Cutting The Fat: A Diary on Coping with Depression

I remember the very first time I had the thought of harming myself. I was fifteen years old, and living with my increasingly alcoholic, and emotionally – and sometimes physically – abusive single mother. Fifteen was distinctly the age things started to get really bad at home, and I remember thinking when I picked up the craft knife and tried to cut myself on my wrist, that I had just had enough and I wanted everything to end. Needless to say, I didn’t succeed. The knife was too blunt and I didn’t have the guts to push hard enough.

I remember the next day at school trying to make the scabbing scratch on my wrist obvious. I wanted someone to notice so I would get some help. I didn’t really want to die, I just glorified and idealised the notion of it. What I really wanted was to be happy. And I have come to the realisation recently that that philosophy has stayed with me ever since. I have these horrible thoughts of harming myself, ceasing my existence, and glorifying how that would solve everything, but really, what I want is to solve everything while I’m still alive, and reach that ultimate goal – eternal and absolute happiness. But it seems the thoughts of self harm go hand-in-hand with thoughts that I’ll never be happy and I’ll never solve anything, so I might as well have thoughts of self harm. It’s an endless, spiralling circle of utterly hopeless blackness.

Thankfully the thoughts have been more prevalent than the actions. Since that first time at the age of fifteen I have only cut myself another two times. However, at the age of 23, I sunk into an especially deep black hole and took a number of pills, hoping and wishing that I would go to sleep and never wake up. I even went on the internet and researched the drugs I was taking, and was satisfied that in large doses they would at least send me to sleep. If I was a pharmacologist, I doubt I would be alive today. Of course, I did wake up, and was whisked away to the hospital. Luckily my liver avoided any ongoing damage, but I was given a thorough psych assessment and admitted to the hospital’s psych ward for the night. I guess the hospital admission was partially voluntary, as the psychiatrist asked me that if I went back home would I try something again, and I truthfully replied that it was possible. Again, I wanted help, not to just go home and try for round two.

But if anything will scare me off making another attempt like that, it’s the night I spent in that hospital. Here I was, a relatively normal – just sad – person, among people who talked to themselves, people who sat in a wheelchair just staring blankly out the window, people making random noises in the middle of the night and constantly clip-clopping their slippers up and down the hallways until dawn, with the night-shift nurse poking her head in my room every couple of hours to check that I was still there and breathing. It made me feel like I was actually crazy, but I knew I wasn’t. I didn’t belong there. On top of that I felt like a prisoner. Which in fact essentially I was. And I resented the people that were enforcing my stay there. I have never been so anxious to leave a place in all my life. I couldn’t wait for the nurses to come and tell me that the doctor had finally arrived and signed my release forms.

Since then, the fear of being locked up in a place like that again has stopped me from ever taking any action again. Not that I haven’t thought about it. Thoughts are all I have now, but it seems after that incident they have changed from “I want this all to end” to “How can I devise a method to successfully make all this end, so I don’t just fail in my attempt and end up in the loony bin again”. I have yet to identify an easy, failsafe method. Which I think is the only reason I am still alive. If it was easy, I would have done it by now. But because it’s not easy, my underlying craving to be happy rather than dead gets the better of me, and my bravery to do anything drastic and violent enough to be fatally harmful fails. All I can do is wish in vain for possession of a cyanide pill.

I still worry, however, that that craving to be happy and that small amount of hope that the promise of happiness is a realistic alternative to death, will fade. And fade to the point where death is the preferable option. Then I will have the bravery to do something fatally violent, because there will be nothing stopping me.

The question is, how do I keep that craving and hope for happiness alive? What is it that makes me pessimistic to the point of giving up, and how can I get rid of it?

I have heard the term “cutting the fat” to describe the process of getting rid of something or someone in your life that is no longer wanted or needed, or is indeed detrimental. So if I can identify what it is in my life that makes me feel this way, what the thoughts are that are doing me harm, I can “cut the fat” and simply remove them.

But it’s not just the presence of bad thoughts; it is the absence of good ones. I can get rid of the bad thoughts all I want, but if there are no good thoughts to replace them, I’m still not left with much to go on.

Then again, maybe the “fat” is intrinsically a part of me – maybe the fat is me. Maybe it is simply what makes me me that is toxic to myself and others, and ends up circling back and causing the thoughts that it does. After all, I have been the subject of others “cutting the fat” before. Maybe they’re right. Maybe it is me. Maybe it’s not possible to separate the negative thoughts, the pessimism, the hopelessness, and the insecurity, from who I am. Maybe the fat that I need to cut, is indeed me.

* * *

On several occasions I have gone to bed at night wishing that I wouldn’t wake up in the morning. That something would happen in the middle of the night while I was asleep, and I could just peacefully go, and not come back. That way, also, the choice would be taken away from me. It wouldn’t be my fault, I wouldn’t have to actively do anything to make it happen, and it wouldn’t hurt the people I care about as much as it would if I had done it myself. But, it may still achieve the outcome – as Bev Aisbett so aptly puts it in her book Taming the Black Dog – “That those who hurt [me] might finally understand the suffering they caused”. Even if I didn’t cause the end myself, they might still realise that they have lost the chance to make right whatever it was they did wrong. Yes, I have to admit, part of the appeal of ceasing my life is to punish those who have treated me badly. I know it’s selfish, I know it’s wrong, but I can’t help it. That’s how I feel. I guess it’s because I believe in justice. If you do something wrong you should suffer the consequences. People should be held accountable for their actions, whatever form that may take. People have a responsibility to the wrongs they have done. And yes, part of me I guess, is willing to take that as far as taking my own life.

But whether it would work or not is another question. In fact, it probably won’t. If people aren’t acting on their responsibilities now, they’re probably not going to realise they should – or should have – after my death. It’s just me glorifying and idealising the situation again.

* * *

Truth is though, and it’s even hard for me to understand, I love life. How the morbid thoughts and my characteristic constant laughter and giggling cohabitate inside me, I will never know. On the outside (when I’m being my true self) I laugh raucously, cracking up at the slightest thing, I’m constantly smiling, constantly making jokes, I dance like no-one’s watching, I sing like no-one’s listening, on the outside I have a huge, happy, bubbly, friendly personality. I even had a friend say to me once – and I’ve never actually been told this before – “You’re so full of life, Shannon”. It was very pertinent for her to say this to me at the point in my life when she did as I was going through a bad patch, and it certainly helped me alter my perception of things a bit.

I have a huge interest in life. I have an interest in everything from the arts, to science, philosophy, socialising…I’ve always thought that the only reason I didn’t get into a distinct career is because I had too many things I was interested in to choose from. Or, it could be that I never had the motivation or enough passion for something to pick it out from the others. But I always finish something I start. I have enough motivation to do that at least.

I have dozens of pieces of historical costume that I have made over the years; an extensive collection of fiction and non-fiction books, with a huge pile still waiting to be read; human behaviour fascinates me – I did a minor in Psychology at university; on top of that my major was Anthropology – more study of humankind – and I also completed a Diploma for Graduates in Philosophy, as I am always asking questions of the world. I love looking into the clear night sky, naming stars and constellations, locating planets, and trying to imagine how ridiculously large the universe must be, and thus realising how small I am; I have a strong opinion on animal cruelty and I especially love cats; I’m a mean competitor on Singstar and Rockband, and I love hanging out and having good conversation with like-minded people.

So I don’t understand how I can get so low. How I can fantasize about killing myself, which intrinsically, as a product of the ‘survival-of-the-fittest’ theory, should be the last thing I think about. Where the hell are my survival instincts?? I guess right now it’s the only thing staying my hand when it thinks about holding a knife.

* * *

I love being asleep. Because it means I don’t have to think and I don’t have to experience the outside world and all the pain and confusion it causes. When I am especially low, I can just sleep, and sleep, and sleep, and sleep. When I am asleep I can pretend that all of the bad stuff doesn’t exist; it doesn’t exist if I am not there to experience it. My worries and my sadness becomes the tree that falls in the woods with no one around to hear it.

* * *

I always used to want to have children. I wanted the proverbial white picket fence, 2.4 children, and husband that wears a suit and tie to work. Now I think I’ve decided I don’t want any of that. Partly because I don’t think I’m ever going to get it, and partly because I’ve realised I don’t like the world that I would be bringing my children into. All I would be doing it causing another generation the same pain and suffering, and bringing them into a world which I believe is on the brink of destruction. People are so mean to each other, people are selfish, they hurt each other, they kill each other, and everyone’s out for themselves – there’s no genuine teamwork anymore. Our physical environment, too, is destroyed way past the point of no return. There is hardly a river or stream left in the world that is safe to drink from. The air is polluted, the ground is polluted, the water is polluted, and overpopulation and modern day living has taken its toll on the landscape and the human’s natural state of living. I don’t want to bring my own flesh and blood into that. That would just be cruel and selfish. So I have pretty much resigned to the idea of living a largely solitary life, with perhaps only my cats for company. If I don’t expect more than that, I won’t be let down.

* * *

Funny thing just happened. It’s a Sunday evening, and I have spent pretty much the whole weekend lying in bed, either sleeping, or, if I happen to be awake, staring blankly into space or at the telly, or going through bouts of crying. At times I’ve tried to read a book, had the motivation to do a bit of hand sewing, wanted to watch a DVD, but never had the desire to leave bed. It’s my safe place. The only place I feel secure. But, during one of my staring-blankly-at-the-telly sessions, a funny programme came on, and I just started cracking up laughing. Then I couldn’t stop laughing. And it felt so weird to be laughing after a whole weekend of not doing it, but it felt good. It must have got the endorphins rushing because after that I actually had the motivation to go downstairs, cook dinner, making extra for lunch tomorrow and a light meal for tomorrow evening, and then, get this, I even did the dishes. I scrubbed the filth off plates and mugs that have been sitting in my room for about five days now. Then I started thinking about what I would do with my afternoon after work tomorrow. Shall I go to the gym, the supermarket, or swing by The Warehouse and pick up a few things from there that I need? I think I should tidy my room. It’s a mess. Fingers wrinkled from doing the dishes. Must be severely dehydrated. Knock back a glass of juice and refill it with water. Go back upstairs. I need to make my bed. It, too, is a mess. Maybe I will start attaching some lace trimming to my new dress. But first, I’ll write down the evolution of this strange volte-face in my mood. As it is proof that it is true that This Too, Will Pass.

* * *

After checking when I last saved this document, I find it interesting that it is three months to the day when I last wrote in here. And I feel exactly the same again as I did then. Maybe watching the documentary Zeitgeist that I had recently ordered off the internet has something to do with it. On top of the desolation and sadness I was already experiencing, that movie made me feel like the world and all the people in it were corrupt past the point of salvation. So what’s the point in me even trying to be happy in it? I felt very nihilistic at the end of that movie. But I don’t remember feeling that the last time I watched it, which was about a year ago.

However, before I had put the movie on, I had been sitting in my bed, with negative and angry thoughts going through my head; the whole “Why me?” routine – Why do people treat me like this? Why is it that I, who am usually so naturally happy and lively, am so sad and hopeless-feeling all the time? What did I do to deserve this? In fact I felt on the verge of a panic attack. My heart was racing, I felt very anxious, and on the brink of tears. And now, after thinking about all the things I wanted to write in here when I opened the document again, I don’t even have the motivation to do so. I don’t have the will to string those words together into anything coherent. I’m just angry and sad. And I’m hoping the higher dose of my medication that I took this morning will kick in soon and calm me down. Or else I feel like I’ll revert into a repeat of that weekend described above. Which I don’t have time for, as it is Sunday afternoon already, and I have work tomorrow.

* * *

11 days later: Christmas Eve.

My moods seem to come and go as they please. For example, for the past couple of weeks – the past few days especially – I’ve been really low, depressed, dwelling on the bad things in my life, being all bah-humbug-y about Christmas because I resent the fact that I don’t have family to spend it with and no close friends to spend it with either. I’ve been really short tempered, with low tolerance for annoyances, close to tears a lot of the time just because, and most of all feeling utterly lonely, desolate, and unloved. But, it’s Christmas eve, I’m alone as always, and behold – I’m not crying, I’m not hiding under the duvet, I’m not feeling sorry for myself…hell, a drop of alcohol hasn’t even passed my lips. And why? I have no idea. I have been irritable and sad at work all day, but it seems as soon as I got home my resilience kicked in. For no apparent reason. After days and days of coming home from work and getting straight into bed, often napping the evening away, or grabbing beers out of the fridge for drinking in solitude in front of the telly/computer, it didn’t turn out that way today. I bought curtains for new dresses on the way home, and when I got home I tidied my room (fucking bombsite it was), did a whole bunch of sewing on two different projects, and even made a healthy salad for dinner. And I haven’t really felt sad all evening. Why, I ask, why??

It’s almost like my strength, my resilience, my hope, my optimism – my survival instincts, decide they must show themselves when I really need them the most. I’ve been dreading Christmas for weeks. Because I knew I’d be spending the day alone, while everyone else was enjoying their families, the spreads of food, and the sunshine, while I was over here by myself, forgotten.

But I’m not as sad on this Christmas eve as I thought I’d be. I even have (albeit loose) plans for tomorrow, even though they don’t involve anyone else. I want to have bacon, eggs and avocado for breakfast, with my favourite mocha flavoured coffee, as I haven’t had one of those in ages. Then I’m going to give myself a mini-facial and dye my hair. I would also like to work some more on the two sewing projects I did a little on today, as I kind of got on a roll. If I feel like it I might go out for a walk, up Mt Vic, and enjoy the sun and the trees and the grass while no one else is around. Maybe I’ll take a book, or something to eat, I don’t know. I’d been planning that for ages, but kind of changed my mind in recent days because I thought it would be too depressing and I’d just get to the top of mountain, sit down, and start crying. But I feel reasonably optimistic right now that that’s not going to happen. At some stage I’m also going to treat myself to an ante pasto platter, as I’ve got a collection of yummy things like salami, feta, olives, camembert, pesto, sundried tomatoes and crackers. And sparkling grape juice. I don’t even like or celebrate Christmas, but I reckoned it would be stupidly depressing if I treated it as any other normal day and didn’t do anything special at all. (I find it interesting how just these small tasks can make me feel very accomplished sometimes. I guess it gives an indication of how low my motivation and my spirits really are.)

But the unpredictable shift in moods is what I find difficult coping with, that’s what I want to try to explain. Nothing in my life has changed, everything’s the same. The good stuff is the same, and the bad stuff is the same. Nothing big has altered that ratio. But sometimes I’m fine with it, I’m happy, I’m smiley, I joke around, I’m optimistic, hopeful, and loving life. And other times, under the exact same circumstances, I’m low, depressed, feeling sorry for myself, completely without hope, entertaining the thought of wanting to die, sometimes genuinely wanting to die – in fact, more often than I feel comfortable with – I’m lacking in motivation and energy, and I sleep as much as possible to escape the sad reality of being awake and experiencing all of the above. But nothing in my life has changed. Just my perspective of it, it seems. Why can’t I control this? I really wish I could. It’s very irrational. Not to mention dangerous and fucking annoying.

I guess that’s what I mean by cutting the fat. The times when my logic and my hope and optimism fail, is the fat. It’s what I need to cut out. But I have no idea how to do that, or even if I can. Like I said earlier in this piece, maybe I can’t cut it. Maybe the fat is actually a part of me, of who I am. I guess I just have to learn to live with it.

But one thing will help, as long as I do my best to believe it when it really matters – gam zeh ya’avor

* * *

Sometimes I really feel like I almost don’t exist. Not that if I killed myself that no one would miss me, I don’t mean that. I guess what I mean is that there is not much in my life – at some times, at least – that actually affirms my existence. There are not many circumstances in my life that would be much changed if I wasn’t there. No constants. No certainties to rely on. No family or home that will always be there at times of strife or when the Christmas holiday season comes around, no best friends that have known me since I was little, no boyfriend to care about me – all of those things would acknowledge my existence. But I don’t have any of them. It’s just me. I don’t exist to anyone but me. Or at least that’s how I feel sometimes.

God I sound pitiable. I’m so emo right now.

* * *

I’ve pretty much resolved to the fact that I’m going to be leading a largely solitary life. I just don’t see myself trusting anyone enough to let them into my life on a consistent basis, and relying on them to stay there. In fact I’m already finding myself relying on very little. I want to find myself my own one-bedroom flat because I don’t want to rely on flatmates, and I want that flat to be within walking distance to town because I don’t even want to rely on public transport. I’m not relying on anyone or anything to support me financially in my future, which is why I’ve invested in Kiwisaver and Bonus Bonds and why I’ve enrolled for a postgrad uni course that will hopefully get me a well-paying job one day even though I’m not one hundred percent enthusiastic about it. I just don’t want to rely on anyone or anything, for fear that I will be let down. You know what they say – ‘If you want something done right, do it yourself’ – and I plan on doing just that – doing everything myself, the right way.

The one thing I can think of that I do rely on at the moment is my job. I love my job, and I am so grateful for it. And I love it and am grateful for it because it can be relied upon. It’s always going to be there when I expect it to be; it starts and stops at the same time each day, on the same days of the week. Money goes into my account every fortnight without fail because I go there. And because I’m good at my job, I am confident it’s never going to leave me. And in some ways, partly I think because my job makes me feel secure and safe, my friends at work have almost become to feel like my family. Yet, family that I don’t want to get too close to. As unlike the job, they can easily disappear somewhere else.

So because I can’t rely on anything else, I’m going to have to make my own things to rely on. Things I’ve created. As the only thing I have to rely on absolutely, is myself.

I guess some people would call me a control-freak. I call it self-sufficiency.

But the thing is though; I want to rely on people. I just can’t. I want to feel that trust, that affinity, that mutual intimate co-operation and reciprocity, I want to be loved and cared for by someone I trust. But I can’t trust. Initially, and inherently, I trust easily, because I want to. But that gets cast aside by logic very quickly and gets replaced with doubt and suspicion. Puts a whole new spin on wanting what you can’t have, doesn’t it?

But I fear that because I want it so much, my resistance to such trust will fail if and when an occasion comes along where I feel the inclination that my wanton trust is actually justified. This has already happened in an extreme case once, and I vowed to never let it happen again. And afterwards not only did I not trust other people, I didn’t even trust myself and my own judgement. Trusting someone whole-heartedly once nearly broke me; I don’t think I would survive another case. But how am I to survive being alone either? I will be sad alone, because I want to trust but can’t. And I will be sad if I do try to trust because I can’t do it completely. Either that or I will actually be let down. It’s a catch-22. Either way, I’m going to be feeling desolate, and depressed. What am I going to do? How can I live the rest of my life like that? But then again, how can I not?

* * *

I had a cervical smear a couple of months ago, just before my 25th birthday. Results came back with ‘low grade cellular changes’. The brochure they sent me tells me that this is really nothing to worry about, that it’s very common and often things go back to normal by themselves. I just have to go back for a follow-up smear in a year’s time instead of the normal three.

But perhaps with the sentiment from the paragraph above where I quoted Bev Aisbett’s book Taming the Black Dog, I have been hoping things don’t go back to normal. Even though it’s very treatable these days, if I develop cervical cancer maybe I can indeed slip off this planet without it being my fault.

* * *

In fact I’ve been thinking a lot about death lately. I had a nap yesterday and I don’t know what made me think of it, but I thought that if I ever woke up to the house on fire, would I even bother to try to escape. I thought maybe I should just stand up in the smoke until it overcame me and then at least I would be unconscious when the flames finally found me.

I’ve also been thinking about writing goodbye letters. Who I would write to and who I wouldn’t, and what I would write to each person I chose to. I would only write to those I would regret leaving behind, as nobody else deserves a letter. Perhaps I would just leave a copy of this diary behind for the rest.

And yes, I’ve also been thinking of more possible methods to do it.

* * *

I have thought about writing in here many times, but didn’t feel I had anything quite relevant enough to bother typing out. Either that or it was ultimately too depressing and I wanted to ignore it. But I’ve remembered one thought that has recurred this evening that I want to write down and perhaps elaborate on later.

2010: If it gets to the end of the year and things have not drastically improved, if I feel the same loneliness, desperation and lack of self-worth that I do now, if I spend another Christmas and new year alone, if I still have not found anyone to trust enough that my faith in humanity can be restored, I will consider leaving this earth for good. Seriously consider it.

That leaves 327 days.

* * *

I don’t like having such morbid thoughts, and I wish I didn’t. But they automatically come into play when my moods get at their worst. Which is luckily not right now. I’ll try to explain this efficiently – I’m not having the same thoughts I was having during the previous entry at the time of writing this one. My moods at the moment are more positive and optimistic right now. But at the same time, those suicidal thoughts and hopelessness are always at the back of my mind to play a part in my thinking when things do get bad. They’re always there, they’re just not always functioning. They lie dormant until something wakes them. Concisely – death/suicide is not always a seriously considered solution, but it is always an option. Like a fall-back plan. Like insurance. It’s always there, even though you may not pay attention to it, or even forget about it. But it’s always there. And in saying that I realise right at this moment that in that way it’s reliable. And you know that I like things that are reliable. I like having a fall-back plan. Even if it’s results are final. It’s an option I will always have, and no one can take that away from me.

Right now, however, I’m good. I feel happy, positive, motivated, and content. I met up with a couple of friends last night that I hadn’t seen for ages, and found myself being really motivated to maintain my relationships with them, as well as with others, whereas for the past few weeks I’ve felt very distanced, distrustful, and just wanted to be a recluse. My uni course is also doing me a lot of good. I’ve been very motivated to get onto my readings in preparation for my first class, and I’ve been very interested in the content of them too. While I’m reading I often get the feeling that it’s something I’m going to be really good at. And it was nice to hear when my flatmate said that she thought I’d be good at this sort of thing too. It’s always good to get a second positive opinion. I’m still lonely though, and I’m still not sure how I’m going to change that.

* * *

Where to start, where to start. I don’t know. What I do know is that this entry, no matter how hard I try and organise it, is going to be a bumbling mess so I might as well just throw out the written diarrhoea as I think of it.

No matter how well I feel things are going, something always comes along to fuck them up. Remember how I said in my last entry that I was really enjoying my uni course, and my preparation for my first class? Well, yesterday I had my first class, and to tell you the truth, by the end of the day I was holding back tears and wanting to drop out and I left an hour early. I’ve also mentioned previously that I was never one hundred percent enthusiastic about it, and whatever the reasoning for that was, it reared its ugly head yesterday and raised a lot of unpleasant issues for me. Let me explain.

The course I’m enrolled in is a Postgraduate Certificate in Public Policy. I wanted to do it for several reasons, the mains ones being; 1) I have always been interested in ethics, in doing the right thing and making the right decisions. Policymaking is all about making the big decisions about what to do, and I wanted to be a part of making sure the right decisions got made, and therefore the ethically right actions got taken; and 2) I wanted a career path that would secure my future financially, as well as making sure I wouldn’t stay idle in an easy job I was too good for. And public policy seemed to tick both those boxes, without at the same time being thoroughly abhorrent.

However, whether it was the hayfever/cold thing I seem to have going on at the moment affecting my sinuses, my throat, and my overall wellbeing, or whether I had a particularly depresso day yesterday, or 8 hours straight of sitting still listening to lectures, not talking to anybody and being stuck in my own head got to me, or whether indeed all the thoughts and judgements I made during that time were all justifiably true, I got to the end of the day feeling like I was back at square one, and that this course was a silly idea, and I therefore had to reassess everything all over again.

I started off the day really positively. We had two lecturers taking turns during the day, and during the first lecturers’ presentation, I found myself thoroughly engaged. My hand couldn’t write notes fast enough, and I found myself completely understanding the content, and confident that I would be bloody good at applying it along with my own life experience and skills in the real world. Then after morning tea things just seemed to spiral downhill.

The chick next to me tap-tapping away on her laptop, sometimes in Microsoft word taking down notes, but also sometimes in gmail and facebook, whose phone vibrated on the spare seat between us every 30 seconds or so may have had something to do with my change in mood, but the lecturer that took over after the break also had a very different lecturing style, and I think I also just had a hard time adjusting to and relating to it. This no doubt automatically tapped into my insecurity and inferiority complex, and made me start to think about whether I was indeed good enough for this course. It didn’t help having the knowledge that – since we all had to stand up and introduce ourselves at the beginning of the day – most of the other people in the room were either continuing an already established policy honours or masters course, or were in a policy role in their jobs already and taking the course to upskill, and/or were actually sent by their organisations/government departments in order to add value to their policy or policy-related jobs. I felt like the only one in the room who was there as an independent freshman, with no experience at all, and once class discussion started with the second lecturer (who by the way also seemed to present her content with the assumption that everybody was also already in a policy role – “Who’s used this brainstorming tool before”; “Who wants to tell us about a similar case they’ve seen before” etc. etc.) I started to feel very intimidated both by the content of the lecture presentation and by the other students.

So I started to wonder what the fuck I was doing there and if I wasn’t just wasting my time. Was I really good enough for this course? Did I have enough experience? Was it realistic, given that all the other students were already in policy jobs without much or any formal training, for me to expect that this course would actually help me get a job? Or is it just a matter of luck or knowing someone who knows someone? Would I just be better off putting my time and energy into finding a better job instead of trying to upskill?

Looking over the assignment handout, even the first assessment questions sound like they’re aimed at people who already have some knowledge of the public sector and experience with policy. One question even says that you can narrow down your answer to consider policy development within a particular agency (ie the agency you work in).

Anyway, I think I’ve gotten enough off my chest and organised my concerns enough that I can probably leave it there. I’ve got a meeting with the course co-ordinator tomorrow afternoon, and I’m going to try and talk to my team leader at work tomorrow too. I can’t just give up like this, it’s not like me.

* * *

If I continue with this course I know it’s going to be a ‘means to an end’ type of scenario, without there necessarily being an ‘end’ to look forward to. Just like my undergrad was. It was something that I just had to get over and done with, and I feel that this will turn out the same way. As much as I try to focus on the prospect of getting into a policy job at the end of it, I don’t actually have that in place to look forward to. So how am I to stay motivated if there really is no point? If there is no outlet for me to actually apply the information and skills I learn in the course? I’m just going to be learning all this stuff and it will go unused. And then the knowledge and skills will fade and it will be too late to apply them effectively. So maybe I should just focus on the practical stuff, and then do any study if and when it comes up that I need to.

* * *

I don't want to learn, I want to live.

I need to accept the fact that what I need in my life is stability, reliability, and safety. And my job alone already gives me that. Well, enough for right now anyway. They say that to help others you must help yourself first. I was wanting to help others by trying to get into policy, but I’ve realised there is actually going to be no end to the need to help myself. I am not stable enough, nor will I stay that way if I do find some stability, to take on any kind of responsibility like that. I was living in a fairytale thinking I could do that. How can I be in an important role like that, when there are still days that I think about suicide? I think maybe I was hoping that going down this path would give me a sense of purpose. And it probably would in an ideal world, but I just don’t have the means to get there.

I don’t want to learn, I want to do. In fact it’s almost a relief now that I’ve (pretty much) decided to pull out of the course. I now have time to do things, and I don’t think I valued that time enough until I realised I wouldn’t have it anymore. I now have the time to do things that are constructive, rather than learning things that will go unappreciated.

For the time being, I just need to lead a simple life. Keep myself on track. Because the Black Dog is always, always going to come back and bite me in the ass. And I need to keep calm, keep happy, and keep my wits about me so when it does come, I have the energy and the means to turn around and whack it on the nose and tell it to go back to its kennel.

* * *

I cut myself again last night. I don’t know specifically why I was compelled to do it last night, but I just felt like doing it. I wanted to see how easy it would be to make myself bleed. I wanted to see myself bleed, and I wanted to see how much would come out. Last week along with my usual grocery shopping I bought a small kitchen knife, specifically for this purpose, but hadn’t used it until now. I guess with a little bit of frustration I did it on a part of my body I don’t particularly like, and which I knew no one would ever see. I did it a few times, experimenting with different pressures, and found it was easiest if I did it quickly. I put bepanthen cream on it today when I got out of the shower.

How ironic that I do that on the day I have a doctor’s appointment and I admit to her about all the suicidal thoughts and we increase my daily medication – again – and discuss other methods of help like NLP and hypnotherapy and the pros and cons of EAP counselling and I make another appointment for her to check up on me in three weeks time. I’m sorry Doctor Bennett. If I ever do do anything thoroughly stupid please know it’s not your fault.

Things just seem to have been getting worse and worse over the past few weeks.

* * *

My flatmates were discussing the other day how they find themselves attracted to, and fear they will end up with, men like their fathers. One doesn’t want to be attracted to and end up with the man’s man farmer type, and the other doesn’t want to be attracted to and end up with the emotionally manipulative type where she feels subordinate. I could not contribute to this conversation. As what I was thinking was – well, shit, it’s no wonder I’m single. If history is anything to go on, I will be attracted to, and will end up with, nothing.

I’m a little worried about one of my cuts. The deepest one split the skin apart and it’s not exactly going back together again. It just seems to be slowly forming a weak scab in the middle. But at the same time I like it. It’s my little secret. No one knows there is an open wound under my clothes.

* * *

A week after my appointment Dr Bennet rings to check up on me. And even though I’ve had two after-work beers already, I do my best to sound sober and coherent. I tell her that I’m ok, even though I had a really shit weekend last weekend, but that my flatmates noticed and staged a bit of an intervention by taking me out for the day on Sunday, and that because of the discussions we’ve had since, we all understand each other better and I feel I have a better support system at home, which she is pleased about. It’s out in the open about my depressive tendencies now; they know I’m on antidepressants and that I can get really bad sometimes. Charlotte is similar – but hers is caused and expressed differently. But we have all talked about how we all need to support each other and it makes me want to trust in this household. It does make me feel happier at home that we’ve had conversations like this, and makes me feel that this house can actually be a pretty permanent reliance for me. But I’m also scared to do that.

When I got the call from Dr Bennet last night I was also with two of my best friends, relaxing after the work week. I haven’t told them how I’ve been lately. Probably because when I am with them it’s always happy conversation with lots of laughs and that sort of topic just doesn’t come up often. Plus when I’m happy like that I don’t want to acknowledge how unhappy I can be at other times; just relish the fun I’m having right then. But I was actually hoping that last night we could have a serious conversation for once, as I did desperately want to tell them how I was feeling and get it off my chest and out in the open. I told them after the call that that was my doctor checking on me as I hadn’t been good lately and I saw her last week and we upped my dosage. They said that I never seemed like I wasn’t good, and that I must’ve been hiding it. Which I have been, at least with them. It didn’t go much further than that; I don’t think they wanted to pry and perhaps get me all depresso when we were having a good time. But I kind of wish they had. I’m not good at talking about myself when I’m not asked, and I did feel like talking.

I kind of wanted to get out into the open with a couple of trusted friends a frustrating and saddening realisation I’ve come to recently, which I’ve so far only been able to share with PostSecret. I don’t even feel comfortable writing about it here yet, as I’ve only just become comfortable with admitting it to myself. And as painful and heart-wrenching as it is, as much as it would help to share it, I just can’t. It’s too painful. And too personal. I’m actually not sure if I should share it with anybody, or just keep it to myself. But it’s a guilty, sad, confusing and almost pathetic secret, and if I don’t share it, I’m not sure what it’s going to do to me if it stays only in my own head.

* * *

I feel so goddamm emo. I wish I could just look on the bright side. I mean really, when I really think about it, I don’t have much to complain about right now. I have a job that I enjoy, I have a great flat, I have my health…but then why do I find myself so pathetically sad and so unmotivated that I literally don’t know what to do with myself when I get home? Where is my motivation? I’ve had it before. Where is the motivation to make better of the situation that I already have? I’ve always been a fighter. But it seems more and more common these days that I take the laissez-faire approach to my own interests. Maybe I’ve actually learned to stop trying.

Actually, yes. I think that’s what it is. Most of the things I try or take a risk on end up resulting in disappointment or failure. I think I’ve actually stopped trying. Because I’ve lost my optimism, or at least most of it. That actually makes a lot of sense. It would be a sound reason why I’ve been just existing lately and waiting and hoping for things to come to me. Because things never work out when I try to go to them.

I should so dye my hair black and start listening to Joy Division.

* * *

I’ve been really lacking in motivation lately. So unmotivated I’m unmotivated to try and get motivated. It’s an odd feeling really. Part of me feels like being constructive, using my time effectively, and doing things that I know I’ve enjoyed doing in the past, especially now that I have more time to do them now that I’m not studying. But the passion is not there. And when it comes to anything creative – which is usually what I like doing in my spare time – I have generally taken the stance that if I’m not feeling passionate, I won’t do it. I won’t do it if I don’t really feel like doing it; I won’t make it feel like work. Because I know nothing creatively good or satisfying will come out if I force myself into doing it (plus the result is usually disappointing, which shrinks the motivation to do more even further). So lately, without that passion, I’ve been doing next to nothing. My dressmaking has effectively gone on hold – I just haven’t had much of an interest in it lately. And even trying to inspire myself with designs and recreations on the internet or browsing through my own collection of patterns and fabrics doesn’t help like it used to. It really is odd. I want to be doing enjoyable creative things, but I just don’t feel like it. I want to feel like it. And in a way it feels like I’ve temporarily lost part of my identity. Who am I if I’m not sewing? Because I’m certainly not doing anything else.

However, I’m very much enjoying work, and I know I’ve been saying that a lot lately. I fear a little that that may be the start of the slippery slope to being a workaholic, but that’s another story. I’ve been given some more responsibilities this past week; namely ‘buddying’ the latest group of new staff, helping them learn and get comfortable in the office environment. And I think I’m pretty good at it. I’ve always been upbeat with them, always welcoming and smiling, always responsive to questions, and they all seem to really like me. So it makes me feel important, with a sense of purpose, and that my actions are actually causing some positive results. I’m actually loving this role. I feel like it’s something I’m good at.

But, I did have a small glimpse of motivation this afternoon after work. I had been planning to go see this Anne Frank exhibition at the museum for weeks, as I had recently read her diary, and a local Jewish school are planning an amazing holocaust memorial sculpture that they need donations for, which I read can also be made via the Anne Frank exhibition. I had actually planned to go today after work, but then they called for overtime because it was busy, which I did, and the weather was horrible, and I needed to go to the supermarket, so I considered postponing the exhibition for yet another day. But I knew it finished on Wednesday, and despite the weather and the longing to get to the supermarket before all the other 9-to-5ers did (I hate supermarket shopping at the best of times) I did actually make a detour to the museum. I even surprised myself. I haven’t felt like actually doing anything in a long time. And you know what? It felt good. I felt accomplished. I kind of like coming home late actually, after running errands after work or what-not, and only just making it back in time for the 6 o’clock news. It makes me feel like I have actually filled my day and I do indeed deserve just to rest for the evening and do what I like. So I’m going to go to the gym after work tomorrow. I swear.

* * *

Now it is the end of the week, and starting with the Anne Frank exhibition on Monday, I did indeed manage to do something constructive after work every single day. I think the higher dose of fluoxetine really did kick in this week. I do feel overall happier and more motivated to do things, but I’m still finding it hard to summon the passion for doing things that have been enjoyable in the past, namely my dressmaking. I’m just drifting at the moment. I have no goals, no identity, nothing I’m working towards. I work in a menial job, that even though I enjoy, I feel underappreciated in, and resent the fact that I live from payday to payday. I’m not studying anymore, so I don’t have that as a goal or an identity anymore either. I just feel like at the moment I don’t really have any sense or idea of who I am.

* * *

I finished reading Elizabeth Wurtzel’s Prozac Nation the other day, and I must say that I loved it. There was a lot in the book that I related to; a lot of sentences and paragraphs that made me go ‘Yes, that’s right! I couldn’t have put that better!’ It’s definitely a book I’d read again, if only to refamiliarise myself with those sections. It was a comfort to read actually. It was a comfort to have something I could pick up whenever I wanted and know that I wouldn’t feel so isolated if I started reading. I would feel like, yes, there are other people out there who think the same things as me. It inspires me to want to try and write my own book actually. I would love to get my story out there some day, as I know I have had a very unique experience of life. I got placed in a very unique set of shitty circumstances in my existence, and I like to think I’ve been reasonably successful in spite of them. Well, at least, I’m still here aren’t I?

Speaking of shitty circumstances, I’ve been feeling rather cynical about one particular aspect of them lately. And that’s money. Or rather lack thereof. I’m getting sick of seeing people around me getting hand-outs from their parents. Either paying for their tertiary study, or paying for them to go overseas, bailing them out of debt…that sort of thing. And I guess I’ve realised lately that – unless a huge windfall of some kind comes my way of course – that I’m probably never going to be in the position where I can be financially comfortable, or have the finances for something large. I’m probably not going to be able to buy a house, go on my OE, or pay off my student loan before I retire, and certainly not do all three. I have had zero financial aid from my mother since I was 19 – probably before, actually, as she made me go on the dole as soon as I turned 18 – and no financial aid from my father my whole life. This fact has prompted me recently to start asking around law-school graduate friends if they have any idea if I have a right to claim back-paid child support in any way. Because god damn it, I deserve it. I’ve done too much hard work on my own. I want a piece of that pie too.

* * *

I must have sounded pretty sad after my brief recount of my ‘same-old-same-old’ boring day after my flatmate’s enquiry this evening, because she asked as if to evoke inspiration for less boring-sounding days in the future, “What other interests do you have, apart from the sewing?” I thought for a second, and my reply was, honestly, “I don’t know anymore”. Going back to the topic of a couple of entries ago, I’ve realised I actually really don’t. Like I said, I feel like I have no identity right now. I have no motivation, nothing inspires me, and because of that I feel like I’ve lost the intrinsic me along with it. There are so many things I am interested in, but nothing interests me right now. Why is that? How can I have interests but not the inspiration or motivation to pursue them? Can I even still call them interests? Where have I gone?

* * *

I’ve been especially depressed the past few days. And it was only last week that I felt like I was getting better. Not only have I been feeling void in motivation and inspiration to actually better my situation, that already downward spiral was exacerbated by several other factors. That realisation I had come to, that I spoke of a while back, I can’t stop thinking about it. Almost to the point where it’s starting to feel normal. And I don’t know if that’s the normal healing process or if I’m heading for the realm of delusion. I don’t want to think about it so much that it becomes an obsession or indeed a delusion of the actual reality. But there’s nothing to have in place of it. Anyway, all of that must sound very mysterious without knowing what this realisation of mine actually was, but I still don’t want to acknowledge it further by writing it down (and not sending it to the U.S. on the back of a postcard with no return address).

I also knew that my contented work situation would end one day. They’re starting to bring in all these changes to the way we do things – so much so that it’s not really the same working environment anymore. And with the further changes they told us about this week, I really fear it’s going to turn into a place I don’t want to be. Plus my Team Leader is moving up in the world and will no longer be our Team Leader in a couple of months. I don’t know if I can handle all this change. Up until very recently, my work was a place I enjoyed going to; it was almost a respite from all the other crap in my life – one of the few good things I had going. It was a place where I felt safe, free, respected, and purposeful. But the changes they’re proposing restrict so many of our freedoms, and I fear it will soon feel more like a prison than a refuge to me, just like the job I had in Dunedin in 2007. That job was almost the death of me, and I didn’t realise just how bad it was until much later. I was so depressed that year – I dreaded going to work, and I took every possibility available to avoid it. I was constantly looking for other work, and was always shot down, which further added to my hopelessness. I was ill a lot, I had a short temper, and my insecurity was also intensified. Because I felt so trapped in my life, stuck in a job I hated, with no foreseeable way out, I clung to safety, security and comfort like it was my life raft. And whenever those lifelines were even slightly threatened, I became unreasonably distrustful, angry, and reserved, shutting people out. Even those who were trying to help me. And so the depressive cycle continued. I behaved horribly towards my then-boyfriend over the course of that year, and I sorely regret it now. I don’t know how he put up with me for so long. But at the time, when I was that stressed and that depressed and that hopeless-feeling, I had no idea what I was really doing, nor did I have an inkling of how I could have changed it. I do not want a repeat of 2007. I don’t want to feel as stressed and hopeless as I did then. Because I really don’t know if I’ll survive a second round.

* * *

For so long I’ve just been existing. I feel like an empty shell of my former self. I may laugh and joke on the outside like I normally do, but I don’t really feel anything. I can’t remember the last time I got genuinely excited about something, or really looked forward to something, or felt genuinely happy and contented. Like I’ve said multiple times before, I just haven’t been interested in anything. I haven’t been interested enough in life to get excited or happy. I’m just drifting. Getting one day done and out of the way and then starting another, without feeling anything in between. I haven’t felt truly myself for ages. Far too unacceptably long. I may experience glimpses of myself, fleeting moments of true happiness, but they haven’t been sticking around lately. They just get replaced with the same old hopeless disinterest. I guess maybe it’s because I don’t expect anything to go well, so I don’t bother getting interested in it. It’s just getting worse and worse. My life isn’t getting better as I get older, it’s getting worse. My issues of distrust, insecurity, loneliness and resentment just seem to be getting worse and worse the longer I exist. Because having those feelings in the first place doesn’t attract good things into my life, and not having good things in my life makes all those feelings stronger.

Where is my happy, giggly, carefree self? Where has she gone? What made her go away? Have I become too sedentary? Is it the full-time job and the grief of the loss of the student lifestyle getting to me? Surely it’s not just that. I know I was still depressed through my university years, but I still for some reason look back at them and remember a strong sense of freedom and fascination in everything around me. That’s not me anymore. I don’t feel free and I don’t feel fascinated by anything.

I think I do have to throw down my arms and concede to the fact that I need help again. And not just two fluox capsules every morning. I think I need to try counselling again. I don’t think I can carry on for much longer without any intervention. I was actually sitting on the couch with my flatmates watching a DVD before, and even during the action-packed sequences, my mind still had the time and space to contemplate whether it was actually worth living anymore.

* * *

Well, two weeks later and I’m sewing again. I don’t know what it is but something’s going right upstairs at the moment. I have even (with the suggestion from a flatmate) been emailing local theatres asking if they want a costume or general volunteer. No positive response yet though. I really don’t know what it was that got me motivated again, but I’ve been watching a lot of LOTR over the weekends lately, and watching LOTR always makes me feel better. Maybe the whole appeal of Weta studios got me motivated again. I can’t think of anything more awesome than working for Weta studios. Maybe that’s why I started getting creative again. I had a semi-goal. It’ll probably never happen though. But getting the motivation back is a start.

The counselling is currently on hold though. The list of Employee Assistant Programme counsellor profiles that my team leader pointed me in the direction of didn’t really yield anyone suitable. I’ve had enough experience with counsellors to know what I’ll be comfortable with, and I didn’t feel particularly confident about any of them. Plus, I’ve been pretty good since my last entry so I haven’t really been thinking about it. Long term though, I think I will need something. I’ve been bottling up way too much stuff lately. And it needs a sounding board. Or else I may actually literally go crazy.

* * *

It’s only been just over a week, but it feels like ages since I last wrote in here. And that’s because I’ve either been too happy that I haven’t wanted to or felt the need to, or that I’ve been so bad that even attempting to string my thoughts together, even to get them out of my own head, seems far too much effort. I need a comfortable in-between, if I am to write anything worthwhile. But lately it seems I’ve been swinging between the two extremes – the same old either hiding under the duvet feeling sorry for myself, or happy and full of optimism and hope for my future.

Or right now, when I just can’t bloody think. I have to stop.

* * *

Another week later and I should probably try and make a satisfactory update, despite the lack of motivation I’m feeling today.

I’ve been sewing again. I’ve made two 1940s style dresses in the last few weeks, and even started working again on another one today that had been sitting idle for ages because it got too hard. I got my passion back for a while there. There have even been a couple of stints like the good old days where I’ve been on a roll for hours and forgotten to even eat or drink. That’s when I know I’m definitely into it. In fact I’ve gotten a little 1940s fashion obsessed lately; browsing vintage patterns for sale on the internet, and taking more notice of the cut and style when I see WWII-era clothing on TV and movies and stuff. I like it because it’s stylish and sophisticated but still practical. And it reminds me of a time when people were more appreciative of what they had, and life wasn’t so materialistic. Sometimes I feel like the only thing that will make people appreciate life and what they have again is another world war.

Work is good too. I’ve been given more extra duties, which gets me closer and closer to a pay rise all the time, and also makes me feel more useful and appreciated. Plus I’m getting on with everyone really well too. Even a couple of people I’ve been a bit distant with lately for one reason or other. Everyone seems to like me, and that’s a really nice feeling. Especially some of the newbies that I buddied. I feel like they look up to me and respect me, and I like the feeling of responsibility and trust I get from that. A workmate who recently got a new job asked me if I was still going to stay. My reply was yes, I know I’m too good for this job, the pay isn’t great, but right now I need a job where I can get up in the morning and go to and not hate. I do actually enjoy it, and I appreciate all the joking and laughing we’re able to have in the office. I’m still happy just having that. And to say it out loud like that was a relief, because I’d been thinking it for ages, but never really articulated it. I don’t know how long it will last though. The pay really is shit.

But on the whole I’ve been pretty good really. I seem to have motivation for things I enjoy, I’ve been socialising again, work’s been making me feel good…shit, even good enough that I actually wore ‘work’ clothes to work last week. So it seems redundant that I’m in the middle of organising my free counselling sessions now. But I know I’m going to need them again in the not-too-distant future. Gam zeh ya’avor and all that.

* * *

I have my first counselling session this Tuesday, and I actually don’t know what I’m going to talk about, because I’ve been surprisingly steadily happy recently. It’s been an odd feeling actually, this reliable unchanging mood. I’m used to it being unpredictable and volatile, and I would love to know what’s causing it. Unfortunately when I’m happy I feel less motivated to write in this journal, just motivated to enjoy myself and be constructive. So I get less of an opportunity to organise and understand my thoughts when I’m happy, and therefore the reasons behind why I’m happy. I really should work on that. And that can start now.

I guess a large part of my happiness has been the holiday I took back to Sydney last week. But surely there were events that normally would have disrupted that happiness – and I’ve been fine for the three days since I’ve been back too. Somehow I’ve been finding it easier to look on the bright side, and look forward to things – despite the fact that coming back home reminded me how much I miss Sydney and my old friends and flatmates (and that my current flatmates are terrible in comparison), despite the fact that I’m hundred of dollars in debt from spending too much and having money stolen off my credit card, and despite the cold and rainy weather I’ve come back to, I feel more motivated to improve my life and circumstances than ever. Somehow I’m thinking about what I can and want to do rather than what I can’t do and what I don’t have. I want to save money, I want to get my own place, I want a promotion at work, and I’ve realised I don’t necessarily want a boyfriend. A thought I haven’t had in a long time. I’ve just become too independent. If a guy came along, he’d just mess everything up that I’d been working on. I don’t want to rely on a boyfriend, I don’t want to be co-dependant like that. I just want to be free and do my own thing and make my own decisions.

But something nice happened in Sydney which I think helped to re-organise my perspective on things. During my week there, an old friend became a bit more than an old friend. Not that a relationship will come out of it, obviously, but it was still a nice thing to happen. I’d forgotten what it was like, to just lie with someone that you trusted and had affection for, to be kissed on the forehead just because, to completely relax in someone else’s arms, and know that it wasn’t just empty physical attraction. But the thing is, as good as it felt, I didn’t get attached, and I didn’t feel a grieving loss when I left. I was a bit surprised that I didn’t want anything more actually, which made me wonder whether it’s because I don’t want anything more at all, with anyone. It was just enough for me to be able to feel that trust again, that comfortable safety, and to feel that I was still desirable. I don’t think I wanted anything much more than that. It was healing, and it was reassuring. It restored a lot of things I’d lost, or at least hadn’t been able to find recently.

In fact, right now at least, I feel healed enough to express the nature of the realisation I had a while back that I never wanted to admit enough by writing it down. My realisation was that I’d never fully gotten over my ex. The one I was with for two years, and whom I broke up with under unresolved and uncertain circumstances, at a peak in my depression. I’d always grieved the loss of that relationship, because I did feel so good being in it, and I did truly love him, and haven’t loved since. But that all seems redundant now. Like I said, my perspective’s been changed. All that seems more firmly in the past now, where it should be. Right now, at least (gam zeh ya’avor) I’m happy being by myself, doing things for myself, making my own decisions, but still knowing what that intimate affection is like. That’s all I feel I need right now. And I feel stronger because of that.

I will try and come back to this entry later, but right now my mind is clogged with the affects of about a hundred sneezes – I think I’m getting sick. I’ve exhausted my ability for logical thought patterns for now.

~

I know, however, that no matter how good I’m feeling now, there are always a few underlying things that are always around lying dormant, that I will be confronted with again at some point. To be honest lately I haven’t been able to identify exactly what those things are, but I know they’re there. It’s almost like I’ve forgotten what my issues are. Well, in a sense I have. But I know I have a trust issues; those are always going to be around. Resentment around not having a family and the other comforts and benefits that other people have is another thing. But right now nothing else really bothers me. Like I’ve said before, the issues are still there, I just have a different perspective on them right now – “…nothing in my life has changed. Just my perspective of it, it seems…I guess that’s what I mean by cutting the fat. The times when my logic and my hope and optimism fail, is the fat”. I think for right now, the fat has been cut. And it feels pretty damn good.

* * *

Well I had my first session with my counsellor today. Her name’s Helen Chambers and even though I’d never met her before she was very easy to talk to. We spent the session just talking about my background, and discussing any issues I would like to work on. So I told her all about the mother and the drinking and the absent father and the brother and sister and how I haven’t been able to trust anyone since, and she seemed to understand everything fully straight away. She gets people, I could tell. She talked about ‘cotton-wool’ children (of which I know frustratingly too many) and how people who had to grow up self-reliant are much better at living in and adapting to the world. It was good to be reminded of that. I’d rather this than be spoon-fed. But we still acknowledged the lament for lack of a parental safety-net. She’s also going to refer me to a ‘Children of Alcoholics’ discussion group. I didn’t know those existed, but I think it’s a great idea. It would be good to talk to others with a similar background and share stories.

I told her that I’d actually been really steadily good for the past few weeks and that I felt that because of that counselling at this time was somewhat redundant, but she said that it was good in the sense that discussing things while I’m in a good place may help identify why I am in a good place – or at least help me get back to it when I’m not so good. That’s how I understood it anyway. I can’t remember her exact words.

So yeah, a successful counselling session, I think. After my long-term apprehension for them. It’s been a long time since I really got stuff off my chest and talked privately about myself. It’s been a long time since I’ve had positive feedback from someone who knows what they’re talking about, and had the positive reinforcement of my character. I’m fine functioning on my own most of the time. But it still gets lonely with no one to talk to.

* * *

Not going back to that counsellor. Had my second session yesterday and it was an utter waste of time. I entered the session voicing a second issue that I would like to work on, as I had been reminded of it at work and it had got me quite angry and worked-up. I explained the situation and my feelings towards it but she just didn’t seem to get it. She wasn’t really listening to me, I could tell. She didn’t get the point of what I was trying to explain. We touched lightly on the trust issue again but I was still so angry from my day at work and now frustrated by her lack of understanding that I admitted that I just knew that everything I discussed would be discussed in a pessimistic light. Instead of trying to remedy this, however, she completely left it behind and moved forward with something entirely different – which resulted in her basically lecturing me through a couple of chapters from some psychology book on cognitive behavioural therapy. She spoke continuously, didn’t let me get a word in, didn’t ask me any questions, or how I felt, or if she did want my input she didn’t make it clear and there was this awkward silence and I had to say “Are you asking me?” The anger from my day at work, the frustration at her lack of understanding, and the further anger and frustration at this psychology lecture and my recognition of myself and my thought patterns within the lines of text and not being able to express this made me want to cry. I was even sniffing and wiping glimpses of tears from my eyes and she didn’t even notice. I just wanted to leave. In fact it felt just like a university lecture where I felt trapped and I just wanted it to be over. Soon enough, thank goodness, it was. She abruptly excused herself from the room saying she had to check with her receptionist if my next appointment had been booked, greeted her next client…and then didn’t come back. I looked at the time, and saw it was five o’clock, so I just assumed that was my cue to leave. I threw my coat on and headed for the door. “Same time next week ok? See you then?” “Yep,” I replied meekly, thinking in my head ‘fuck off, I’m not coming back here, you’re useless.’ Then I scooted out the door in the direction of the lift without saying another word. It baffles me how she could have neglected to see that I wasn’t ok. What the hell. I left the building with one main thought: ‘Now I know I’m definitely on my own.’

So anyway, maybe I’ll have to be my OWN sounding-board when it comes to what happened yesterday at work. The issue that came up for me was my resentment towards those that seem to get it easy; that get a hand up, or even an out-right silver spoon, when it seems I’m always working, working, working just to get by. These are people with parents, with loving generous parents, or people who know someone else influential that can get them a job or a promotion in a job, or some other kind of life-perk. I don’t have loving parents, I don’t know anybody to give me a break, I have to do everything on my own and only just manage through it. I resent people who get breaks they haven’t worked for and aren’t even grateful for them. And I seem to have to work ten times as hard without even the same promised outcome.

I have been working towards Grade 8 at work for about 6 months now, slowly ticking off the requirements for the title, and fulfilling several extras. But there is one job I haven’t yet been able to tick off as I haven’t yet been rostered on it. Yesterday I found out that two of my peers got awarded Grade 8 by only just scraping through the requirements. These are people who don’t put their hand up for extra duties – like I do, aren’t very personable or go out of their way to ‘build and maintain relationships’ – like I do, and haven’t done at least two of the major jobs that I would have thought would be a prerequisite for Grade 8, namely buddying and banking, which I have done. One of them has even been working there four months less than me. I just don’t get it. I don’t understand; I don’t see the logic in it. Why did I get left behind? Why do I have to work so much harder and achieve so much more before I get to the same level? How did they get favoured and pushed through the system so quickly? I just don’t get it. And that’s exactly what I’m talking about. Why do I have to work so hard and other people get it easy? Why do I seem to have so many more obstacles to get past than everyone else? This work thing is just another example. I’m just sick of working so damn hard for what I get.

I don’t want much. I just want a house of my own, a cat to keep me company, and freedom and happiness in my work. But even that seems unattainable. I can feel those old hopeless thoughts coming back. Like nothing’s going to work out, I’m always going to struggle, I’m never going to be really happy and stay that way, I’m always going to be on my own…so what’s the point? What’s the point in living a life that is a constant struggle, and is lonely and unhappy? Hopefully this current lack of hope is only fleeting.

* * *

Well, the debacle over the Grade 8 controversy – that was nothing. I got a double blow at work yesterday which actually sent me to tears. How it went was this: our Business Coach is currently away working on a project elsewhere in the department, and the managers asked for people to apply to fill in for him for a six month secondment. Of course, I jumped at the chance. His job is almost a manager-like job – he works with staff for ongoing training and mentoring, there to answer questions and fix problems. He also manages all our stats. Since my buddying role, I kind of felt like I was already partly stepping into his shoes, as all the new people as well as some who have been there quite a while, still come to me with questions and problems. And I always responded with enthusiasm and patience. I thought I was a shoe-in for the job, or at least an interview. However, they didn’t even hold interviews. Their exact words were ‘ten people applied, and we had to draw the line somewhere…you just missed out’, but I reckon they had it in their minds all along who they wanted to pick. And it’s really hush-hush who it is, but we’ve got our suspicions. And if those suspicions are right, I’m very fucked off. You need to have a positive disposition, and a friendly, open personality for a job like this. You need to be personable and able to relate to people. These two (they’re job-sharing apparently) have none of those qualities.

In fact the reason why I’ve been enjoying work so much recently, and playing off my overall morale, is because I’m so widely liked and (seemingly) respected and appreciated in the office. I go out of my way to catch up with people, I always say hi, get some laughs out of people, and especially with my newbies I still go and check that everything’s still going okay for them. So I just don’t get how I could not at least have at all been considered for the role. Again, with the Grade 8 shambles, it just doesn’t make any goddam sense.

I’ve spent this unusually sunny Saturday just pottering around, distracting myself, and relaxing. I did heaps of housework, started a new dress, and tidied my room, but I knew at some point I’d have to sit down and write all this down. I didn’t want to though, because I knew it would get me all angry again. And it bloody is. I can feel my heart pounding and my body getting all anxious. I just can’t believe it. I feel so hopeless because of this. There is nothing I can do. And again, other people are getting the undeserved breaks and I’m left behind to keep struggling. What did I do wrong? Why am I not suitable? And how the fuck are they more suitable? I really could have used that money, too. The pay was amazing.

Fucking hell, my flatmate just slammed her bedroom door and it sent a tremor of violent shock through my already agitated nervous system. Fuck this. Maybe I will go to the dairy and buy coke and icing sugar on the flat card.

God, I feel like having another little cry now.

~

Back from the dairy with a bottle of coke to go with my kahlua, a bag of icing sugar and the acquaintance of two very cute cats sitting outside people’s front gates. I didn’t know whether the universe was teasing me with the taste of feline affection, or if it was letting me know that everything was going to be okay, and I would have my own cat soon. I like to think it’s the latter.

I feel calmer now.

~

Going back to the start of today’s entry, I guess cutting the fat doesn’t need to necessarily mean removing it. It seems – today at least – that distracting myself from it is at least in the interim just as effective. A couple of times this evening when I felt like I was getting the same anxious symptoms I just distracted myself – with music, or youtube videos, sewing, etc., and then I felt fine again. I just need to cut the bad stuff and focus on the good stuff, the stuff that makes me happy. But unfortunately I’m not always in a strong frame of mind to be able to do that. I’m just lucky at the moment that I’ve been in a steadily good headspace for a long time now. Otherwise I think I’d be heading down another depressive spiral.

* * *

Despite all the dramas though, my new team leader seems to be firmly on my side. Kate has recently gone away on secondment herself, and a lady named Liz from the contact centre has stepped in. Already she seems more proactive and more concerned about my development within the office, and I have hope that she’s actually going to help me out. She seems to understand the unfairness of the whole thing too, as it seems like she’s been in similar situations before. It’s just difficult that she hasn’t been there long and she doesn’t have experience of how things work in the office and how promotions have worked in the past. To my detriment she also doesn’t have a lot of first-hand experience of my performance, so I’ll need to make sure I don’t get all cynical and careless and let that slip.

I just need to pick myself up and dust myself off. The universe must have other plans for me. I just need to get over the initial shock and disappointment. It’s going to be hard though, seeing as it’s strongly tied in with the – shall we call them, ‘silver spoon’ issues – that I have. Despite the titles and the ranking, I know I’m still an awesome person and an awesome worker. I’ll just have to keep remembering that.