Self-Absorbtion August 5, 2010Posted by Lauren Cooke in Depression, Life, Chatter & Politics.
[NB: This was written on Monday, when I was really low. Following a fabulous night at the pub and lots of painting I am actually OK now, but I thought I may as well go ahead and post it since this is the first chance I have had to take my laptop into work and consequently have access to the internets for sharing it! As such, don’t worry about me, I’m fine!]
I hope that I am not making an overstatement when I say that I am not a bad person. I am flawed, of course, but we all are, and it is our imperfections that make us the unique, uniquely damaged people that we are. Overall, in the grand scheme of things, my imperfections are what makes me attractive to a rare few, and they are generally not deemed to be bad enough to make me completely unlovable.
It has been a while since I wrote anything on this blog, largely because I am in my new house, all by myself, with no internet. Work is manic, and my lunchtimes are filled with the ever enthralling task of writing handbag posts, so I barely have time to devour my strangely delicious soup (Coop’s own, in case you were wondering) in between hammering away at my keyboard.
Also, if I am honest, I have been struggling. Since last week or so I have felt myself falling into some un-recommended and generally avoided old rhythms. Feeling sad, and lonely, my natural response is, somewhat illogically, to isolate myself further. When life gets hard and I start to struggle, I have a tendency to cut off my lifelines, leaving me stranded and unable to discuss anything too far above the mundane. Interestingly, to most people I act happier than normal, joking away whilst underneath the surface I actually feel like I am drowning, losing my grip.
As for what set this off, I couldn’t give you a single cause. I could narrow it down to a few key events – two breakups, moving house, life changes and the general feeling that nothing seems to be going right. The fact that by accident I ran out of my prescription last week is almost definitely a factor – sertraline affects me extraordinarily fast, and if the withdrawal symptoms were anything to go by they were really changing my biology. As such, the pile up of life and medicine has left me feeling somewhat battered, not unlike a victim of that same pile up metaphor I just used. Still, no matter what the cause, now I am left with tugging myself out of the pit of self-hate and morbid thinking and into the light of day again. You know, to meet with the normal people.
I hate that this dire situation happens to me so often. I hate more that I can’t talk to it about anyone. I do my best not to mention it to Ben, because it shouldn’t be his place any more to have to look after me, although he has and no doubt will continue to try to do so. I can talk to it with my lovely friend’s from uni, but they are miles away and despite the most loving and tender intentions they can’t just up sticks to drive down various motorways to give me a cuddle. I can talk to my parents, but I don’t want to burden them with even more junk from me – they have been here for me exceptionally over the past few months and I feel there is a limit to my whining. Which may surprise some people, but hey, it just so happens to be that even exceptional whining skills have limits. I can’t talk to Piers, because he too has got himself out of the situation (just in time it seems). I did, for the first time that I can remember doing anything like this, send out a call for help to the girls around Leamington. This isn’t something I do often, and probably with good reason – only one girl got back to me, and no one could be there to come around and look after me when I was at my lowest.
So, I spent the evening alone. I watched DVDs, I read, I watched the TV. I sat and I stared at shadows, and I thought a lot of repetitive thoughts about how much I dislike myself and the situations I get myself into. Then I got to thinking that surely if I am not unbearably horrid, then my life isn’t really unbearably awful, then I should be able to just get up and carry on. Which, let me assure you, is what I always do. The only difference this time is that I am having to pick myself up, carry myself along. I can’t rely on anyone at all in my life to do it for me, I can only rely on me. And I’m the first to admit, I’m a bit flaky.
Still, never trust others to do that which you can do yourself.