#oneaday Day 737: Returning to reality

We go home tomorrow, which is going to be somewhat bittersweet, as I'm sure you can imagine. There has been absolutely no sign of Oliver over the course of the last week, no contact from anyone who has seen him, no sightings reported on social media and — perhaps thankfully? — no reports that he has passed away. So I choose to believe that he is still out there, somewhere, just waiting for us to find him. Perhaps it's all a game to him. He does love a game.

grayscale photography of concrete road during daytime — Photo by Airam Vargas on Pexels.com

I am, of course, still absolutely sick with worry. It has been two weeks today that he went missing, and whatever happens, I am always, always going to be wondering if there was more we could have done — more we should have done. There are zillions of online resources out there saying what you "should" do when a cat goes missing, but a significant proportion of them appear to be AI-generated drivel and pseudoscience.

I am not willing to give up on him, though. At this point, it feels like it will be unlikely that he will come home by himself for whatever reason, but I still want to go looking for him and will be doing so when we return home tomorrow. I don't know if I will be able to achieve anything — over the course of two weeks, it's entirely possible he could have gone a long way, although most supposed "experts" (with the caveat above) seem to believe that cats who spend the majority of their time indoors, as Oliver did, won't have actually ventured very far, and are probably hiding silently somewhere they feel is "safe". This, unfortunately, makes them extremely difficult to track down; the most supposedly reliable advice appears to be to bring things that are "familiar" to them — things that they recognise the smell or sound of.

Part of me is concerned that he has simply been taken by someone. Not necessarily stolen as such, but perhaps he was seen somewhere, the owner didn't think to get his microchip checked, and now thinks that they have a wonderful new cat in their family. If that has happened, I have absolutely no idea how we would go about finding him — although if this has happened, his status will be flagged up if and when he is taken to the vets or a shelter or something, and that, in turn, would allow us to be reunited. But that, of course, depends on the person in question thinking to take him to a vet or shelter — if indeed this is the situation in which he has found himself.

As I've said repeatedly over the course of the last two weeks, though, the absolutely impossible thing throughout all this is just not knowing anything. What made him jump out of the window? Which way did he go? Was he just exploring, or was he running from something? Is he hurt? Is he hungry? Has he been taking care of himself for the last two weeks? Has someone else been taking care of him for the last two weeks? I don't have any answers, and these myriad questions swirling around my brain are driving me absolutely spare.

I'm supposed to be going back to work on Tuesday, and it'll be right back into a difficult, stressful time, too. Honestly I'm not sure I'm going to be able to cope. I am wracked with pain, sadness, guilt, anger, frustration and all manner of other emotions, and I still don't really know how to process any of them, or how to direct any of them in a vaguely productive direction — either for getting some work done, or for tracking down our precious boy.

As with any difficult time, I guess it's just going to have to be a "one step at a time" sort of situation. I want to think this is all going to end happily and become a funny story to share in the years to come, but I am also fearing the worst. I don't want to lose him. He is so, so precious to me.

There is nothing I can do from where I am right now, though. Tomorrow is a new day, and we can decide what we need to do from there. So the best thing I can probably do at the moment is get some rest and try to come to tomorrow as alert and refreshed as is possible under the circumstances.

Want to read my thoughts on various video games, visual novels and other popular culture things? Stop by MoeGamer.net, my site for all things fun where I am generally a lot more cheerful. And if you fancy watching some vids on classic games, drop by my YouTube channel.

If you want this nonsense in your inbox every day, please feel free to subscribe via email. Your email address won't be used for anything else.

#oneaday Day 729: The struggle for your emotions to be heard

One of the things I find difficult and, at times, frustrating to deal with, perhaps particularly as a person with an autistic spectrum condition, is properly conveying the emotions that I am feeling and the depth of those emotions. Our recent anguish over Oliver's disappearance is a prime example of this. I am feeling intense amounts of pain, sadness, anger, fear, grief and all manner of other emotions over this situation, on a pretty much continual basis, and yet I'm not sure if I have accurately conveyed that to anyone.

woman checking compass on trail — Photo by Ali Kazal on Pexels.com

It's not as if I haven't tried to do so. But I feel like any time I have attempted to — with the exception of my therapist yesterday, who is trained in such matters, and my family members, who have been through situations like this and thus understand — I have simply got a response that is, at best, a cursory "oh, Pete, I'm so sorry" and then nothing much after that.

I'm not really sure what I'm expecting or wanting from other people, to be honest. But something about it just doesn't quite feel… "enough", you know? I am here, devastated at the potential loss of a family member — because make no mistake, Oliver is a family member — and I feel like a lot of people I've expressed this to have pretty much forgotten this fact almost as soon as they have given the appropriate response as defined by the unwritten social contract we all agree to.

To be clear, I'm not angry at anyone who has responded this way and I'm not annoyed that very few people have reached out to see how I'm doing as the week goes on. I know that everyone has their own things going on in their lives, and their own priorities of things to care about. I cannot reasonably expect people who are not directly involved in this situation to care about it as much as I do. I know that.

But I think what the problem is, is that this is putting my overall loneliness somewhat into perspective. There simply are not very many people left in my life that I feel like I can express these things to, and that they will give a shit. It is at times like this where you really feel like you need people in your life to support you, to uplift you, to distract you from the dark thoughts swirling around inside your head, and when you simply don't really have that outside of your immediate family members, it can feel a tad difficult to deal with.

I think about how I might feel if someone close to me was dealing with such mental anguish, and how I would want to be there to support them. I think about how I have been with people who were once close to me who have been through similarly challenging periods of intense, sustained emotion. Perhaps I am the one who overdid it? Perhaps I was overbearing, smothering? I don't know. It felt like the right thing for me to do at the time, and the people in question seemed to appreciate it, too.

It's just so difficult. Like I say, I really don't know what emotion I am really "supposed" to be feeling right now, because the fact is I simply still do not know what the situation actually is. All I know is that Oliver is missing, and his condition is unknown. And until we learn something more about what has actually happened, that uncertainty is going to be probably the leading cause of the intense sadness and frustration that both Andie and I are feeling right now.

If you want this nonsense in your inbox every day, please feel free to subscribe via email. Your email address won't be used for anything else.

#oneaday Day 728: Giving yourself permission to smile

The thing about a grieving process — whether it is a result of tangible loss or, as in our situation, simply not knowing what has happened — is that it can very quickly and easily become all-consuming. It can take over your entire life; your entire mind; your entire heart; your entire soul.

silhouette of man sitting in contemplation — Photo by Andrew Patrick Photo on Pexels.com

There isn't necessarily anything wrong with that. Suffering a loss, regardless of the circumstances, is a difficult thing to contend with, and each of us approach the situation differently. Some of us prefer to completely, wilfully enrobe ourselves in the darkness for a time, then come out of the other side if not necessarily feeling "better", then at least feeling some form of closure and acceptance. Others of us take a more long-term approach, finding ourselves spending a portion of each day in quiet (or not-so-quiet) reflection on our loss, but trying to get on with things. Others still push all that grief and hurt down for as long as possible, then end up exploding in a passionate, emotional outburst once the pressure becomes too much for a mind, heart and soul to bear.

There is no one right way to grieve, and there is no wrong way to grieve, either. But it is easy to find yourself in a situation where you feel like you should be grieving all the time, and by extension end up feeling a curious sort of guilt if you are not actively grieving. To put it another way, one can feel like one is not "allowed" to do anything fun or joyful during a period of grief; it can feel something along the lines of "inappropriate" or "disrespectful" or maybe even "lazy" to not be actively grieving, even if that process is not particularly achieving anything. It can feel wrong to do something that you know will make yourself feel better, because some part of you wants to say that you don't deserve to feel better for one reason or another.

I know I am particularly prone to this. It happens any time I go through a grieving process. I find it very difficult to do regular, everyday things while I am going through such a process; there's a little voice in my head that repeatedly says that I should continue to feel bad about the bad thing that happened, that I should continue to be sad, that I should feel guilt over it, to the exclusion of being able to derive joy from things that, on a less unusual day, would be my go-to way of relaxing and unwinding.

I talked about this with my therapist today, and I already knew the answer, but talking about it made it easier to process. The answer is that you have to actively and explicitly give yourself permission to smile. It might feel difficult to smile, it might feel difficult to find something to smile about, but one sure-fire way of doing your own mental health a serious mischief is refusing yourself the permission to process something that is not miserable altogether. No-one can live in complete darkness in perpetuity; it's why it's a form of torture. And if there's one thing you really shouldn't do, it's torture yourself, particularly if the situation is one for which there is no real sense of culpability, and thus grounds for "punishment".

Thus, while we continue to feel all manner of emotions while we grieve for the uneasy, unknown, unresolved situation in which we find ourselves with Oliver, we must allow ourselves the permission to smile. We must allow ourselves the permission to take care of our own wellbeing. We must allow ourselves the permission to step back from the darkness and take a break to breathe, regroup, refocus and perhaps even reframe how we look at things.

This is, as you might expect, weighing very much on my mind given that we are supposed to be going on holiday on Monday. Without allowing ourselves the permission to relax while we are away, we will never be able to use that time away to rest, recover and recuperate from what has been a very trying time — and, if need be, to continue to face that trying time with renewed strength and fortitude on our return.

And thus I, here and now, give myself permission to smile. It does not mean I love Oliver any less, nor does it mean that I want him to return any less. It means that I am at least attempting to take care of myself, and the people closest to me. It's all I can do at a time where we simply do not know what will happen next.

If you want this nonsense in your inbox every day, please feel free to subscribe via email. Your email address won't be used for anything else.

#oneaday Day 714: End of a long week

It's been a very long, stressful, challenging week, but I'm finally at the end of it. Sure, I had to work a little late this evening (by choice — I wanted to get the thing I was working on finished before the weekend so I could start afresh on some other things I need to do next week) but now it is officially the weekend. And it's a long one, too, what with it being a bank holiday on Monday.

grayscale photo of elderly man sleeping on a rock — Photo by PRIYA MISHRA on Pexels.com

I am tired. Very tired. I'm also worried that we have not-very-long to get a hell of a lot done, but no-one else seems to be panicking about it, so I'm trying not to panic. Trying. I am mostly succeeding, but there are times when I do feel a bit "OH GOD OH SHIT WHAT THE HELL". I can usually get through those times, though.

This is something I was talking about at therapy this week. One of the things that has sort of… emerged in our conversations is the fact that I do have what my therapist describes as a "wise" side, which, at times of great difficulty, anxiety or stress, can usually break through the noise of poor mental health and set me if not completely "right", then certainly on a somewhat more productive path than staring at a wall wishing the entire world would go away for a bit.

It is a challenge, sometimes, to allow that apparently "wise" part of myself to speak, but one thing I am learning to acknowledge about myself is that this part of myself does exist, and that when I do allow it to speak, it usually has something eminently sensible to say. It's not a part of me that admonishes me for making mistakes or doing things inefficiently; it just calmly, gently says to me something along the lines of "look, here are the facts, here is what you can do about it, here is what you probably should do about it" and then, barring a complete breakdown of mental health, I can usually then get on with the thing.

Of course, in the past I have experienced times where that voice can't get through. I have experienced times where things really were bad, and I knew there was no way of really avoiding the "bad". I endured, though, and I like to think my experiences have made me stronger as a result. After all, as much of a state as I consider myself to be in at times, I am still here. I am still going. I am still fighting. I haven't given up.

And oh, there have been times when it would have been easy to give up. At least one of those occasions has been immortalised on this blog, although at the time I sort of danced around the subject in the things I was writing, because I think on some level I was conscious of the fact that although I was having thoughts of giving up on everything at times, I didn't really want to follow through on them in any sort of way that would have had permanent consequences. Hell, I'm doing it now, because part of me doesn't believe that I was ever really willing to give up.

And I guess maybe I wasn't. Because, like I say, I am still here. There are things I would like to change. Things I would like to improve. Things that I wish were different. But I know all of those are things that I can, potentially, do something about. I am not helpless. I am not useless or worthless. There is reason and value to my existence.

That got a tad deeper than I perhaps intended, but it was one of those occasions when the thoughts just sort of started flowing, so I thought I'd run with it. Anyway, I'm off to go and eat ice cream and play some video games now. Have a lovely long weekend, everyone.

If you want this nonsense in your inbox every day, please feel free to subscribe via email. Your email address won't be used for anything else.

#oneaday Day 448: Biting one's tongue

I'm angry. And sad. And I wish I was neither of those things, but I seem to be unable to escape the general shittiness of the world we live in. And to make matters worse, the things that I am angry and sad about, other people don't seem to think are a problem.

I'm not going to get into the specifics of those things, and that's part of the problem. I don't feel like I can, because it's not just that other people don't seem to think that these things are an issue. It's that they are actively hostile to anyone who does see them for what they are. And I really don't want to get into arguments with people on this stuff, because I already feel incredibly alienated, isolated and lonely for a number of different reasons, but at the same time it feels like holding in all these frustrations is completely counter-productive. But I don't want to post those frustrations anywhere that might get back to the people I am upset and annoyed with, however indirectly.

You can hopefully see why I'm feeling a bit mixed-up and muddled over the whole situation. It absolutely blows to be living in a world where, day after day, you feel more and more like you're not welcome, like you're worthless, like there's nothing you can do to make the situation better. It blows even more to not really be able to express those feelings to anyone, for the reasons outlined above.

I was always afraid my life would end up like this. For as long as I can remember, I have been someone who is comfortable in his own company, even welcoming of some solitude in which to reflect and perhaps be creative. But, at the same time, I've always welcomed the opportunity to share the things I love with others, or simply to enjoy simple moments of connection, amusement and joy with other people that I have learned to trust.

I am fortunate to have my wife, who has always been incredibly understanding and tolerant of my many shortcomings as a human being — and, likewise, I have always been there to support her, even during difficult times. I am also fortunate to have my cats, who love me unconditionally, and always know when I really need them to be near me.

But there are times when that doesn't feel like enough. There are times when I feel more alone than I've ever been in my life, and times when I'm terrified that these feelings will only get worse as time marches onwards. And no-one seems to care. And then I feel bad for wanting people to care, because I worry that will make people think I'm self-absorbed, selfish and not considerate of others' feelings. Like I don't deserve anyone's attention or regard. And then I start feeling, well, why should anyone care about someone so clearly filled with utter self-loathing?

I'll be all right. I usually am. It's just one of those bad days; one of those days that medical professionals euphemistically refer to as "low mood", which I feel somewhat undersells the feelings of utter hopelessness and desperation that tend to accompany such episodes.

But for now, I'll just continue to be angry and sad. And hope that tomorrow is a better day.

If you want this nonsense in your inbox every day, please feel free to subscribe via email. Your email address won't be used for anything else.

#oneaday Day 415: Last time happy

Something got me thinking earlier: when was the last time I felt really, actually, genuinely happy? I feel like living through the 2020s (so far) in particular has given me such a sense of malaise and misanthropy that it's honestly quite difficult to remember what it felt like to just… exist in a sense of contentment and satisfaction.

A lot of blame can probably be laid at the feet of what I saw someone the other day describe as "breathing Internet fumes all day" — and I love that, apologies to whoever I stole it from — but it's also clear that even if I wasn't plugged in to online culture, it would still be readily apparent that these are not happy times we live in.

I often consider closing down every last bit of my social media and going completely off-grid. I don't have much of it left any more — the only standalone social media I still have is Bluesky, and some people also count Discord and YouTube as social media, though to me those are both a little bit different — so it's not like it would be a big effort to do so. But is that what I really want? Even with those few remaining connections to the "outside" world, I still feel isolated, disconnected and incredibly lonely on a daily basis. Surely it makes no sense to cut off what, from some respects, can be looked on as a lifeline?

I dunno. There are people I like talking to on Bluesky and Discord, and YouTube is a valuable creative outlet for me, just as this blog and MoeGamer are. The thing I find myself asking, though, is if anyone would actually notice if I were just to disappear from one or all of those services one day. I suspect that they would not, at least not immediately. Someone might, a few months down the line, think "oh, I haven't heard from that Pete guy for a while" and discover a closed profile page, but would they, then, feel inclined to reach out to me via other means? Again, I suspect that they would not, given that these days, if you are not on social media or in a WhatsApp group chat, you seemingly do not exist. The only person who emails me on a semi-regular basis is my mother; the rest of my daily emails are promotional offers, order confirmations or blogs/newsletters I've subscribed to.

Email used to be exciting. While my short-lived penpal relationship with a girl named Julia in my teens pretty much fizzled out when we finally met — at least partly my fault for being completely socially inept in person, for reasons I did not understand then but very much do now — I still have fond memories of the excitement I felt every time I received an email from her.

Going even further back, I actually still have a couple of hand-written penpal letters from a primary school friend that I was very close with, who subsequently moved away. I don't really know why I've kept those — I am unlikely to ever see or hear from her ever again, given the many years since we last had any contact whatsoever — but, I don't know. Something about the enthusiasm with which she asked me if I was still playing football (multiple times in one letter) and how I was getting on at Cub Scouts (which should give you an idea of how old I was when writing and receiving these letters) was… thoroughly pleasant. I felt like I mattered, like I had a place in someone's life, even if it was just as the recipient of an occasional letter.

The advice people normally give to this sort of situation is "get out there and meet people". And it's probably sound advice. Trouble is, with my general physical and mental state, I'm kind of… I guess "afraid" is the right way to put it. Honestly, at this point I don't really have anything to lose by trying it, but I'm still… afraid to lose whatever it is. Maybe if I'm able to work on some of my own problems first — and I am doing so — I might be able to tackle some of these broader issues. And, with any luck, I might actually feel happiness again by the time I'm 60.

If you want this nonsense in your inbox every day, please feel free to subscribe via email. Your email address won't be used for anything else.

#oneaday Day 2: Taking Stock

So I said yesterday I'd come on to my present situation and what got me thinking that starting this nonsense up again might be helpful. It might as well be today, as that acts as a good introduction to what will come afterwards, as well and perhaps a means for those of you who are stopping by for the first time to get a better idea of who I am, what I do and why I'm typing this at all.

As I type this, I am 43 years old and, for the most part, broadly satisfied with my life situation. I am happily married to a wonderful wife, I have two delightful cats and I am gainfully employed in a field I actually have some enthusiasm for. I'm not what I'd call especially "wealthy", but I make enough each month to both get by and to be able to indulge my interests. Nothing to really complain about as such.

And yet I can't honestly say that I'm happy. Part of this is down to the depression and anxiety I have been suffering… well, probably since always, in retrospect, but which I've definitely been actually conscious of since my 20s. Part of this is down to the current state of the world in general, which just seems to be inexorably sliding towards self-inflicted oblivion in more ways than one. And part of this is down to specific things that occur on a day-to-day basis, which can have a fairly major impact on the way I'm feeling.

Yesterday, during a conversation over dinner, one of our assembled group of friends posed the question "when was the last time you felt joy?" — and it proved to be a bit of a stumper for several of us. One of our number — the one who, and I mean this with no disrespect to him whatsoever, is probably the most "privileged" among us due to the combination of his upbringing, the hard work he put in to get to the position he is in now and said position that he is in now — is routinely fairly cheerful about most things, so he had no problem in pinning down some recent examples, but he also noted that there are plenty of stressors and difficulties in his own life, and there had even been occasions that had brought him to tears.

The rest of us didn't feel so positive, to varying degrees. A common thread of frustration and upset was how the world is today. Bombarded by advertisements, annoyed at the lies and misinformation routinely spread online, concerned about the yet-to-be-seen long-term consequences of innovations such as social media, we all found ourselves feeling somewhat despondent about certainly the near future, with the far future having some fairly severe question marks hovering above it.

And yes. There is a lot about today's world that I do not like. There is a lot about it that I do not like that I am not in a position to do anything about, either, which is doubly frustrating. But there are some things, closer to home, that I probably can do something about.

For starters, one of my biggest frustrations about "the world" in general is that it doesn't feel like it's built for me. This stems from a combination of factors, including the social anxiety I feel as a result of both my depression and anxiety and the underlying autism spectrum condition of Asperger's syndrome, and also physical factors such as my weight.

My weight is probably one of the things that upsets and annoys me the most, because I know it's entirely self-inflicted, but I also know that it's a symptom of other factors.

I've always had a bit of a problem with my weight, but since the COVID lockdowns of 2020 or so, it's been particularly bad. I got bigger than I ever have been before, and I was already at a size where certain activities were completely inaccessible to me. Couple this with the fact that I have a hernia which the doctors won't treat until I lose some weight — which itself causes physical pain and discomfort on a fairly regular basis — and you can hopefully understand where I'm coming from when I say that I physically feel uncomfortable in a lot of situations in today's world.

My weight problems can be tied to my mental health, because I know that I often use food as "self-medication", to use the clinical term. I get depressed, upset or angry about something, and I reach for something tasty to "make me feel better". I recognise that this is a problem; I even recognise the behavioural patterns as being alarmingly similar to someone with a substance addiction — without going into details, I have some experience of helping someone who went through such a scenario and thankfully made it out of the other side, though not without leaving me with some lasting trauma that I suspect will never go away. But that doesn't always help me in doing something about it.

The old cliché is that the first step in solving a problem is acknowledging it exists, though, and I'm already a few steps along that road. As you can see above, I recognise the problem, and I've sought support for it — specifically in the form of Slimming World, an organisation with which I lost a lot of weight nearly 10 years ago. So far it has been going reasonably well — though I had a bit of a setback last week and am expecting another this week — but it's hard work.

The trouble is with the concept of "normal". In confronting personal problems like this, one of the biggest difficulties is in acknowledging that you are not "normal" by societal definitions, and that means you are going to have to do some things a little differently, perhaps for a long time or even permanently. On some days it is easier to make my peace with this than others. When I am in a position where I can mostly be in control of things and have some support standing by when I need it, I can generally muddle through without making too many mistakes.

But I do make mistakes, and confronting those, acknowledging them and dealing with the consequences is something I struggle with. If I deviate from a "plan" or even a "hope" that I have for myself, I beat myself up about it a lot. It upsets me and frustrates me and I become afraid. I'm not even sure what I'm afraid of — or perhaps it's not just one thing. Sometimes it might be being afraid to face those who are trying to help me, like I've let them down somehow. Sometimes it might be being afraid of my mistake having irreversible consequences. Sometimes it's just plain, simple fear, with no real source; it's just there.

All of the above doesn't just apply to attempting to bring my weight under control; it's something I struggle with in daily life. If I make a mistake at work, it can utterly ruin my day, even if no-one else thinks anything more of it after the initial acknowledgement of the issue. If I make a mistake in a social interaction with someone, I'll play it over and over in my head, wishing that I'd done something differently. If I make a mistake in something I'm supposed to be doing "long term" — like losing weight — I can easily feel a huge hit to my motivation and wondering why and if I should bother.

All this might sound a bit bleak and, I'm not going to lie, it is. Despite being in a life situation that is more than satisfactory, as noted above, I am still struggling right now. Every day is a battle against myself; some mornings I even feel afraid to get up. That's not something one should be feeling.

Perhaps talking about this stuff, even if it's just to myself, will help matters somewhat. That is at least part of the intention of resurrecting #oneaday. It's helped me before, so I suspect it may be able to help me again. And in the meantime, I'm thankful that I do have the support I do when I need it.

If you want this nonsense in your inbox every day, please feel free to subscribe via email. Your email address won't be used for anything else.

2447: Left Behind

I think one of the biggest sources of my anxiety these days is the growing feeling that I'm being "left behind" by the rest of the world thanks to the fact that everything changes so damn quickly these days… and moreover, if you don't keep up with it, you may well end up having difficulties.

As I type this, I'm occasionally stealing glances over to my dining room table, upon which sits an Atari 800XL and a CRT TV-monitor for which I'm currently awaiting a cable to allow the two to talk to one another. I'm excited to get the 800XL up and running not just because "woo, wow, retro", but because it formed such an integral part of my early life that it feels like a small piece of "stablity" in the turbulent waters of the modern age; a rock I can cling on to in order to avoid getting swept away.

This might sound like an odd thing to say with regard to a 30+ year old computer that I'm not entirely sure still works (I'm pretty sure it does), but since tracking it down I've become quite interested — excited, even — in the idea of using it for various purposes other than just games. Specifically, I'm perhaps most excited to use it as a "distraction-free" means of word processing; once I get it up and running, I fully intend to fire up the old copy of AtariWriter and actually do some ol' fashioned plain text composition. (My one nod to it actually being 2016 is the addition of an "SIO2PC" cable, which will allow me to transfer files from the Atari to a PC or Mac for safekeeping rather than relying on 30+ year old floppy disks.)

This probably sounds like a lot of effort to go to, but I'm excited because it allows me to focus on one thing rather than constantly being bombarded by the distractions that life in 2016 — and computing in 2016 — offers. Multitasking is all very well and good, but when you're trying to get anything done and Google Chrome is right there willing you to go and, I don't know, hunt for rare Pepes or something, it's sometimes hard to resist. Boot up a word processor that you have to load from disk and can't do anything else while it's running, on the other hand, and you have a situation much more conducive to Getting Shit Done, because once you've spent a couple of minutes listening to the soothing (and occasionally terrifying) sound of that disk drive snarking and zurbiting its way to your chosen program, it feels like something of a waste to then just shut it all down without actually doing anything.

I've drifted off on a tangent a bit, but my point is fairly simple: I long for the simplicity and the single-mindedness of days gone by, and am feeling increasingly stressed out and anxious by the constant demands for attention we get from all angles these days in 2016. I've attempted to minimise my exposure to these distractions as much as possible — primarily through minimising my contact with social media, which is probably the biggest distraction of all for most people these days — but with each passing day, I feel more and more inclined to just want to shut myself in a dark room and have a bit of peace and quiet to myself.

2409: Changing Perspective

I don't feel quite so bad today.

This isn't to say I don't still feel fairly bad about everything in general, but I don't feel quite so bad today. I even found myself applying for some other jobs in a slightly different field to that which I've not been having much luck in so far, and the simple act of doing that — of finding a job listing that, while not offering particularly good wages, certainly seemed to say "hey, you could do that" — helped me feel marginally more positive.

Dealing with negativity is all a matter of perspective. The easiest thing to do when you're feeling negative is to look straight up and see everything falling down on your head as you're buried by it. And once you're buried by it, it's very difficult to get yourself out again; the cycle becomes self-perpetuating.

Once in a while, though, you have a moment where you have the opportunity to step back and look at things from somewhere other than directly underneath them as you bear down on them. I'm speaking purely metaphorically here, of course, but looking at something from the outside — perhaps floating high above it, or from the perspective of a being that is much bigger than you are — can make things seem not quite so daunting. That huge inky blackness that was closing in threatening to bury me can become just a pile of papers on a desk — papers that can be shuffled, dealt with one at a time, even thrown away.

I wouldn't say I'm through the worst of this particular bout of depression — these feelings of general uselessness and worthlessness aren't going to go away until I find some way I can meaningfully contribute to the world (and by that, I mean do a job I get paid a reasonable amount for on a regular basis) — but today… didn't feel quite so bad.

I can only hope these feelings improve. I'm going to try and get some sleep now. May tomorrow be a brighter day still.

2406: Getting it Across

The worst thing — well, one of the worst things, anyway — about being depressed and anxiety-wracked is the perpetual feeling that you are not getting your feelings across properly, and the companion fear that people around you are just thinking that you're "a bit down" or, at worst, being irrational and unreasonable rather than suffering from crippling bleakness and an impossible desire to wipe the slate clean and start from scratch.

I, at least, have this blog as a means of expression as well as words I say face-to-face to people, words I write in email messages or words I say down a phone. (The latter is particularly rare, since, as those of you who know me well will already know, I do not like speaking on the phone at all.)

So, feeling particularly bleak and hopeless as I am at nearly 4am on this stuffy, sweaty August evening, it behooves me to try and be as frank as possible within the confines of the medium.

I am not doing so great.

I've not been doing so great for quite a while now, partly as a result of my own meandering, directionless life and partly due to external factors I have no direct control of. But at the moment, I feel like I'm doing especially not great.

It's true, I wrote a while back that the new meds I've been taking have had a positive effect, and I stand by that, but I'm having one of those times where I feel like everything is getting on top of me, and that's causing a domino effect of everything else in my mind to collapse, leaving me a mostly useless mess for a considerable proportion of the time.

I quit a job I had a while back that had the possibility to be if not particularly well-paid, then certainly reasonably secure and possibly even enjoyable. I did so because I was extremely worried about my wife, who was suffering especially ill health at the time. I was a little hesitant to do so, because I was afraid that I would end up in the exact situation I am now — seemingly unable to get another job — but ultimately I knew that it was the right thing to do, and I stand by my decision.

However, my wife, while not fully recovered as yet — still waiting on the NHS to do various bits and pieces, which will hopefully get into motion in earnest next month — is now back at work, seemingly getting on just fine with her new job, while I am reliant on erratic freelance income and sending out swathes of job applications every week that are probably never even looked at by cynical HR departments. While I know I'm not being completely useless, as I am getting work and getting it done to a good standard, there's always this feeling at the back of my mind: why?

The question that comes after "why" varies from moment to moment. Sometimes it's asking why I didn't stick with teaching. (Because the stress of teaching in two particularly "challenging" schools was a strong contributory factor to the depression and anxiety I've been suffering since 2010.) Sometimes it's asking why I didn't fight for my USgamer job when I was unceremoniously told one morning that I didn't have it any more, sorry. Sometimes it's asking why that job had to end at all — and this one is usually accompanied by furious anger and resentment towards several people involved in the situation, whom I believe were responsible for me being shown the door. Sometimes it's asking why I couldn't just have knuckled down at SSE and been a good little corporate drone, nodding and smiling at their primary school-level Health and Safety "exercises" that they foisted on even the office staff at every opportunity. And sometimes it's asking why I made choices back at the beginning of the Millennium that now feel like massive mistakes altogether: studying English and Music, pursuing the PGCE, going into teaching.

There aren't answers to many of those questions, and they tend to lead on to bleaker thoughts. The question about my time at SSE in particular is almost always accompanied by an exaggerated combination of flashback and imagination where I recall my traumatic last day at the company, dragged over the hot coals by an unsupportive management who just wanted to get me out of the door and wouldn't listen to anything I had to say. In reality, I yelled "fuck you" at them, stormed out and slammed the door, wishing to God I had the courage to say or do something more coherent to make my frustration known. In my imagination, I do everything from throw the phone on the table of the meeting room at my "opponents" to flipping the table, ripping the door off its hinges or smashing every computer I walk past on the way to collect my things. Each time I have this flashback-dream, it gets more intense and unpleasant, and it leaves me short of breath, panicking, begging for sleep to claim me, because it's always when I'm trying to get to sleep that my mind sees fit to dredge it up once again.

And the bleakness these endless questions leave me with make me more vulnerable to all sorts of other things. A simple request to play some online games with friends becomes an unimaginably frustrating and infuriating slight when I can't pin anyone down due to their (rationally speaking, perfectly reasonable) commitments to family or suchlike. I have difficulty focusing on anything, feeling like I "should" be doing something, anything other than what it is I am doing at the time, and this often leads me into a cycle of just doing nothing at all.

One of the most frustrating things is that I've fallen back into old habits with food. We stopped going to Slimming World when my wife was particularly unwell, as I was finding the weekly weigh-ins and Syn-counting an unnecessary stress on top of all the other things I was thinking about. Consequently, with little to no control over what I eat each day — plus a predisposition towards eating as a means of "self-medicating" anything from boredom to depression — I've put a bunch of weight back on again, so much so that I'm terrified of stepping on a set of scales, going back to the same Slimming World group I once attended or even trying on certain pairs of trousers.

All kinds of adjectives float around inside my head when I reflect on myself and how I might be able to get out of the situation I'm in. Hopeless. Worthless. Useless. Failure. I know none of them are true, but when you get this far into the darkness it's hard to see the light of hope. I vacillate between burning hatred for the people who have directly or indirectly contributed to the position in which I find myself, despair that makes me want to curl up and cry for the rest of time, and guilt at all the people I feel like I've let down with my inability to have made anything worthwhile of my life by this age.

I don't know what to do. I feel like I've exhausted all my options, tried all the things I'm supposed to try, and I don't know what's left. I'm sure in life it's pretty difficult to back yourself into a completely unwinnable situation, but I was designed in the '80s, after all; to continue the analogy, I feel like I'm in an early Sierra game and I'm finding each and every single place it's possible for King Graham to fall off something, trip over something, get crushed by something or get eaten by something. Eventually I might find the right path without tripping over Manaan's cat (yes, I know that was Gwydion, not Graham) or falling off a cliff, but right now I can't see it. And, sadly, life has no GameFAQs.

I should probably go to bed. Reflecting on this further isn't particularly helping me, but looking back over these 1,400 words I am a little glad I put pen to paper to express these things ticking over in my mind. Perhaps someone will read them and understand me just a little better. Perhaps I'll look back on them one day and wonder what I was worrying about. Or perhaps I really am a useless waste of space with no future whatsoever? Who knows.

Either way, bed beckons. If you read all this, thanks.