And not in the urban way defining someone or something ultra cool and edgy.
Like, I’m proper sick. Old fashion ill, nothing edgy or cool about my situation, just plain laid out bare fucking naked sick. If you’ve read a couple of the previous entries, you’d hopefully see that I am endeavouring to be an advocate for mental health, perhaps in my own misconstrued way, but I want the conversation to be started and carried forth. And so I share my personal views and experiences. Another voice who thinks she needs to be heard, wants to be heard blablabla. Yes perhaps, however friend of mine said once she always thought twice before sharing because the net is just so filled with everything and nothing. She’s tots right. However, my response was: “If you feel strongly about what you want to share and it’s authentic, then it will add value to this world. Opinions are like songs and melodies, and what you share or your message could become somebody’s favorite melody.” So here I am singing in my crackly broken vocal chord voice, I am not an expert. I am Human. And honestly, I think I am sick. Proper sick, old fashion ill, nothing edgy nor cool, just plain laid out bare fucking naked sick.
I barely have it together. Whilst I truly believe in the power of meditation, mindfulness exercises and self-care practices, if you were to dissect my brain in tiny eetsy-bitsy bitesizes of “what is going on”, you’d get a potent mixture of very extreme and opposite emotions at their rawest deepest DNA strand, felt and experienced all at the same time. Emotions don’t have a DNA but let’s just assume they do, I mean perhaps they do and perhaps I’m hurting their feelings ( see what I mean, and how my brain just processes something and then something else, like that nutter Rabbit in Alice in Wonderland). STOP. I am saying I am all over the place like a stripper with too many clothes and no paying audience, and my feet are getting tangled in my linen trousers.

How do I know I am sick? Like you mean other than the evident clues left like a bread trail aka wanting to escape reality and reconnect with my true self during my sabbatical because I needed ( and still do) the “space to process and reset”; or the many teary breakdowns I have had in front of colleagues; or the recurring panic attacks I can feel creeping in when my heartbeat accelerates and I can’t tell it to stop – not literally, not yet anyway; or the muscle spasms, and the acne devouring my once-upon beautiful and smooth skin on my face; the ravaging body acne destroying my back and leaving it with scars because I scratch the motherfuckers until they bleed; the lack of sleep because your dreams are violated with realness – and not the RuPaul realness. Just very real fucking problems. Another clue of sickness? When you know I spent the third weekend in my gown not wanting to move, not being bothered whilst all the meanwhile being very bothered and anxious about Life and not being able on concentrating much. Or the weight gaining which I’ve noticed because I just emotionally eat. PROCESSING. ALL. OF. THAT. SHIZZ. AND. STILL. NOT. SLEEPING. And basically wanting to cry my eyes out, and wondering perhaps I should very clearly tap the fuck out but then realising I can’t even do that because some people do rely on me and whilst harming myself may sound like an option, I can’t bring myself to hurt others.
Why don’t I get the GP involved? Very good point Sherlock. I would literally say the same to “me”. It’s been three months I said I would contact the doctor to see if they can help; and my recently provided medical cover seems like they have therapists on the go if you need help. I do most definitely need the help, look at me waving the freaking SOS Flag. I’m waving it like a maniac, my volley-ball has now a face and I call her Wilson, she too is going through a bit of a rough patch since Tom and I made the exchange and I’m the one stuck on that deserted island. Why don’t I call the GP? I don’t fucking know. I am scared, I am tired, I am busy, I am avoiding. PROCESSING. ALL. OF. THAT. SHIZZ.

And mostly because I’ve been there before so I am low-key wondering what is my life about. Half of me wanting to throw the towel in and the other half wanting to pick up the towel and the beat the crap out of me. Listen, it’s complicated. Nobody can pick up the phone for me. I know I have to reach out, because even though I have done it before and it does not make it easier to reach out again. I can see the feeble remains of my mental health spiraling down like that very precious piece of jewelry you dropped in the public washroom sink with a gaping drainhole. Yeah. ALL. OF. THAT. SHIZZ. Fucking scary, ain’t it.
And that my dear friend, is one of the definition of depression. You want to be happy, but sometimes you just can’t. For whatever reason you hold dear, all of them very true and real to you, maybe you only, but still very true and real to you. I know I am strong, blessed with a good and caring network. But maybe, I don’t want to be strong. Maybe I am tired of having to be strong. So what do I do? Throw the towel in or pick it up and beat the crap out of me.
Here you go. I have no answers. Just an offering of very real and conflicting emotions for your reading. If you have a friend or someone you love who is going through a tough time, you can’t fix it for them. You can only be there for them, reassure them. And if you are going through a tough time, or another tough time, it fucking is hard ain’t it? I know. So let’s take a deep breath and close our eyes, and as you exhale, if you need to cry or scream or do both, just go on ahead. Let it out.























