I’m coming to the conclusion that mental illness is going to be with me for the rest of my life, however long that is. It’s like someone has flicked a switch or my brain has blown a fuse and I can’t reset. I think it’s now eight long years of depression and anxiety. Each a potent flavour of pain that really drains you.
I’m not happy. Don’t get me wrong, I’m not drowning in sorrow, or burning with anger, but I’m not joyous either. I’m just…flat. Not in a content way. It’s more of an emptiness. When I was a kid I used to really look forward to things, or get a nice twinge in my stomach anticipating something really exciting. Nowadays, my anticipation is only ever nervousness or dread. I’ve got that big meeting on Tuesday – will I be able to get through it? Can I handle the driving I need to do at the weekend? I function, and that’s about it. It’s kind of embarrassing. My anxiety has crippled me to the point that I have to congratulate myself on managing small tasks that most people wouldn’t give a second thought to.
If this sounds like whining, trust me, I don’t feel sorry for myself. I don’t ‘deserve better’. Why would I? The world doesn’t work like that. Some people have a great time, and others don’t.
I’m having to work quite hard to stay safe at the moment. I told my therapist that I don’t expect to make it to thirty.