We’re all so bloody miserable.
I’ve said it before, hindsight isn’t a wonderful thing, it’s fucking useless.
Knowing what you should have done after the fact is as helpful as a speedometer on a sloth. Ok, hindsight can stop you from making the same mistake again so perhaps that’s its purpose.
I reckon we like repeating certain mistakes.
Those of us that do, haven’t learned to change our behaviour. And maybe some mistakes aren’t mistakes at all. But regrets, we’ve had a few and we sometimes act on impulse fully aware that it will royally fuck something up.
But we do it anyway.
Because in that brief, transitory moment it feels good—to hell with the consequences.
And there are always consequences.
The drink that pushes you over the edge, the kiss with someone you shouldn’t—finally calling that person a cunt after holding it in all those years, because they are, in reality, a cunt. That shit feels great in the moment. But when we come to, we tell ourselves stories to make our actions justifiable. How else can we square them with our own conscience?
But just like Jarvis Cocker sang, “Then you come down”.
And boy, do you come down.
You feel empty, depressed, and if you’re really unlucky, without much to live for. That intense feeling of hopelessness does usually relent. We slowly get back to normality, whatever that might mean.
I don’t often suffer from depression.
I once thought I had Seasonal Affective Disorder (SAD) but I’ve come to the conclusion that I like winter it’s just aspects of my life that I don’t like. Although my family has a long history of mental illness, I’ve been lucky enough to swerve the persistent black dog.
You’ve probably experienced low spells yourself.
Awful times like a friend dying, a parent leaving or a relationship ending. Most of us have been there, we’ve felt desolate and lost with no way back but we nearly always return.
Sadly, some don’t.
These events can trigger a lifelong dalliance with mental illness. A dalliance that can undermine your daily existence.
Since covid, we’ve all been through the mill.
2020 was not only the year of the plague but it was the year my stepson succumbed to leukaemia.
If you’ve ever watched a youngster die a panicked, delirious death due to organ failure, you’ll appreciate it’s not an all-inclusive trip to Bora Bora—least of all for the parents. I have no clue how my husband got through that day but he did and I was in awe of how he coped.
The aftermath hasn’t been much of a holiday either. It’s tough when you can’t help the people you love, and help, in these situations, seems so beyond reach.
All you can do is watch the destruction.
Feeling powerless is not something I manage well. In moments like these, I’m teetering on a cliff’s edge, wondering if I have the strength to step off. (It’s a metaphor so no need to call the emergency services.)
The step isn’t into oblivion but into change. This current state will need to give way to another. Because living with someone you can’t reach is hard. Not having the ability to communicate with the person you’ve married, feels a lot like failure. And I don’t like failure, I will fight long and hard before throwing in the towel.
Humans are unpredictable.
Their emotions make life complicated. Humans also lie and play down what they really feel. And men aren’t the only ones doing that, we’re all pretending to some degree.
I rarely talk to friends and family about what’s happening in my head. It’s a resilience thing—a little something I learned from being a child of divorce. To say that I’m good at dealing with terrible circumstances is an understatement. I have mastered the art of getting on with it.
Although I bottle and cork my own feelings, I try to be open in intimate relationships. I’m a fairly decent listener but you can’t make a person what they’re not. Some folks can’t talk, they don’t know how to or they just don’t fucking want to. And it has nothing to do with how much they love you. We all learn different ways to cope with shitty situations. Some build walls.
Sharing the stuff in your head is hard.
I don’t just mean the dark thoughts. Telling another human how you feel about them is difficult, you’re allowing yourself to be vulnerable—and you have no idea how they’ll respond.
Some people get scared when you’re honest.
We’re not used to it. Again, we lie about how we feel. Being honest means being open about stuff that matters. It means stepping outside the daily small talk that deals only with the periphery of human experience.
Another reason people don’t talk is they’re worried others will think they’re fucking mental—or worse, weak and fucking mental. And they’re right to feel that way. Despite the trendy campaigns, there’s still a stigma. We all make assumptions about people that reveal personal thoughts. What if people see us as a burden? What if they get tired of hearing about our problems?
No talking gets lonely.
Feeling like shit can really isolate you. It can consume you.
People around you fade into the background. And before you know it, you’re living alone, at least, in your head. You miss the life that’s being played out in front of you. The world beyond blurs and you’re left in a prison, in part, of your own making.
It’s true that feeling bad usually gives way to feeling good but it’s this ebb and flow that wears you down. The desperate lows sucker punch you—floor you. You spend an unfathomable amount of time feeling exhausted. In those moments you question everything, like, was feeling good the day before a complete lie?
Then there’s the self-loathing.
In my depressed reality, I’m not a good person, I’m a bit of an arsehole.
(Yeah, yeah, I’m always an arsehole.)
I have some unattractive traits. In summary: I’m a selfish egocentric arrogant prick. Sure, I have some nice things going for me (like I said, I’m egocentric) but they go hand-in-hand with the shit.
I don’t value the people I should as much as I value myself. I’m not a psychopath (not diagnosed anyway) but when I’m down, certain behaviours seem magnified.
None of us fit absolutely into the role of angel and demon.
We’re complex and flawed. We’re not comic book personalities. We’re many things and sometimes we’re dicks. And that’s to be expected.
That said, I analyse everything, especially if I think I might have upset someone.
I pick apart my actions and assess if I should be remorseful. I’ll be honest, I’m not big on guilt and that’s pretty odd for a woman because we’re conditioned to feel guilty about everything, like eating too much chocolate and wanting to please ourselves.
(Female Catholics must be nervous bloody wrecks.)
Being decent is hard.
It’s hard for me at least. And often it’s perceived as an act because no one can be genuinely nice—all of the time, can they? We’re suspicious of goodness. It’s boring that’s why we like movie villains, they’re more interesting, right? But no one wants to live with a real-life Cruella De Vil.
So perhaps we need to accept that we will, at times, be miserable. And during those times we might be unpleasant and difficult to live with. And that’s ok, the good news is you won’t always be a grumpy bastard.