And here we go again.
After about seven months of being well. Really well. Making steps towards having a normal life. It all came back. Arguably worse than before. And I’ve ruined almost everything I spent time building.
I don’t know what the fuck is wrong with me anymore. I don’t even know if I’m depressed. I think I might just be evil. I was on a rampage of self-destruction. Not giving a damn about who I’ve hurt along the way.
And now that’s over and I’m feeling more normal, I find myself alone and miserable.
I really don’t know if I can keep fighting. It just comes back. It always does. This time it was such a shock. Because things were going so well.
The person I knew would still be there when I emerged. She couldn’t be anymore. I shut her out and hurt her so much she had to leave. I can’t blame her. No matter how much it hurts. I wish so much she was still here. I miss her so much.
When I say “I shut her out”. I don’t mean in some abstract way. I mean that I didn’t talk to her for ten days and I didn’t tell her I wasn’t coming to something we’d planned to do together on Valentine’s Day. I’m such a fucking arsehole.
I was always very upfront about my mental health problems with her. She knew that extended silences were something I do when depressed. She said it would be hard. But she could handle it. I loved her so much for telling me that. I thought we’d be together forever.
People keep telling me that it’s not my fault. That I can’t blame myself. That it’s my illness. And I see their point. But equally, it’s bullshit. It is my fault. Even though I wasn’t well. I still made those choices. I still chose not to talk to her, or indeed anyone.
I don’t understand the choices that led me here. It’s like a different person takes over, who just thinks of all the ways I could make my life as bad as possible. With no care for the consequences.
So let’s have a little list of all the self destructive behaviour I engaged in throughout February.
- Ignoring everyone I care about for ten whole days!
- Cutting myself!
- Binge eating!
- Going on a massive spending spree and accidentally stealing somewhere in the region of £5000!
Yeah. Not pretty. I’m such a goddamn arsehole. Cuts will heal. Weight can be lost. Sobriety can be achieved. Money can be paid back, albeit slowly.
But I can’t unhurt someone.
I don’t even really care about the other things at the moment. I just want to go back in time and not ignore everyone. Or at least, not ignore her. I hate myself so much for it. I hurt her so much. And now I’ve hurt myself more than I thought possible.
I’ve had breakups before, of course. But they were to some degree mutual. Or the relationship had run its course. Or we were sick of each other. Whereas this. We had no problems. We never argued. We were making plans for a future together. And I destroyed it all by doing nothing.
Even worse is that the way I feel right now. That’s how I made her feel. Alone and miserable. How or why could I do this to someone I love? I don’t understand.
Usually when I’m depressed I feel empty, hopeless and apathetic. I never feel sad. I think until now I’d forgotten what it feels like to feel sad.
I don’t remember the last time I cried before this. And now I cry for what seems like hours every day. Everytime I start to feel a little better. It all comes back and I find myself trapped inside big, panting sobs.
I wrote her a letter last week. There was so much I still wanted to say. There’s still so much. I hoped I’d hear back from her. Even just a text. It’s only been a few days since she’d have got it. She may have even only got it yesterday. But I’m in a constant state of physical anxiety, hoping to hear from her. My palms are sweaty and my heart rate is irregular and fast. I’m terrified that I’ll just be ignored. Or asked to not contact her again.
I don’t know why I do this to myself. I’m so angry. So angry that I let my stupid, stupid fucking goddamn broken brain get away with this bullshit.
I know I’m not the first person to ever experience a breakup. But I’m pretty sure what I’m feeling is exacerbated by the fact that I’m coming out of a depressive episode. That and I have nothing to fill my days with. I guess that’s partly why I’m writing this. Something to do. With the hope that if I write it down, it’ll just fuck off and I can go back to being okay again. That maybe I’ll find the energy to try again.
But why try? What’s the point? It always comes back and ruins everything. I know this with utter certainty now.
No. Shut up, Evil Alex. I have to try. I might be able to fix this. Probably not. But maybe.