Shoot me

I feel awful.

What a surprise. The twat who cried in the jungle is doing another self pitying piece on his DEPRESSION. Jesus, can’t this idiot get a grip?

It would seem not.

I’m writing because that has helped me in the past and I’m hoping it helps now, that it kickstarts some chain reaction that releases an endorphin or two and lifts me out of this – depression doesn’t seem like a big enough word – this fucking crater that I have fallen into and is totally consuming my soul.

Let me try and describe how I feel. Maybe that will help.

Physically I hurt. I ache. Everything is heavy. Someone has tied bricks to the back of my hands and my fingers are made of lead. My back is that of a 92 year old man. My legs are aching like they haven’t since I had growing pains at the age of 11. I am SO tired yet I slept very well last night. My head has this thick fog inside it. My eyes aren’t quite facing forward. I am struggling to complete a thought. Writing this is taking all the concentration I can muster. And look. My sentences are so short. that’s not me. My eyes. Did I mention them? It feels like I’ve been crying constantly, they ache and are dry, but I haven’t been crying. Not much. Not today.

My cat of 19 years, Velvet, died last week. She was nearly 21. I got her as a rescue and she was my best friend. That happened. That actually happened. Her ashes are upstairs in her bed. Pathetic? Maybe but it seems right. Life won’t be the same without her. But I was in this depression before she passed. This depression is robbing me of grieving for Velvet The Cat properly. Because it’s so hard to feel anything apart from…fuck knows…useless. OK, I did the physical. :et me try the impossible and try to put in words how it FEELS.

These words spring to mind –

Shit dad
Failed TV host
Shitty radio host
Useless (again)
Has been
Never was
Shit man
Really sad

They’re good, but, to quote Catchphrase, they’re not good enough. They don’t really cover any of how I feel.

I see a therapist. He’s a good man. I’m on 150mg of Effexor. Maybe that has stopped working so I’m booked in to see my doctor. I have builders here. That doesn’t help. My house is a mess, I just can’t seem to catch up with myself. I dread going in to work, to do my radio show with my best mate, something that has brought me so much joy. My head is telling me to quit but my head is lying. I know that much. When my head looks at a beam and says to me ‘yeah, that could take your weight’ I know that it is feeding me bullshit. I mean the beam probably could take my weight but that’s not what I want to do.

I’m not going to kill myself. Please don’t worry about that. I promise.

But I think about it sometimes.

But I won’t.

Everything is so heavy. Iu don’t know if that makes sense. This whole piece doesn’t make sense and i will get flack for writing it. But fuck you and fuck them. I’ll do what I want, especially if it helps me feel better. You might identify. If you do, I’m really sorry you’re going through that as well. If you don’t, then that is fantastic. I’m jealous but well done.

I have 4 cats now. Lucky, Mucky, George and Pattie. I have to take Baby George to the vets as he has cat flu like his sister. It means I have to keep the two babies away from the two teenagers so they don’t get it. I’m covered in scratches from cat wrangling.

I have a beard again. Not through choice. Through the inability to do something as simple as shave and the desire to have a wall between me and you.

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