OK, time to start doing this again …

A little while back, I disclosed this site to someone. This is after I promised myself I wouldn’t do so. This site was meant to be a personal site to allow me to explore my turmoil, write about it to an audiance (that I really knew I would never really get) and help clarify my shit out.

So why did I let someone know about this site and that it was me?

I guess it was forthe right reasons – they were going through a tough, shitty time and I wanted to let them feel I was as open as they were with me. However, I clammed up after that. Why? I guess that once I knew there was someone actually reading this I freaked out a bit.

However, I guess for myself I need to start doing this again. Nothings changed from that perspective. If I don’t I may find myself back at the beginning again.

Someone I follow on twitter posted a blog entry “Triumphing Over Depression” and I just wanted to scream at them!

“Just Smile”


Yeah, because that’s what I forgot to do!

My life is a fucked-up bowl of fucking dogs vomit and yeah, look, I smiled – and wallah! like magic it’s all fucking roses and strawberry shortcakes.

No one who has *actually* suffered from deep depression would have written that.


*deep breaths*

OK, so here’s what I do know …

If you are suffering from a long term depression, it’s probably because of a deeper problem than you just didn’t get laid this week.

*need more deep breaths and to calm down … I’m going off for a bit before I finish this off*

Ok, so I get a little worked up sometimes, and it’s not really directed at these people, it just annoys me that they are indirectly telling me that I am just feeling like this because I’m failing to try and be happy, because “Misery loves company.”

What I find most ludicrous, is that I have been suffering depression since childhood, always covering it, pushing it down, hiding it, swallowing my feelings, adapting to the people around me, acting, hiding, covering, hiding, pushing down, wearing a smile and a facade of happiness for so long that I have no fucking idea who I am anymore.

So, it’s no surprise that last year, I broke.

30-something years of oppressed emotions, thoughts, desires, doubts, fears and dreams popped like an entire New Years Fireworks display – if they had all been stuffed into the one cracker that is.

When I say I broke – I broke in spectacular fashion.

I cried.

I screamed.

I lost my shit completely.

Honestly, it is a sensation that cannot be explained unless you’ve been through it.

In a simultaneous swhirl of opposing forces, you drop to the deepest fathoms of depressive darkness – stripped of your defenses, everything you are drops away, leaving a raw, throbbing nerve that pulsates like an angry migraine. Yet, in a twisted, fucked up kind of way, it’s like being reborn.

It’s a strange thing to be sitting in your kitchen at 30-something years old and to have your mind wonder what it knows, with memories flooding you on one end and knowledge you seemingly possesed mere minutes earlier unreachable.

In my case, my “adapted” shell – my public face, the shell I had created to adapt, was gone. For the first time in my life, my emotions were real, raw and coming from someplace that was not my mind.

Being an emotionally and physically abused child meant I learnt to hide my self from a pretty young age, unfortunatly, that meant I lost myself to myself as well. I turned off my emotions, because all I felt was anger and pain. Since everything I did was wrong, unwelcomed and punished – I learned to act the way those in authority wanted me to. Add to this a lack of social training, and I was not ready for the world at all.

Then I was sent out into the world. Sent out into a new playing field where the rules had changed, and so to the authorities – from parents to teachers. Teachers who were still allowed corpereal punishment. So, now I had to learn the new rules and I had no reprieve from the abuse I faced at home. That further reinforced that I was doing the right thing by hiding my “self” and acting like they wanted. Even then, I learnt that there were more authorities – the “cool kids”, the street gang, the racists who bashed my skull in every day for being a “”fucking dago”, the white anglo-saxon “christians” of the community who were not keen on those “wogs”, the cops who abused their powers, the high school teachers at the Christian Brothers College who were just as bad as all of the preceeding list – but  with the “authority of god” … the list never ended …

… and neither did my self-preserving act of avoiding further pain and suffering by hiding and showing them what they wanted.

Then it broke.

All of those memories I have been surpressing have been caming back over the last year, and on top of my many other issues, I had to learn to deal with an emotional body. Actual, real, emotions.

I shit you not, I still am learning to deal with these. Do you have any construct of a concept what it’s like to have to try and analyse everything to work out what *you* actually think and feel about it?

I often find myself “trying out” different points of view against others to see how they react to them so that I can work out if it’s “right or wrong” and whether I am meant to think or feel something. Things that may seem “normal” to someone are things that can stump me.

4 kids die in a game of 3am head-on chicken.

Logically my mind screams they are dickheads and what the fuck did they think was going to happen when you drive head on into each other at a hundred clicks an hour?

By 7am the news has spread – and a hundred kids are all over the intersection crying, placing wreaths of flowers, blocking traffic, parking all over the place and causing a scene. Am I annoyed? Yes. Before I even know why they are congregating – because I live in an area where these same kids randomnly congregate for burnouts, with no regard for those around them.

Now, here the deal. I am meant to sypathise, nay even empathise with these kids.


I don’t understand any of it.

Why are you grieving *there* in the middle of the road? seriously? why? even if they did die there, you crying on that exact spot achieves what? how does it make you feel better? and why do you need every kid on facebook to be there too?

Assuming you could explain all of that to me – how does keeping a nightly vigil for the next week, blasting music and drinking on the side of the road come into this picture?

I may not understand the grieving process from an emotional point of view – and i am ready to admit that my thanotaphobia may be ensuring I avoid all of that – but explain to me logically how that is part of the grieving process? How does a week long street party where you are allowed to graffiti the street, place up giant message boards, burn flares, drink and play music equal a grieving process and that questioning it means I’m a cold and callous bastard!?

I got told that. I was also told I should “shut the fuck up and let them grieve any way the see just”. That by a “friend”. It hurt – not because it was true, I still don’t feel that is the case – but because I was trying to explain all of this to him and have him help me explore it. Instead he attacked me. Instead of telling him to go fuck himself, I realised that his reaction was due to the grief and pain his brother’s death caused him. I have lost friends and I have lost grandparents. Yet I have never felt tht sort of emotion. I do not believe I will feel it if I lost my sister. I do not know if I will feel it if I lose my parents. The only person who I am likely to feel it for is my partner, but I’m afraid that if that ever happens, I may not – and that scares me more than death does.

So, here we are a year after my breakdown. People who do not see me everyday have no idea. They see me smile, joke, muck around, organise events and go out to meetups – and they all think I’m a chirpy happy guy.

Smiling does not make this shit get any better.

I don’t know how long it will take me to work through this shit. I don’t know how long it will take for me to feel like I am “ok”. I know I won’t give up, and maybe the thanotaphobia is a blessing as suicide is the last thing on my mind.

I do know that making jokes, smiling, laughing and trying to enjoy myself through the company of others helps. It doesn’t cure anything, but it stays the dark clouds for a little while, helping bring in a slither of light and letting me forget about the rains for a short time.

I still have a lot to learn, like not constantly seeking attention, trying to join the cool kids club as a means of validation – fuck it you kniow what, I need to stop seeking validation.


easier said than done mr looking for love and validation in all the wrong places for 30 fucking years.

ok, I need to stop for tonight. I’m emotional. I’m tired. I’m drained.

One day, I will learn to feel properly, I will learn to love properly. I will maybe even feel what it’s like to be accepted for me, and what that might mean.

Maybe, though, I need to accept that I may never fill the hole I feel. That I will never feel that level of fulfillment, and love …

… and everytime I think of that I cry. The one true emotion I have is one of such longing and sadness that it rips my heart in two every single time and yet I can’t express it, I can’t surpress it, I can’t extibguish it and it undermines my very existance. How do I deal with that? How does anyone deal with that? Does everyone feel that?

I have no more words.

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