I think I’m losing count of the amount of times I use the phrase: ‘I’m in a bad place at the moment.’ How many bad places can there possibly be? (Answer: One. My brain.)
It’s exactly 2am now. For the past hour or so I’ve been listening to Dodie’s original songs, particularly 6/10. It’s playing in my left ear right now.
It probably doesn’t seem so but I’ve been trying really hard not to write too much about mental health on this blog; I never wanted or intended it to become an online diary or a misery fest. But, as I might have said before, I find it really difficult to write about other things when my mind is so far up sadness’ ass. So I may as well get it all off my chest now.
Today I had a breakdown at my GP appointment. She must have thought I was insane, I was sat there bawling hysterically, then I’d giggle mid-way through crying as though trying to balance my emotions out or pretend I was actually okay although I evidently wasn’t. That’s something I’ve noticed about myself. I always giggle when I depression-cry; the more intense the crying, the more intense the giggling. To be honest, I’m not entirely sure what I’m laughing at. Myself? My life? Does a funny video of a cat playing the piano pop into my head?
Anyway, I was prescribed Sertraline. The last time I was on medication was when I was 17; it was Fluoxetine and I absolutely hated it. The experience clearly deterred me from trying medication again, but for the past couple of months my perspective has changed and to be honest, at this point I’m willing to try anything.
I also wrote two songs today (yesterday, technically) but neither of them are anything to write home about. I’m getting quite a lot better at guitar, so I guess that’s good.
Part of the reason – scratch that – the overwhelming reason why I’ve been writing a lot less recently is because I feel inadequacy, I feel it like its a second layer of itchy skin. I’m started to question my entire life and everything I’ve ever thought I might be. Every day I feel blander and blander, less and less intelligent, more and more boring. I’d say it’s worse now than it’s ever been, this lingering sense of not being good enough, and there doesn’t seem to be any way of combating it. Whatever I do, I feel like I’m proving myself right. And if I am right, if I’m not cut out for any of this, where does that leave me?
The real confession isn’t any of the nonsense I’ve just written. It’s this: I barely watch films anymore. I’m talking like, I can go for weeks without watching one. In fact, I haven’t been an avid film-watcher for about a year and a half now. Bit ironic that this blog is called what its called then.
Ever since I was a toddler I’d always loved films. My sister and I grew up watching so many I’m surprised we weren’t terrified of getting those ‘square eyes’. We’d watch ‘The Hunchback Of Notre Dame’ religiously. I remember myself, my mum and my sister on makeshift ‘cinema nights’ where we’d stay at home cuddling under a blanket, munching our way through copious amounts of popcorn and sweets, watching film after film after film. I’d always loved the way a movie could make me feel such a variety of emotions; I loved the visual storytelling; I loved the drama or the horror or the romance or the humour; I loved everything about them. From the age of about 7 (about the time I started making little crappy films on Window’s Movie Maker) I knew I wanted to do something in the film industry, and as I got older, my love only grew deeper.
Films were something I felt so incredibly passionately about, and now I think I might have lost that passion. Or it’s at least dwindled significantly. I can’t tell you how much it hurts to write that. My heart physically felt heavier as I was typing that sentence, as though I could feel its disappointment. I want so badly to get that passion back. I want to experience that feeling again of a film temporarily curing all of my problems right up until the credits start to roll. Ever since I started studying Film academically, especially at University level, it just became another thing to criticize myself over. You’re not analysing it right! You’re not understanding the symbolism! Over time, it sucked all of the enjoyment out. The one thing I had left which couldn’t be invaded by the voice in my head was invaded; there was no more escapism; there was nowhere I could go to be free of real-life stress and self-disparagement.
I don’t really know. It’s 3:20am so I should probably get to sleep. I might delete this.