If you think I am being extremely self-indulgent by publishing yet another blog about my mental demons, then look away now because here comes another one.
As ever, my moods change like the wind, although thanks to the therapy and the drugs that do work they never quite reach the extremes. I am currently in the midst of a slight dip – I always know when they are coming – and I am so far managing to deal with it. Fellow mental people will probably recognise one of the symptoms: when I am on my own, I don’t want to be and when I am with people, I want to be alone. Both stress me out like hell.
My therapist, who has been wonderful, has listened to my outpourings of misery for months now. If I were her, I’d be getting thoroughly depressed at listening to what sounds just like a lot of pathetic self-pitying from this middle-aged bloke, but instead she comes out with positive ideas. My lifelong inability to learn detail, to take in information at school or at work. There are so many things I cannot do. So what does my therapist say? Concentrate on the things you can do and don’t worry about the things you can’t. Oh, that’s all and well and good, I reply, but the fear of making a fool of myself, of starting a job and then not being able to know what the hell to do. It kills me. Although not today. Today it just bugs me.
My therapy is almost over now. There will be other classes to attend soon, including group therapy, something I usually avoid like the plague. I always take what’s on offer because the alternative is to do nothing about it and if I do nothing about it, I’ll feel ill all the time. And I don’t like feeling ill. I don’t enjoy staring into space, feeling glued to my chair, wishing things were different, not feeling as good as everyone else appears to be feeling, even if they might not be.
You’re writing is terrific, she tells me. That’s kind, really kind. It’s my passion, my overwhelming passion, my reason for getting up in the morning. People read it too, sometimes quite a lot of people. But it doesn’t pay the bills, so I have to find something bearable that does. Then I feel like I have failed again. Let down everyone who supported me. How the hell can I feel good about myself?
I don’t know how you can do what you do, says my therapist. You just open a word document and you write stuff. And some very good stuff too. A blank page would scare the life out of me, especially if you had to fill it by a certain deadline. But you see it as an opportunity to fill the page. Not everyone can do that.
So yes, I felt good about that. I know other people who write too, some very gifted authors and journalists whose talents dwarf my own. I would be highly flattered to be mentioned in the same book, never mind the same page, as them. So I’m writing this fairly rambling piece because I can.
So, I am going to concentrate, for just a little while longer on what (I think) I can do reasonably well and that’s write. I’m not going to give up because writing gives me peace and fulfilment and for the time being at least, that will have to be enough.
