TW suicide & depression
Around a year ago I found myself sitting in bed for a whole day watching films after someone broke up with me. It also happened to be the day after one of my exes declared me to be a sociopath and for them to never speak to them again, and it was also the day after I watched Saltburn. The worst film I’ve watched in recent history (present tense).
It was the first day in a long line of days, too many days, that I felt worthless, that nobody loved me, was never going to love me, and because of these things - felt like there wasn’t much point in living anymore.
Being sad and feeling sad is one of the worst emotions, hot take - I know, but some people love it. Some people revel in the way they can feel doom and gloom, a bit like Eeyore getting up in the morning, unable to make themselves feel positive, doing things to themselves that any mentally healthy person wouldn’t. And so my Eeyore era began.
I woke up every morning feeling unrested, I woke up crying, puffy eyed from crying the night before, and had to haul myself out of bed because I had to go to my the job I hated. I had to make breakfast in the flat that had mice, and walk to the tube in the area that I was falling out love with, get the tube surrounded by people I just knew were happier than I was.
I knew why I was sad, even though I still hate to admit it. I was sad because a boy I liked didn’t like me. I was sad because all the reasons he didn’t like me were valid and I knew they were valid because they were all the things I didn’t like about myself.
And so, the days spent watching films in bed became a regular occurrence. Work from home days became days where I’d sit and cry, listening to songs that made my mood worse. Tears became my main companion, they felt like the only warmth in a world which had become so cold. I saw him in everything and everyone. I didn’t want to let him go, but knew I had to seem like I didn’t care.
I don’t say this lightly, but I didn’t see the point. I didn’t see the point in going on another day with an overwhelming sense of sadness. I didn’t see how anyone who could love me. Everything I thought about myself became true, suddenly, and my self hatred was projected onto other and then reflected back at me. How could anyone love me? How could anyone think I was charming, funny, sexy? Where is your talent, Ella? Where’s your ability to have compassion and loyalty? Why do you only think of yourself? Why are you always bringing the mood down with your crying, your sad songs, your sad opinions on sad films? Why are you so temperamental, why are you so angry? Why do you have such a short fuse? And, oh yeah, why do you think anyone could, would, or should love you?
I sat in the toilet at work sometimes and just cried, asking myself these questions. Girl, you should have been working!!!
So, I was sad. Really, really sad.
Look, he didn’t cause all of it. Or any of it, really. He was the catalyst. He was fanning the flames that were already there, before he just let me burn on my own.
Christmas came and went, with my crying in the bathroom my only memory, really. I got up from the table with tears in my eyes, and I just had to let it out. No one knew what was happening. I’ve always been the cry baby but no one had said anything to me this time, no one winding me up or playing a trick. Just me, unable to get through one of the happiest days of the year without my brain telling me that I fucking suuuuuuck.
After spewing my metaphorical guts out to my best friend after a particularly heavy night out, telling her all the questions I asked myself, she looked worried. And then I was worried. She’s the person who normally laughs with me through these things, and she stopped tidying her room, looked me in the eyes and said, “if you kill yourself I’ll be really mad with you.”
I don’t think I ever thought I was actually going to do it, but I did think about it. I thought about how it’d make this feeling go away, and I thought about how I assumed everyone’s life would be better because of it. I thought about how my inescapable past overwhelmed me and if I could just stop. Pause. And start again I would feel much, much better. My love of being alive has always far outweighed the thought of being dead, so when that balance shifts, it can be awfully scary.
January brought more tears, the most tears. Participating in Dry January still couldn’t stop these cheeks from getting wet (sorry). I cried so much in the street that someone asked me if I was okay. Do you know how much you have to be crying in London for someone to ask you if you’re okay? Just know, it’s a lot.
But after January, the therapy started, the tears were less frequent and I’ve become someone now that I believe is quite lovable. And yes, I have changed. I am less temperamental and I do have less of a short fuse. I have tried my hardest to not think of myself as much, and to try and be the friend you’d want to have in your life. Sure, I’m still terrified of someone falling in love with me, and then out love because they find something they don’t like. But sometimes, you have to live with these things, and if - or when - the time comes, accept that it might not be about you at all.
Becoming an almost-sane person has taken a lot. I’ve never felt so at peace with myself, truly. (Although something I did the other night whilst drunk will haunt me forever but I guess life is a rollercoaster).
And these are the things that have helped. Firstly, I told my CBT therapist I didn’t feel like life was worth it anymore so referred me to The Listening Place, and they were kind enough to listen to me and thought I had a good (bad) enough case. During this time, I started low cost talking therapy, and I don’t think I could get through a week without doing that now. I also went on Sertraline, which made me very tired and nauseous so after six months went off that.
I wrote. A lot. I wrote in my notes, in my diary, on this blog. I was just listening to Caroline O’Donoghue’s latest Sentimental Garbage episode and she spoke about even in her darkest times, she knew she could still just write about it. She knew that these stories would just be that one day. She was speaking, of course, in the context of Taylor Swift - the princess of mining her life for good content. The queen being Nora Ephron. Everything is copy. And I remembered that. I heard those words when something else went wrong that my strong, wretched, horrible, gross emotions that one day will appear in works that haven’t even been thought of yet.
I also, and this one may not be for everyone but absolutely should be, I trained for a marathon. I got so into running during this time, and it’s probably down to running that I am still here. I promised my dad I would run a marathon, and you can never let your dad down. I trained really hard, ran 5-6 times a week, became strong, resilient, gained stamina, and ultimately, if I can run a marathon, then I can probably get over a boy.
This year, I willed myself to get better. To be less sad, to not let things bother me as much, to try and see things for what they are, and not what you think they are. I’ve been trying to get my shit together, and tap into my core values. And of course environment always helps with your overall mental wellbeing, and I’m glad I’m not working in the same job, living in the same flat in the same area, and I’m glad I’m not constantly grasping onto a bygone era of me who doesn’t exist anymore, and I hope will never exist again. She’ll always be a part of me, but she isn’t me now. Chasing after the past will always ruin your present, and you’ll therefore never be able to have a future. If it’s anything I’ve learnt from depression and the one thing you take away from this, is that you’ve got to accept it, wallow in it, and then promise yourself the long journey to getting better.