Nothing
poetic this year. Nothing beautiful, anyway. ‘Intent is lost when the reader
interprets it’ and all that crap.
In January,
I set out to end my life. I’ve been working with Channel 5 on a documentary
about that experience and the road to recovery which will air in the summer. Quite
literally a story for another time.
Sometime in
mid-March, I was on the end of an unprovoked attack from someone I used to call
a close friend, where he blamed my mental illness for holding him back in years
gone by and proceeding to mock me for it. He then sent me a voice note goading
the fact that he was mocking my mental illness. To this day, the intent, those motiveless
and malicious haunt me.
A couple of
weeks ago, after I attempted to cut him out of my life, he tried to apologise
to me, saying he did not realise the impact his words would have. However, this
is a man who too has experienced problems with mental health.
And… that’s
pretty much it. I wanted to tell a story this year because I have nothing else
left to give. It’s like a personalised version of waking up and tuning into GMB
whenever Piers Morgan is on it and shouting some inane nonsense about PC going
mad.
In years
gone by, I’ve used these occasions to spread words of optimism, that things
will get better. I sincerely hope that I’ve been able to help others. I have
nothing for myself, though.
I couldn’t
tell you how long I have left. At this point you might be thinking how shit I
must feel if this is the outlook I’m having. Words would fail a healthy version
of myself, let alone the down-on-his-luck and unemployed one.
I’m well
aware I’m risking a lot by saying what I say, but hey, I’ve been told it’s good
to share how you feel. Even if it costs me future jobs. This is how I feel. The
footnote for stories long forgotten.
