When the past gives me no comfort

Despite my attempts at being entirely honest and bare in this blog, I do hold back. I assume everybody does, to some extent, even in their most secret of diaries. You see, twenty seven years of life is a lot to fit into just over a year’s worth of writing.

At first, I thought running out of things to say and confessions to admit would happen quite quickly. After all, I haven’t lived for that long; most still seem to consider me a child, barely out of my teens. It seems that even after you grow up and become an adult, there will always be somebody older ready to condescend your problems by mentioning how much more experienced they are. However, thousands of words later, I’m beginning to realise I can’t possibly tell my story in such a short time and, if anything, I’m only just admitting to the tip of the iceberg.

Something I’ve learned about writing such a personal blog – which involves sensitive subjects – is that I have to be feeling in the right frame of mind to speak about certain things. Sometimes I have to be angry; I write best about self-harm when I’m furious. Others, I have to be bordering on falling back into the depression pit. Some things… I am never in the right frame of mind.


Like tonight. I would much rather curl up in a ball on my bed and smoke dope and watch E.R until the sun comes up, than write about all the anxiety which has been plaguing me. I’d much prefer distracting myself with pointless games than admitting to finding it really fucking hard not starving myself every time I try to lose just a little weight.  And I’m forcing myself to write because I know that if I don’t, I’ll keep doing it. If I don’t have to hold myself accountable, then what’s the harm in letting myself cut a few hundred calories a day, until I’m only eating half an apple and two carrot sticks? At least then less people would judge me. I wouldn’t have to worry about not being taken seriously anymore, because when I was thin… I felt better. I just felt better. More confident. People listened to me more. I wasn’t just a fat loser with a walking stick and too many piercings.

I’m tired, but I don’t want to sleep. I also don’t want to talk about the voices.

They’re not voices; not really. They’re more like obtrusive thoughts which feel like they come from a different brain. They barge in with suggestions and hints, and are impossible to shut up once they get going. Until a few years ago I believed they were entirely valid thoughts, and acted on them. After years of fucking up and putting myself in dangerous situations… I learned – through lots of self-therapy and even more medication – that they’re not my real thoughts. That’s all well and good, but it doesn’t mean I can ignore them. They shout. Loudly. Demand my attention. Grab onto my brain stem and refuse to let go.

I wish I could explain the things they say, but it’s difficult to put into words. It’s bitter and spiteful stuff; reminders of my failings and every single time I said something wrong. They’re the ones who say that everybody in a room is looking at me, and that everybody I know is just pretending to like me out of pity. When I’m holding the lit cigarette in my hand and feeling helpless, they’re the ones who are shouting at me to press it into my arm. They’re the ones who twisted everything; who convinced me that I had enemies in friends and that others were out to hurt me. They made it all sound so real, and they still do. I just know they’re not a part of me now. Not a healthy part anyway.

I don’t know what I’m trying to say here. That I’m tired and need sleep, probably.

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  1. I’ve been hearing those voices too, lately, OMG, they crush me in just a matter of syllables, they don’t even need to be complete sentences or grammatically correct!

    Another voice, from God knows where, popped in and said, “There’s only room for one voice in my head AND IT’S NOT YOU!” LOL! It kind of makes me laugh but the weight of those flippin’ voices is really, really bothersome. Sometimes I drown them out by listening to music, that works for a while. How it is one moment I know those nasty words and voices are lies, and the next minute I’m on my knees begging for mercy is beyond me.

    I’m thankful for your honesty, always, but today, this especially hit home for me. Sometimes it feels like I’m going flipping crazy, glad to know I’m not, and you’re not either.

    On the humorous side, I recently bought a Verilux “HappyLIght” at a second hand store, I figured why not? My mood was sour, I brought it home, plugged it in and turned it on and said, “Okay, so, make me happy!” Didn’t work, but at least it made me laugh at myself! :)


      • Oooooooh, I’ve never actually considered writing down what the voices and words were saying to me, what an absolutely divine idea! I’ve always felt more like I’m prisoner of them than one who had power and write things down. It sounds like i have more options than just bearing down as they verbally beat me head to toe. What an insightful method, wow, I’m impressed!

        The light never did make me happy but it does make me laugh to hear myself tell it to! :) Hee hee hee! Woman vs. inanimate object? Woman 0, inanimate object 1.



  2. You’re not alone! In my own struggles with depression, I have found that being able to seperate what my brain is telling me from who I am and what I actually think is essential. My brain says all sorts of cruel and unhelpful things when I’m depressed. The sooner I recognize that they aren’t real, the better.

    Another blogger who deals with depression/bi-polar 2 shared something about these sorts of thoughts and the intense feelings that often come with them which was really helpful to me. They come in waves. Like labor contractions. And just like labor contractions, if you can catch them before they peak, they are much easier to deal with. I started paying attention and sure enough – she was right. They do come in waves. Sometimes just recognizing – here comes a wave – is enough to keep me from getting caught up in it. Then again, sometimes I feel like I’m engaged in some sort of weird self-brain washing scheme with all these tricks to keep from being swallowed up by my evil brain.

    I hope you feel better soon.


    • Labor contractions is the perfect way to describe it; it really does come in waves. It’s catching them before they peak which I can’t quite master. They seem stronger than I am.

      It’s weird. I know the voices/thoughts are never real. I’m aware they’re a part of the illness. Still, I can’t help but listen to them; it’s like I split apart and fight with myself. The cruel side always seems to win.

      I’m glad you get it. Not that you experience it, because I wouldn’t wish it on my worst enemy; but it’s always good to read comments like yours and know I’m not alone in the way I think and feel, and that somebody out there understands. Thanks so much.


  3. Those voices seem to materialize from the depression monster. It’s your brain fighting to pull you back into that depression pit and sometimes, your mind is too weak to win. All I can say is that you’re stronger than that. Don’t stoop to the depression. Make the depression realize that you’re too sick of it’s bothersome presence. Put on some happy, care-free music, and let the happiness in. Don’t keep thinking, “No, happy can’t happen, i’m depressed, and the thoughts are making me that way. I can’t be happy.” You know?


  4. I can’t possibly tell you how much I understand what you mean by the voices. They’re thoughts, rather than voices, the ultimate pessimism, the internal enemy who refuses to see good inside and tries to taint every victory. It’s the voice that tells you success is a lie. It’s hard not to listen, even when you know that they’re wrong. I wish you the strength to withstand their onslaught. You’re not alone in battling them. For me, they’re the voice of everyone who ever even whispered “Not good enough” to me, regurgitated by my sub-conscious, who tries to sabotage me at every turn. So hard some days to not listen.


      • These days, most of the time I don’t listen. It’s partly the story ideas, and the feel that, when I’m writing, I’m doing the thing I was always supposed to be doing. But there’s another part. I look at all the people who choose to be part of my life and understand that there has to be something there, even if some days it’s hard to see it or grasp it. I look at the perfect strangers who express enthusiasm for the things I do and admit that the voice can’t be entirely right. I think the ability to doubt the veracity of the claims the whispers make is the key to fighting them. If they can be wrong about one thing, they can be wrong about everything.


  5. I’ve been reading the comments and it’s amazing (and comforting) to read the comments and your post and realise that there are others like me. I’ve just never been able to express what it feels like to constantly face that battle to stay in the present and ignore those dark whisperings. I hope that after a good sleep what follows is a better day.


  6. Those voices/thoughts are relentlessly demanding and attention seeking. I have flat out arguments with them. It feels they always win but they don’t because when they tell me to leave somewhere I don’t do it. We are strong. We are rational. We can hold onto that. Wishing you warmth x


  7. The conversation and voices never stop in my head. Sleep is often the only quiet time there is, although I am trying to meditate to achieve that also.
    Thank you for your honesty in your blog. Age doesn’t matter. We all have a story to tell. Each is equally valid. Some of the wisest and most intuitive people I know have been on this earth for a much shorter period than I. I respect that gift in them. Sharing with each other is how we help. The word or experience may be from something of yesterday, this morning or ten tears ago. You are of value for you- not how old or young you are but just because you ARE!


    • The conversations are exactly why I tend to retreat into sleep; as you say, it’s the only quiet time. It’s the ONLY time where I don’t have the paranoia. I may have paranoid dreams, but they never seem to carry the same fear as real life does.

      Thanks so much for your comment. Sometimes I wonder if anyone can ever possibly take me seriously because I haven’t lived for decades and decades. In the past… I’ve been told my experiences mean nothing because of my age. I got told it a lot. So your comment… it’s nice. It helps, thank you.


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