets; for starters my scar is sort of an oval shape, as opposed to a lightning bolt, and I didn’t get it from sacrificial motherly shield love, I got it running on wet cobblestones on the way to school.

Like many of my memories I remember moments of it in vivid detail but have trouble recalling other parts, often drifting between interpreted memories and real ones.

This is what I remember: I was on my way to primary school with my mum, it was Spring and raining heavily, I was running ahead of her (perhaps with excitement as school was a place I enjoyed in my early childhood), I came to the cobblestone path near the green space on our route and slipped forward, unable to break my fall I smashed headfirst onto the path.

My mum screamed to the heavens and held my caramel cardigan to head in an attempt to subdue the bleeding, I began to cry once I noticed I was bleeding and my mum attempted to comfort me. She took me to my school, where my headteacher, Ms Peacock, advised that the nearby doctors surgery may be able to help, unfortunately because this was not my registered surgery we were turned away. My mum took me home, and after explaining to my dad what had happened, he placed tumeric on my cut in order to heal it.

Growing up, in a British Indian household, it was commonplace to favour natural remedies to treat ailments; echinacea and homemade masala chai were often used to treat cold or flu, seeking help from an actual doctor was often a last resort, and was often discouraged if the treatment could be replaced by a herbal alternative in order to keep sanctity in the community.

For a wide variety of ailments natural remedies do have their benefits, to this day I still make masala chai every time I have a congested cold, but some ailments require a bit more than tea and spices to fix.

Speaking from personal experience, my elders held particularly damaging views of mental health. Often if someone was mentally unwell, the supernatural and superstition were often cited as the causation for it. Growing up I often heard stories about relatives in India who been possessed by a ‘djinn’ as cautionary tales, their mental instability tarring them with the derogatory term of ‘pagal’. A chemical imbalance in the brain or trauma was often complete devoid from any reason as to why the person was suffering, and instead they were often ostracised by the community because of it.

I was 13 when my mum first took me to the doctor for my mental health, she had found and read my diary which described my first documented thoughts of suicidal ideation and depression, at the time I was being bullied at school to the point where I was told by one person to “go die in a fire” after I revealed I had a crush on them, and added to that my home life was particularly turbulent due to my parents’ divorce. Sitting in the doctor’s office with my mum, I felt ashamed, embarrassed and betrayed, as my mum explained to the doctor that she didn’t know what to do and that most Indian families wouldn’t come to the doctor for help, but we weren’t like most Indian families and she didn’t know what to do. This was her last resort.

No constructive help came from that appointment, the doctor said due to my age it was most likely hormone related, and my mum declared that the end of it. I stopped keeping a diary, fearful it may be found, and I buried my emotions, bottling up my sadness until it erupted.

I was 15 when I made my first attempt on my life, I was in an abusive relationship at the time and I saw it as an escape. I made my second and third attempt when I was 20 and 21, again I saw these as a means of escape from the situation I was in at the time.

Following a doctor’s appointment after my second attempt, I found out this was in part due to my previously undiagnosed PTSD, depression and anxiety. My doctor commented that she was surprised no one had diagnosed me sooner, and also that many BAME people suffer from mental illness in the UK due to lack of sunlight. I was given a prescription of antidepressants. referred to a therapist, and put under the watchful eye of the mental health care team.

I was finally receiving the help I sought out almost a decade earlier. I often think back to sitting in that doctor’s office with my mum at 13. If there wasn’t such a damaging stigma of mental health in my community, would I have received the help I desperately needed sooner?

The stigma surrounding mental illness as something shameful or insignificant is incredibly damaging and is one that needs to go.


If you’re experiencing similar thoughts or feelings to those expressed in this post, it’s okay to reach out for help. You can find information about what mental health crisis services are available, how they can help and their times of operation here: https://www.mind.org.uk/information-support/guides-to-support-and-services/crisis-services/useful-contacts/


Wobbles and blips

On Thursday, I had a bit of a wobble with my mental health, and with my journey to improve it.

Following a large work event, myself and my colleagues went to a bar to unwind and celebrate a job a well done, a combination of anxiety, sleep deprivation, and not really having eaten anything all day resulted in myself becoming blackout drunk. I woke up the next morning having lost my phone and parts of my memory.

I’m too embarrassed and ashamed to ask what I did in those blackout moments, but whatever it was I deeply regret.

Over the past few months, I have been actively trying to avoid excessive alcohol consumption, after connecting it to heightened feelings of depression and suicidal ideation, especially when I am already feeling low.

Despite alcohol acting as a temporary break from my reality, once its effect have worn off I am left in an emotional pit of despair, catapulted back into the reality I was attempting to escape. Even though I know this in hindsight, I still have blips which blind me from common sense, resulting in situations like Thursday.

When I drink in excess my mind sets itself to autopilot. I’m unaware of how much I’m consuming until it’s too late, and I lose control of my reality, with my mind slipping somewhere else entirely.

When I drink like this I’m often in a situation where I feel uncomfortable, such as crowded or unfamiliar places where I feel out of place, this causes me to feel on edge and triggers my anxiety. In these situations I use alcohol to drown out my anxious thoughts and fears, and also to fit in with those around me. If my peers are drinking, I often will too. It’s unhealthy but in that moment it’s a mechanism to cope.

I think its a fair assumption that most people have a desire to fit in and be a part of a community, to be liked, and to be wanted. In order to do this we follow the status quo of whatever situation we find ourselves in, so that we are not ostracised or rejected, this can sometimes lead us to do dangerous or harmful things at our own expense.

I am not holding other people accountable for this desire, I have my own free will and am in control of my actions, but although I know I shouldn’t feel the need to change myself to fit in with others, it is often easier to assimilate, particularly when you are already different.

Throughout my existence, I have often heard that it is cool to be weird, that normal is boring, and having a brain that isn’t wired quite right is just a fun quirk.  An example of this being the portrayal of the ‘manic pixie dream girl’ in film and television, which often romanticises mental illness as a plot device for the protagonist to fulfil his role as the saviour.

In reality mental illness isn’t fun, quirky, or cool. It’s exhausting. I would love to have a normal brain; one that isn’t damaged in anyway, that’s chemically balanced, that isn’t deafeningly silent on some days, and an carnival of chaotic thought on others. I would love a brain that is calm and works in harmony.

However, I know that in my present state this isn’t a possible reality for me, there isn’t a quick fix that magics away my problems, some nerdy guy in a vintage band t-shirt isn’t going to swoop in and save me. If I’m going to survive I’m going to have to save myself.

I’m going to have to learn to control the wobbles and blips and to identify there causation, but I also need to accept that I’m human, and humans are flawed. Some days I’m going to have bad days, and that’s okay. I’m going to have wobbles and blips, and that’s okay. I’m not perfect, and that’s okay.

I will keep trying to identify my problems and also continue to work to overcome them. It’s a process of trial and error, but I hope that one day I will learn to control the darkness and the fragments in my mind.


If you’re experiencing similar thoughts or feelings to those expressed in this post, it’s okay to reach out for help. You can find information about what mental health crisis services are available, how they can help and their times of operation here: https://www.mind.org.uk/information-support/guides-to-support-and-services/crisis-services/useful-contacts/