Time is running out, something I always feel acutely aware of.  Right now, I am in a comfortable place, relying on the support of my parents, but my parents will not always be there to provide me with that support.  One day I will be on my own.

Being on my own frightens me.  I’ve never had much faith in myself to get things on track and do what needs to be done to provide a life for myself.  For a very long time my plan was to slowly vanish from the lives of my friends, wait until my parents were no more, and then I would kill myself.  That is not something I say casually, or for dramatic effect, it just seemed to be the simplest, most logical solution to my problems.

Sometimes I still feel that way, but there are parts of me, maybe increasingly, that want to do the difficult thing - to get things sorted out and become independent.  

A couple of years ago my Mother had a (second) cancer scare.  We didn’t know if she would be OK (thankfully she is and only slightly worse for wear), and for a long time my thoughts revolved around how sad it would be for her to leave behind a daughter that was so broken.  Even looking back on that now makes me incredibly emotional.  Don’t I owe it to this woman to sort myself out and be happy?

People who don’t know me very well always seem to be surprised if I tell them about my struggles with depression and anxiety.  ”But you come across as so normal!”.  Well yeah, it’s pretty easy for me to pretend to be absolutely fine for a couple of hours, and I’m grateful for it, because some people don’t even have that luxury.  I can’t keep it up forever though, and that’s what is on my mind at the moment.

I was brave, and I applied for a job this week.  Only the third time I’ve ever done it, and I couldn’t have done it without help and support from certain people (thank you, if you are reading this).  For most people this is the difficult part - the CV and then the interview…Having to make a good impression, come across as professional and likeable and competent.  I find it the easy part.  I know how to make a good first impression.  I dread actually getting the job, because then I have to keep it up and live up to that front I first put forward.

People say you fake it till you make it, but what happens if it never comes?

No man is an island entire of itself

As much as I try to cultivate the persona of some grumpy old misanthrope, I don’t think it’s really me.  I don’t hate people, and I do like to spend time with them.  Some of them.  Some of the time.  I don’t have many friends though.  The few I have are far away, and how long they would want to be friends with me I don’t know.  After all, what does someone like me have to offer them?

It’s a double standard to think that way I know, because I don’t choose friends based on what they can “offer” me.  I just like them and that is that.  Unfortunately I don’t feel very likeable.  What I do feel is afraid.

I’ve given up on the idea of ever having a romantic relationship again, which makes me incredibly sad.  On one hand I’m resigned to being a miserable old cat lady, but it’s not exactly something I feel like I’m choosing for myself.  Some people just have cat-lady-ness thrust upon them.

It’s hard to make new friends.  When I was at school I made friends with classmates, and I did the same at university.  Now I don’t even have a job to force me out of the house.  I’m sure sometimes I can go for days without setting foot outside the door.  There’s nothing out there for me, I live in a town better suited to people 40 years older than I am.  My hobbies are solitary ones.

I feel awkward in the friendships I do have.  I doubt myself.  I second-guess my behaviour.  Am I being too distant?  Am I being too clingy?  Sometimes I feel like I go too far to be a “good friend” and end up as a desperate weirdo instead.  Sometimes I try to reach out to people and end up ignored and hurt.  Maybe sometimes I’ve made people feel that way.

The only solution seems to be to get out of my current dead-end town, which means finding a job somewhere and then finding the courage to actually do it.  And both of those things are in short supply these days.

Today is a bad day.  I had to go and cry in my bathroom, and that is never a good sign. 

Even though I think of myself as a “recovering depressive” most of the time, things still get tough.  It feels like classing myself as “recovering” is being a bit too optimistic right now.  I try hard not to let my day-to-day life suffer too much from what’s going on under the surface, but it’s still a pretty big mess under there.  I wrote about identity before - we all have a persona we present to the world - I try to be a character I’ve created for myself, but that can be exhausting.

You might think that I should just “be myself”, but unfortunately myself might not be all that likeable, and having so few friends in the world means I would prefer not to drive them away.

I don’t have a real theme or topic for my post today, no advice or helpful observations, just my feelings, which aren’t things I share all that readily or honestly, because they are unpleasant.  Counselling has tried to teach me to cope with these onslaughts - because that is what they feel like - by “unpacking” my feelings.  Sitting calmly, maybe writing things out or drawing them, getting down into the root of what is upsetting my balance.  I can’t do that today.  I don’t know where it’s coming from because I’m too busy being knocked about by the feelings.  

There’s a sort of tension to it, and all that I can do is release some pressure valve inside myself and let go of everything.  I sob into a tissue and let it all wash over me - the depression, the anger, the resentment and the frustration, and eventually it’s all emptied out and ready for the next cycle to begin.

My consolation in all of this is that I recognise it will ease off again, and that for a while at least, balance will be restored, and that every time it happens is another chance to conquer whatever demon is lurking behind it all.

Hello.  My name is Lesley.  I’m 26, single, non-smoker, Capricorn, deist. I like knitting and kung-fu movies.  If I was really drunk, and you were really, really drunk and neither of us were wearing our glasses, I’d try and convince you I look like Jessica Rabbit dressed as a librarian.

All of that is true (the Jessica Rabbit part slightly less so), but how much of it is ME?

We all go through a struggle to identify who we really are, it’s a big philosophical question, and in my own personal opinion, the less you wonder about it the more yourself you’re likely to be.  We construct a persona, an outside layer to present to the world at large, and beneath that our true self lies, some of us are acutely aware of who that person may be, and some completely ignorant.

I’m depressed and anxious, which is something I try and keep largely hidden, no one really gives a rat’s arse about it, but is it part of my identity or just an illness?  You wouldn’t define yourself by a broken leg or a bout of flu, but would you feel like your diabetes was part of you?

I do feel like “Being Depressed” is a big chunk of who I am.  It’s been with me my whole adult life, shaping my choices and my personality just as much as anything else has.  So it feels doubly hard sometimes to face up to the idea of “getting better”.  I don’t want to take pills to stop me liking computer games, or go to therapy for my Depeche Mode obsession (even though some people probably think I need it), and sometimes I don’t want to go through a huge struggle to redefine myself.

My counsellor leant me a book once, where someone was talking about how their depression had interrupted their life, how they wanted to get back to where they were before it happened, and I got angry as hell about it.  There was no “before” for me, nowhere to go back to, and I felt quite bitter about it at the time.  I can only go forward and take things as they come.