I’m not going to edit this.
It’s 4:11am and I’m writing on my iPhone, so forgive me if it’s incoherent and shoddy.
I started this blog on 13th January, and uploaded my first post on 16th January. The New Year had left me feeling refreshed/revitalised and motivated, which is odd for me, as usually New Years cause me to re-evaluate my existence even moreso than usual; I become frightfully aware of time and what I’m doing (or more accurately not doing) with it.
But this year was going to be my year. I was going to make the most out of my second term at Uni considering how shite the first had been. I was going to join societies and make friends; maybe I’d even buy a camera and start that YouTube channel I’d been intending to create for a good couple of months. And yes, it’s only 3 months into the year, so I can technically still accomplish most of those things. 2017 isn’t a lost cause, yet.
Second term was horrific. Arguably, even shittier than the first term. If they took each other to court over who was the worst, as their lawyer, I could present a decent, reputable case on either side. But I’ve got to say, second term would probably come out on top, victorious.
My depression in second term grew exponentially worse. The ‘mental health advisor’ (fancy term for a counsellor) I see proclaimed that I was essentially not even functioning well enough for therapy; that I was so very depressed that I couldn’t even reach the level to express myself whereby the depression could be treated. Asking for help is so difficult for me that even when I’m in a setting and a context where the exact PURPOSE is to receive help, I still don’t know how to communicate it. ‘It’ being my feelings; my lack of feelings; my mindset; my plans; my past or present or future. I just don’t know what to say.
Over the past couple of weeks, I’ve held back from writing on this blog. And that’s because, when I’m feeling like this, all I can bring myself to write about is this. And, whether they’d admit it or not, that’s tedious to most people. Human beings like positivity; they are drawn to it like a moth to a flame, or a chubby kid to chocolate cake (or anyone to chocolate cake, to be honest). So I just haven’t been writing much at all. I think writers who suffer with something mentally all-consuming can relate to that state of mind, whereby all you feel compelled to write about is the way you’re feeling because it takes up so much of who you are and what you do. There’s a reason why that saying exists: ‘Write what you know.’
In my case, at times when all I know is self-loathing and emptiness, it seems almost insincere to write a film review or a recipe. Besides, nobody wants to hear how to ‘make’ takeaway curly fries doused in BBQ sauce and a small mountain of salt.
That’s not to say I don’t have ideas. I have tons of ideas. I have so many ideas for so many things, not just for this blog but for screenplays/plays/novels I want to write; films/documentaries I want to make; things I want to create; businesses I could start; places I want to go. Generating ideas has never been the issue for me. Bloody hell, if anything it’s just testament to how much of an overthinker I am; I’ve got ideas to spare. I’d be selling them on street corners or on the black market if I knew I could get a good price for them – God knows I need the fucking money.
There’s so many things that I want out of life, which is why having a debilitating mental illness is so frustrating. It’s not even that it solely prohibits you from ‘the big stuff’, like taking opportunities or boarding a plane. When it’s at a very intense, severe level, it can prohibit you from doing something as simple as getting out of bed; having a shower; eating a decent meal; writing a blog post.
Oops, I did it again. I cut (almost) all of my hair off the other day. It’s become somewhat of a ‘trademark’ Meah ‘thing’ now. I’m only 20 and I’ve been bald twice, and ‘rocked’ a buzzcut four times (including currently). It is – or at least should be – an indication of my seriously horrific mental state. When I cut my hair, it’s become my subconscious way of expressing, ‘Look, I seriously need some help now.’ Because clearly I’d rather chop off over a year’s worth of hair growth than actually verbally say anything to anyone. That’s not messed up at allllllll.
(The extremely hilarious and ironic thing is that I’ve never actually told anyone the reason behind the impulsive hairdos, so I probably just seem like a scissor-happy weirdo. Perhaps they think I just like the short hair. To be fair, I kind of do – I’ve grown accustomed to it. But essentially, each time the Big Chop happens, it’s an exercise in remorse and futility, because people don’t even understand my underlying intention. They don’t suddenly rush to my side with concern. They just say, ‘Oh. I preferred your Afro.’ Well, thanks, I did too.)
Anyway, I guess my point is, as someone pointed out in a very stating-the-obvious kind of way, I’m not in a good place at the moment. I’m starting to wonder if my mind will ever be a good place.