Acknowledging When You Need Help, or At Least When You Need to Change

I’m going to share some stuff today that I’m a bit uncomfortable about sharing, but attempting to deal with it in private hasn’t been going so well, so I’m hoping that making things a bit more “public” might help me somehow.

I’m not sure how yet — perhaps simply making people aware of what I’m dealing with might make me feel a bit better about it, or perhaps I need some sort of support. Exactly what form that support might take, I have no idea, but… anyway, enough preamble, let me just get into it before I talk myself out of sharing this.

As those who have known me for a while will know, I have struggled for a long time with my weight. It has been on a steadily upward spiral for pretty much my entire adult life and, barring an extremely successful stint with Slimming World a few years back, I have had great difficulty shedding weight and keeping it off. This has been a particular problem during the COVID years, since just general activity was pretty much a no-go for quite some time.

This is a fairly significant problem, not just for the obvious reasons, but also because I have been suffering with an extremely painful hernia for the past few years — and the doctors refuse to do anything about it unless I lose some weight, because apparently if I get it fixed in the state I’m in right now, it’s very likely to just come back. It doesn’t help, of course, that I am terrified of hospitals in general and surgery especially, but I’m kind of sort of coming to terms with the fact that at some point it will be necessary to confront that. But not yet.

This is extremely difficult and embarrassing to admit, but I hope that sharing it might help some people to understand why I find some things a bit of a struggle — things that “normal” folks would likely take in their stride on a daily basis. Things like, say, walking down to the shops in a group at lunchtime to get a sandwich; I just can’t keep up with people.

I entirely accept that the situation I’m in is my own fault, but that doesn’t make it any less embarrassing. If anything, it makes it more embarrassing.

I currently weigh over 28 stone. I do not like admitting this because it’s utterly shameful, but I’m putting it out there just so you understand where I’m coming from.

This is obviously extremely unhealthy and I am perfectly aware of that. It disgusts me to see myself in the mirror. None of my clothes fit properly. And any time someone in the street insults me for my weight (which has happened rather more often than I’d like) I have a hard time accepting that they’re being unreasonable and unpleasant; part of me feels like I “deserve” the abuse.

I am taking measures to attempt to reduce that — specifically, my wife Andie and I are following the WeightWatchers (or “WW” as they prefer to call it now) plan. This means that we track our food intake daily according to various items’ “points” values and, in doing so, both learn to think about what we’re putting in our mouth and control what we’re eating.

Trouble is, of late we (and particularly I) have been struggling with motivation to such a degree that it’s tough to make it through a whole week staying “on plan”. WW has a certain amount of flexibility built into it in that you can earn points “back” by eating vegetables and doing exercise, but that doesn’t exactly cancel out a day when you eat way too much of the things you shouldn’t be eating.

My trouble is, I have what I’d probably describe as an addiction, having been in a position to care for and be with people who have had other types of addiction. My addiction is not to alcohol or drugs, though; it’s to food.

Food is my coping mechanism. If I’m sad, I want to eat. If I’m anxious, I want to eat. And when I want to eat, I don’t want to “grab a handful of salad” or “enjoy this healthy treat packed with veggies” — I want chocolate, cake, bread, crisps, sugary drinks, that sort of thing. And I often find the urge to eat those things completely irresistible — even if we have none of them in the house. Living near a Tesco Express will do that to you.

Unfortunately, this leads to something of a vicious cycle. I am sad and anxious and angry because of my weight. Because I’m sad and anxious and angry, I eat, which makes my weight problem worse. I feel guilty about screwing my own body up, which makes me feel sad and anxious and angry, which… you get the idea. It is unhealthy coping mechanisms and an unhealthy relationship with food that has got me into this position, but I am having a real tough time breaking out of it.

The reason why I’m feeling particularly anxious about it right now is because in combination with the symptoms of “long COVID”, I feel a complete wreck on a daily basis. All my joints ache. It hurts to sit down for too long. It hurts to stand up for too long. If I lie on my side for too long in the night, the knee on the bottom ends up in excruciating pain for a few minutes. I’m perpetually tired, and no amount of sleep seems to fix that.

I know very well that fixing all this is going to be a long and slow process — but that it is possible. The one light at the far-off end of an extremely long tunnel is that I know I’ve had success with this before. I’ve never felt so good in my adult life as when I was successful at Slimming World — but unfortunately a variety of both personal and professional stresses caused me to well and truly fall off the wagon, putting me in a worse situation than I’ve ever been in my life.

I don’t want to hurt any more. I don’t want to be sad any more. And I don’t want to die before my time. I don’t really know if or how anyone reading this is able to help, but I just want to put it out there that I could do with some help — even if it’s simply a bit of consideration and understanding for the situation I’m in, and the knowledge that there are people out there not judging me negatively and harshly for ending up in such a horrible (albeit self-inflicted) situation, but who will be there to support and encourage me as I attempt to rescue myself from it.

Thanks for your time.

2281: Trying Times

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I’d like to be fairly open about this, within reason, as I don’t want to sound like I’m constantly moaning about stuff — particularly with my desire to be more positive that I expressed the other day — but I feel it’s important to share with those of you who read regularly and whom I consider to be friends.

It’s a difficult period of life right now, as you might have surmised from some recent posts. I’d like to talk a little about what’s going on and why, and how you might be able to help.

Basically the main trouble we’re having stems from a chronic pain condition my wife has which is called, if I remember correctly, interstitial cystitis, also known as the rather literal “painful bladder syndrome”. The issue has been bothering her for well over a year now, and for the last few months she’s been off work due to how bad the pain has been. With me having also been out of work since my seasonal position at Game came to an end in January, as you can probably imagine, this has made financial security something of an issue. Technically I do have a new job now, but as I’ll explain in a moment, the situation isn’t exactly ideal.

Of greater concern than the financial issues — though they are related — is the matter of mental health, both for my wife and for me. Andie’s inability to work has led to her being practically housebound, which as anyone who has been housebound will know, can lead to feelings of loneliness and isolation that can sometimes escalate into more severe negative feelings. Without going into details — this isn’t the time or place for that — suffice it to say that Andie has had a very difficult time of it with both her mental and physical health over the last few months, and it’s by turns heartbreaking, upsetting, frustrating and infuriating to cope with for me, since there’s literally nothing I can do about it.

The reason I say the situation with my new job isn’t particularly ideal is that, as anyone who has been left alone and isolated with mental health issues will know, being by yourself when you’re feeling particularly low isn’t a good or safe situation to be in. I know, I’ve been there — though thankfully the negative feelings I had never escalated to such a degree that I did myself serious harm. (The most I did to myself was bruise my hand a bit from thumping the floor in frustration.) My new job is in Basingstoke, which is at least half an hour’s drive away and thus puts me out of range of being able to easily rush back if necessary. It puts Andie in the position where she feels like she has no-one to call on for help in the day if she needs it, and it puts me in the position where I don’t know what state I might find her in when I get home, which is, naturally, rather worrying.

So with that in mind, for the next week or two I’m going to be taking some time to make sure she’s all right — and that I’m all right, for that matter. We’re getting some help and support from various sources — both family and medical — but anything those of you out there in friend-land can offer would be most welcome, even if it’s just a kind word and a chat now and again. (If you do feel inclined to help us out financially, may I direct you to my Patreon page, where you can help me make my writing into a proper income stream.)

I hope things are going to be all right. It’s easy to fall into a pit of negativity when this sort of thing happens and there doesn’t seem to be any sort of easy solution. But with the right help and support, we’ll hopefully make it out of this particular pit, be able to get back on track and start living our life the way we want it to again. That would be very nice right now.

2280: Three Wishes

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For a man of my age, I probably give the whole question of “what would you wish for if you got three wishes?” rather more time and attention in my head than it deserves, what with it being something (probably) impossible, but it’s something to keep my mind occupied with when I’m trying and failing to fall asleep.

I’ve had numerous possible answers over the years — never resorting to “I wish I had three more wishes”, I might add — but right now, at a particularly shitty point in my life, I find myself settled on three pretty-much definite answers.

1. I wish my wife and I would be in 100% perfect health, mentally and physically. I’ve struggled with mental health for more years than I was probably aware of it, and it hasn’t gotten any easier over the years. In fact, as I get older, it’s got more and more difficult, particularly since several attempts to get a career started have gone nowhere — often through no fault of my own, as in the case of my misadventures in games journalism — and left me feeling increasingly useless and worthless to the world at large with each passing year.
Alongside that, my wife has been struggling with a chronic pain condition that I’m always forgetting the name of for well over a year now, and it’s taking its toll on both of us. She’s been off work for several months now, and the pain has had a severe effect on both her mental health and, by extension, since I’m unable to offer any sort of help besides just being here when I can, my own as well.

If we were both 100% perfectly healthy mentally and physically, we could get on with enjoying our lives the way we both want to. Life wouldn’t feel like a constantly uphill struggle which, frankly, it does at the moment.
2. I wish I had a million pounds. It may be a cliche to wish for a large amount of money, but if I had a large amount of money, it would remove the other main stressor in my life that is at least partly related to our physical and mental health issues: money worries. I don’t even want to buy anything particularly extravagant with my hypothetical fortune; I’d simply pay off my debts, quit my job and continue living the way I do at the moment, pursuing my own passion projects in my own time without having to worry about where the money to pay the next bills and the mortgage is going to come from. The rest of the money would simply go towards day-to-day expenses and perhaps a few guilt-free treats.
3. I wish I had the ability to switch between being a man and a woman at will. This one is less grounded in my actual real-life everyday existence right now, since having the ability to do this wouldn’t make my current situation any better, but it’s something that I’ve always returned to when pondering this question, and a concept in general that I’ve always found fascinating from the perspective of walking in “someone else’s” shoes. I won’t lie, part of my curiosity in this regard is sexual in nature — I mean, come on — but also I feel it would just be interesting to be able to switch between two completely different bodies and appearances at will, making use of the most “appropriate” one for various situations, whatever that might mean.

So there’s my three wishes. If any Internet-connected genies are watching, I will happily accept just the first two if you’re running a bit short on mystic mojo.

2269: Video Games (Might Have) Saved My Life

I thought about writing about this yesterday, but didn’t; I was feeling rather emotional about it and thus figured it probably wasn’t the best idea to spew out an ill-considered rant on such a sensitive subject. It’s still a delicate subject, of course, but I feel a bit more mentally prepared to tackle it and attempt to do it justice today.

This will doubtless be difficult to write, so bear with me while I inevitably ramble around the point. It will probably also be quite difficult to read, particularly if you know me quite well… but, again, bear with me — hopefully you’ll come away with a better understanding of some of the things I feel.

All right, preamble over: let’s begin.

Yesterday, when I first thought about writing this piece, I was angry. I got suddenly very angry about something I’ve been angry about before, and have been doing my best to not be as bothered by: the ongoing “culture war” that has all but destroyed rational, reasonable discussion of popular media — particularly gaming — through public social channels such as Twitter, as well as all but destroying any credibility, inclusiveness and, in many cases, entertainment value the mainstream video games press had.

It wasn’t really a specific event that made me feel angry; it was more a buildup of tension that just needed to be released. Recent controversies over the new Baldur’s Gate expansion, the press and “social justice” types outright lying about why people didn’t like it, needless outrage over Tracer’s butt in Blizzard’s Overwatch, the ever-present undercurrent of the morally superior looking down on people who are into video games and branding them misogynistic, homophobic, transphobic, cis white heterosexual male scum… all of it was getting on top of me, even though a lot of it didn’t even directly concern me and the games I’m into. But the controversies still resonated with me, since I’ve also seen very similar nonsense aimed at the games I am into.

When I get angry about something, after the fact I often like to take a moment to reflect on exactly why I got so angry — why is that thing in particular so important to me that it had such a powerful emotional effect on me? Video games are dumb timewasters, aren’t they? Why should I care so much what some people I’d never want to hang out with at parties (not that I want to hang out with anyone at parties save for people who want to join me in another room and play computer games all night) think of the things I enjoy? Why do I feel compelled to continually defend my hobby and this medium from people who desire nothing more than to tear it down and remake it in the way they think it should be — because make no mistake, the loudest critics like this aren’t after true “diversity” or “inclusion” since they, in many cases, simply cannot accept the existence of material they deem “problematic”, nor can they understand that some people enjoy said “problematic” material and don’t want to be called sex pests/paedophiles/misogynists/assholes simply for the things they happen to be into. Why?

Well, “video games are important to me” is the simple answer. And I could leave it at that. But I’m not going to: I’m going to explain exactly why video games are important to me.

Growing up, I was a bit of an outcast. I was shy, I lacked confidence, I didn’t know how to talk to people. I remember on my first day at secondary school I turned to Matthew, one of my few friends from primary school and, with genuine fear in my eyes, whispered to him that I “couldn’t remember how to make friends”, which was putting me at something of a conversational impasse with Murray, the boy I had been sat next to in our tutor room. (Murray turned out to be a massive bullying twat, whom I finally punched in the face just as the headmaster was walking around the corner one memorable lunchtime; I escaped truly serious punishment on the grounds that he most certainly had had it coming for a very long time indeed.)

Growing up, I wasn’t into sports. I was into stuff that other people weren’t into. I played the piano. I played computer games. I wrote stories. (All of these are things I still do.) These were things that I learned I enjoyed at a very young age, so I have clung onto them with all my might for my whole life — and I’ve always known when someone would turn out to be a true friend, because they’d be into at least one of those things, and preferably more than one of them. Indeed, when I did eventually successfully remember how to make friends at secondary school, the group of friends I surrounded myself with were all a little like me to varying degrees — I was by far the most awkward and nerdy of them, but we all had our shared interest in video games which we felt like other people didn’t really get the appeal of.

When the time came for me to go to university, I was terrified at the prospect of having to deal with new people and even live with them. Fortunately, I found myself living with a flat full of thoroughly decent people who tended to be remarkably understanding of my quirks. There were still occasions when what I now recognise as social anxiety would get the better of me, and I’d want nothing more than to lock myself away and escape into the wonderful worlds and stories gaming let me explore and be a part of.

I continued my love of video games throughout my adult life. They always served as something comforting to me: after a challenging day at university, games were there to help me relax. After a difficult day working in teaching, games were there to help me vent my stress. After a day of chaotic retail, games were there to help me chill out and forget about the previous eight hours. And after a day where everything felt like it had gone wrong, games were there to save me.

Those who have been reading this blog for a while will know that I’ve been through a few difficult periods over the last six years in particular. The most notable of these was in 2010, when my first wife and I parted ways and I was left unemployed, with no money and facing the prospect of having to move back home — something which I found mortifyingly embarrassing for a man of my age who had qualifications (and a failed/abandoned career based on those qualifications).

As time passed, I sank deeper and deeper into a very dark depression indeed. There were days when I was completely unable to function normally. I had a long period where I didn’t — couldn’t — get up until about 5 in the afternoon, which would always make me feel terrible when I’d stagger, unkempt, to the shop across the road from my flat and the guy with the smelly armpits behind the counter would ask “how my day had been”.

Everything felt like it had gone wrong; I felt like I had completely failed at life. I felt like I had made all the wrong choices, and that there was no way out of the situation in which I found myself. And so my thoughts turned, as do those of many people in a similar situation, I’m sure, to whether or not this world really needed me in it any more.

Once that initial floodgate bursts and you start wondering such things, all manner of unwelcome thoughts start coming to the fore. Would it hurt? What’s it like to die? If I did die, who would find me? Would anyone find me? Should I tell someone I’m feeling this way? Should I tell someone I’m going to kill myself? If I do, do I actually want them to stop me?

More often than not, these strings of thoughts would cause my brain to get into a bit of a feedback loop and I’d end up eventually just passing out from exhaustion, often after having had a spectacularly undignified cry and/or rage about the whole thing. But so long as the situation remained, the thoughts wouldn’t go away entirely. I’d picture different ways of how I might do it, and what would happen once the deed had been done and someone found me — or what would happen if no-one found me.

To cut a long story short, I pushed through all that — more on how in a moment — and, for a while, things started to look up, and I started to think that I might have finally gotten myself into a situation where I could be happy and content, looking forward to the future rather than dreading it.

That didn’t happen. The unceremonious loss of my job at USgamer for vague (and, frankly, probably spurious) reasons, followed by the horrendous way in which subsequent employer energy company SSE (or, more specifically, my immediate managers) treated me while I worked for them — yes, I am naming and shaming here, because it fucked me right up, and I am still bitter about it to such a degree that I often have flashbacks to my particularly horrible last day — caused me to once more sink into an awful pit of depression, and it wasn’t any easier this time around, either.

Those thoughts of not being sure if I wanted to be part of this world any more started to come back. Familiar images of me holding a gun to my head came around; questions over what would happen if I followed through on these thoughts started to rise up once more.

And yet, even though I wouldn’t describe myself as being out of the worst of it even now, I never once harmed myself, let alone made an attempt on my own life. Even in my darkest moments, I was always pulled back from the edge of that particular precipice.

Why? Two reasons, the first of which is the one I imagine most people in a similar situation quote: awareness of the few people in the world who do care about you, and what it would do to them if you were to do something as drastic as killing yourself.

The second is video games.

I’m not joking. A big part of why I am still on this planet is because of video games. And it’s hard to explain exactly why, because there are a myriad of reasons I feel this way, but it is absolutely true, as ridiculous as it might sound.

Games have always been important to me. But over the last few years in particular — since about 2010 or so — I feel like I’ve really found the niche of games that interest and excite me, along with a group of publishers and developers who consistently and regularly put out things that keep me enthralled for hours on end. These games engage my emotions and draw me in with their stories and characterisation; these games make me feel like I can be someone that I’m not; these games put me in a situation where, while there might be problems and strife, there’s always a way to deal with it, however challenging.

As I became more and more conscious of how I felt about these games, I started “stockpiling” — picking up games that I had no real intention of playing immediately, but which I wanted to add to my collection while they were still reasonably readily available. I also started re-acquiring games that I had previously owned that had made me feel the same way. And, one by one, I’d work my way through them, constantly finding new and enjoyable experiences to discover — even where, in many cases, said experiences weren’t received particularly well by critics.

And here’s how games saved me: the knowledge that in every DVD case on my bookshelf there is a new experience to be had; a new world to explore; new characters to fall in love with — that’s the one thing that, every time, pulls me back from the brink of doing something drastic, however dark the situation in which I find myself might be, and however persistent those horrible thoughts in my head might be. I have literally had the thought “I can’t die until I’ve played all the Neptunia games”. I have literally had the thought “I’m not going anywhere until I’ve played all the Ateliers“. And so on and so on; so much do I value these experiences — and the ability to talk and enthuse about them with those people I know who do respect my interests, even if they don’t share them — that I can’t bring myself to even hurt myself, let alone make an attempt on my own life.

You may think this is a dumb reason to keep living. You may think that this is unhealthy. You may think that there are more deep-seated problems here (and you’d be right). But trust me when I say: when even a tiny part of your brain starts considering whether or not you’re really needed in this plane of existence any more, the part of you that is still concerned with self-preservation will cling on to any thing — however dumb it might be — that will help you survive.

For me, that thing is video games, and to my reckoning they’ve saved me from three particularly bad periods in my life: the nervous breakdown that convinced me once and for all that no, classroom teaching was not the career for me; my first wife and I parting ways; and my recent employment woes.

Hopefully it is now clear to you, dear reader, how important video games are to me. And, bearing in mind how important they are to me, can you perhaps understand how frustrating and upsetting it is to me when a needless, pointless cultural war comes stomping all over them — with the games that resonate with me the most inevitably being the ones that come under the heaviest fire from some of the most obnoxious people on the Internet?

Video games — as they are today, regardless of how “problematic” or whatever other bullshit adjectives you want to apply to them — saved my life. So you damn well better believe I will fight back with all my might against anyone who wants to change them and the culture surrounding them for the worse.

Video games saved my life. Thank you, video games — and everyone who makes them.

(Here’s the source for the awesome image the header pic is based on, if you were curious.)

2126: One of Those Times

I’ve been having a rough few days, depression- and anxiety-wise. Things have been “getting to me” more than they have for a long time, and today felt particularly bad; earlier in the day I just needed a cry more than anything. I wasn’t crying over anything in particular; it just happened. Everything was too much. I felt a little better afterwards, but there’s still some residual bleakness lurking around inside my head.

I was interested to see on Twitter that a friend of mine had also been having a rough time with his mental health, in his case noting that his anger at something that might seem relatively “trivial” to an outside observer had actually led him to self-harm for the first time in quite a while. Like me, he noted that the incident itself wasn’t a particular catalyst for his reaction; it was, presumably, just more a case of “the straw that broke the camel’s back”, and everything coming to a head leading to something mental snapping.

Times like this seem to come for a lot of people around the same sort of time. I don’t really know what causes it, but it’s interesting to ponder. In this particular instance, it’s entirely possible that the horrible things that have been going on in Paris have subconsciously infiltrated our minds and have been influencing our thoughts in negative directions, but to be perfectly frank, it doesn’t feel that way to me at all; I’d been feeling bleak and miserable before all that happened, so perhaps it’s something else.

Maybe it’s environmental? We’re coming into winter now, and the evenings are getting darker earlier, making the whole world seem just a little bit more closed-in and oppressive to some people. I’ve always quite liked the night, but it being dark outside is very much a signal to the body that “the day is over, it’s probably time to do relaxing things and/or sleep now” and as such isn’t particularly conducive to being productive.

Maybe there’s some sort of physical reason; a literal “something in the air”, as it were. Air pressure can sometimes have an effect on the way you feel physically, so perhaps there’s an effect on mental wellbeing too, or perhaps just the changing weather of the advancing seasons has an impact on how everyone’s feeling.

Or maybe it’s even some sort of metaphysical, spiritual thing; the balance between Light and Dark, Good and Evil being off or something. (It’s probably not this. But you never really know, do you?)

Whatever it is, it’s pretty crappy, and I know from today that I’m not the only one who is feeling a bit bleak and miserable about everything for no real reason at the moment. As such, I’d like to say to anyone out there who is feeling a bit low that I hope things look up for you soon, and remember that it’s often really helpful to try and express the things you’re feeling, even if you can’t quite explain them. Talk to a friend; write them down in a journal; blog them as I have; tweet them to your followers. Looking at things from another perspective can sometimes be helpful, and even if it isn’t, it can give you a much-needed sense of relief and release to just get all those stray, dark thoughts out of your head.

Be well, everyone!

1806: Resolute

My friend Dan (aka “utterbiblio”) wrote a heartfelt and eye-opening post earlier. And I related to it one hell of a lot.

Dan has been through a lot over the last few years, most notably a horrendous family tragedy that I wouldn’t wish on anyone. This, thankfully, isn’t something I can directly relate to — though I can at least empathise and sympathise with him — but the other things he talks about in that post, some of which stem directly from that awful happening and others of which have always been present in his life, are the parts where I felt like I could have written that very post.

Depression is, as I’ve commented on here on numerous occasions, a terrible thing. It destroys lives — quite literally, in all too many cases. And for those who hang on in there trying to survive day after day, week after week, month after month, year after year, little by little, it can feel like a pointless journey with no end in sight. Or, perhaps more accurately, it can feel like a journey with two possible destinations: the one that’s worth getting to, the one that’s hard work and far away, feels like it’s way beyond the horizon and perpetually moving away from your current position, while the other destination is just a short hop off the cliff that is forever to one side of you. Just jump, and you’re there; the end, that’s it, nothing more to worry about.

Dan describes in his post how he has contemplated taking his own life. On a number of occasions throughout my time on this earth, similar thoughts have entered my mind. They’ve never stuck around long enough for me to seriously feel like I’d ever act on them, but they’ve been there nonetheless, offering me that easy-to-get-to destination during the darkest periods of my journey. I’ve wondered what it might be like; I’ve even written a private piece of creative writing contemplating what it might be like to go through with ending one’s own life, but even then my own mind stopped me from truly going through with it: the character in the short tale (who might as well have been me) was saved at the last second by a fictional character of my own creation who has always brought me great comfort ever since I first dreamed her up back in high school. Even in fiction, it was clear I didn’t want to go through with it.

My life’s not in a terrible place. I can’t complain too much. But still the darkness comes from time to time; feelings of bleakness and hopelessness — and no-one around to go and hunt Odin with (there’s a reference only FFXIV players will get) — that eventually dissipate into the wind, but which occasionally, from time to time, drift back, sometimes as the result of a careless word, sometimes due to something silly happening, sometimes just… because.

It’s an unfortunate reality of life. And it’s one that, over the years, I’ve come to know a significant proportion of people carry the burden of — even those who may seem bright, chipper and upbeat when you see them face-to-face. That public face isn’t always the true face; inside, there might be unrest, pain, suffering, even the desire to end it all. You can never really know what someone is feeling unless they’re feeling strong and safe enough to spell it out for you, like Dan did with the post I linked to above, and like I’ve done a few times here on this blog.

2014 has been a year of ups and downs for many of us. Here’s hoping that 2015, which is just around the corner, errs on the side of “up” rather than “down”.

1723: Sword of the Mind

I’m really not looking forward to the day that my imagination doesn’t work any more — if indeed such a day will ever come.

That day will be a dark one, in which I can no longer carry an umbrella and imagine it’s the legendary sword Curtana, hacking and slashing my way through hordes of enemies (or, indeed, zombified shoppers who just want to get out of the rain but who are too cold and wet to actually exert themselves).

That day will be a dark one, in which I can no longer get on a piece of gym equipment accompanied by the Shadow of the Colossus music and imagine that, rather than simply engaging in the eminently pointless waste of time that is lifting a heavy thing then putting it down again lots of times, I am actually battling some monstrous foe that can only be defeated by lifting bits of it up, then putting them carefully down again.

That day will be a dark one, in which I can no longer imagine what it would be like if my car could actually take off and fly, rising high above the surprised, bewildered and frightened heads of the other occupants of the traffic jam I’m in before shooting off into the distance via a far more direct route than any road ever offered.

I do wonder to myself whether or not my imagination will ever stop working. I doubt it will; after all, many creative types continue being creative well into the twilight of their life, though the exact form of what the imagination conjures up doubtless varies and changes as the years pass by.

I’m conscious of the changes to my own imagination, though in some cases these are due in part to other mental changes rather than the imagination itself. Take that period between going to bed and going to sleep, for example; when I was young, I could happily conjure whole worlds up for myself, exploring them and having all sorts of strange and wonderful adventures, blurring the lines between conscious thought and dreaming until eventually I’d awaken the next morning to the rather unwelcome sound of the alarm clock.

These days, however, I haven’t lost the ability to conjure up mental pictures, but the darkness that resides inside my head occasionally uses this time to show itself: instead of strange and fantastic worlds, my mind shows me far more mundane things, but often with the worst possible outcome; sometimes it’s nothing but words as I think about a conversation I’ve had — or need to have but am afraid to — while others it’s a mental picture I simply can’t look away from, no matter where I turn.

This isn’t a decline of the imagination at all, since my brain still conjures up very vivid pictures — and, I hasten to add, it’s not every night that I’m wracked with dark and terrible images that if not terrify me to my very core at least make me a bit anxious — but it is a change. I feel like I have less conscious control over my imagination: I can’t simply send myself to another world any more, at least not all the time; there are occasions where I have to let my mind take the lead and follow along after it. (I realise that makes no sense, but little to do with the strange inner workings of the human mind and consciousness does.)

There are other times when I can happily immerse myself in a world of my — or indeed someone else’s — creation, however. Reading a good book still makes glorious technicolour mental images appear before my mind’s eye. Writing something creative has an even more powerful impact on my imagination, stirring it into action. Closing my eyes and listening to pieces of music can either stir up imaginative scenes or conjure memories that I haven’t thought about for a long time.

The inside of my head isn’t perfect, and there is much about it I would probably change given the opportunity. But at the same time, it’s become a strangely comfortable place to be, dark corners and all; it’s a defining part of who I am, which is why I doubt that the door into that wonderful, terrifying place will ever truly be slammed shut.

1270: Black Cloud

Been struggling a bit with depression again recently. It is my own fault for not proactively doing anything about it, but once it sets in there’s really not a lot you can do about it save for just riding it out and hoping it passes.

Some people describe their experiences with depression as being strangely comforting; those negative feelings acting as a sort of blanket that surrounds them and cuts them off from the outside world. I can sort of empathise with that, but at the same time it’s frustrating.

Here’s what dealing with depression is like for me.

I’ll wake up in the morning, usually after a semi-to-very vivid dream that leaves itself half-finished. At this point I have a choice; go back to sleep and finish the dream, or get up and start the day. If I choose the former option, I’ll find it very hard to get up for several hours, regardless of how many alarms I set. If I choose the latter option — which is often quite difficult to do — I’ll generally start the day in a more positive manner.

The day will then proceed as normal, so long as I keep myself occupied with something or other that stimulates my brain — whether that’s work, watching something on TV or playing a game. If I stop doing things, I’ll find myself staring into space, and that same feeling I have when I’m trying to get up sets in; I just don’t want to move. I feel myself being tugged in different directions: the depression wants me to just stare into space and feel sorry for myself, dwelling on all the things that I don’t want to dwell on, or that are completely unnecessary to dwell on; the rational part of my brain tells me that I’d feel better if I just reached over and grabbed the PS3 controller, or stood up and got a glass of juice, or put my shoes on and went outside for a bit. Sometimes the depression wins; sometimes the rational part of my brain wins. The rational part usually wins the war, as I am still able to function and do the things I need to do each day, but depression often scores a few victories in skirmishes along the way.

By the end of the day, I’m often left feeling mentally exhausted from having to keep the depression at bay. Sometimes, despite feeling tired, I don’t feel I can go to bed until an ungodly hour because I know I’ll just spend hours unable to sleep, my mind awhirl with conflicting emotions and anxieties. Sometimes, I’ll try and exhaust myself before collapsing into bed; other times, I’ll just pray for the best, lie down and hope that sleep claims me before too long.

Being depressed is frustrating, because there is often no particular cause for it. “What’s wrong?” people will ask. “Nothing in particular,” I’ll reply, because it’s true; there is nothing wrong, but that just feeds into the whole cycle. I start to feel guilty about feeling down about, well, nothing at all, and then I feel bad about feeling guilty; if you’ve been there, you know what it’s like.

I’ll get over it. I always do. Just needed to vent a little today.

#oneaday Day 899: I’ll Be There For You

I have social anxiety. I may have mentioned this before once or twice.

What that means is that sometimes I get tongue-tied and don’t know what to say. Sometimes I let conversations run inside my head but worry about what the possible outcome of them will be, and end up saying nothing. Sometimes I quite literally have nothing to say whatsoever. And sometimes I do say something and don’t get the reaction I expected and consequently feel weird.

As you might expect, this makes the prospect of “making friends” a fairly terrifying one. Obviously I have made friends over the years, otherwise I wouldn’t have any right now, but I can never quite remember how it happened. In some cases, it was a simple matter of being thrown together in some context — living together, studying together, working together — but in others, it’s not quite so clear.

While I am more than happy with the friends I do have, I do sometimes wish I could have more. That may sound greedy, but the fact is that I don’t get to actually see the friends I have all that often. The vast majority of them live in the States (thank you, Internet) and the others live just far enough away for it to be A Big Effort to go and see them. And, you know, sometimes I just want people to play board games with. I bought a copy of Legend of Drizzt, one of the cooperative Dungeons & Dragons adventure games, this week and I’m hoping I get the chance to play it more than once or twice. If I had more friends (who liked board gaming) then I’d be able to play it more often — at the moment, however, it’s determined largely by mutual availability and whether at least one of us can be bothered to drive about 50 miles. I’m more than happy to for the prospect of board game fun, but it’s the former bit that can be tricky sometimes. Hopefully if and when Andie and I manage to move a bit closer to Southampton it’ll be a bit easier to be more spontaneous — as it stands, however, it’s a relatively rare treat to see people.

This is all rather self-pitying I know, but I direct you back to the first line of this post. Social anxiety makes the act of making new friends — even the prospect of just talking to strangers — a terrifying and difficult prospect. Even in an environment that should be “friendly” — I know there’s a local board game shop in Bristol that does games evenings, for example, but I don’t even feel especially confident about that. My mind gets caught in a cycle of “what ifs” and I just end up deciding not to go.

Perhaps one day I’ll get over this social anxiety and be more confident about making new friends and considering that people might actually want to spend time with me if they don’t have to. That day is not today, however, which means that I’m all the more grateful for the friends I do have and the time I do get to spend with them.

Anyone fancy a game of Legend of Drizzt?

#oneaday Day 898: Contemplating the Darkness

I’d like to share a couple of posts with you. First of all, this piece by Jeff Green, published today. (If you don’t know who Jeff Green is, he’s currently PopCap’s director of editorial and social media and used to work on U.S. games magazine Computer Gaming World, later Games for Windows Magazine.) Many people expressed surprise at Jeff posting this, because, to quote several commenters, “you wouldn’t know he had depression.” I’ve only met Jeff maybe once or twice, but it’s true; he “hides it well,” as it were. That doesn’t diminish his suffering in any way, of course — it simply means that he’s found ways (and help) to deal with it in a way that doesn’t affect his public persona.

Second of all, and related, this post from January of last year by me. I shan’t talk about that post too specifically right now since you can just go and read it, but I did want to contemplate the subject a little further today, as reading Jeff’s post shortly after he published it (and undoubtedly went back and forth on whether or not he should share it with the world) got me thinking.

I am a lot better than I was. I hit my lowest ebb just over two years ago when my wife and I decided to split. I won’t go into the specific details of that right now, but suffice to say that it was a mutual decision by the pair of us that was partly a consequence of, ironically, my own depression. I had left a job I hated, gone to PAX East for the first time (and had an amazing time) and then came back home to no job, no prospects and a thoroughly bleak outlook for the future. Depression at my situation (which was at least partially self-inflicted, I will freely admit — I could have stuck at the job I left, but it probably wouldn’t have been good for me at all) sapped my motivation and just made me want to curl up into my own private little world and not talk to anyone. It wasn’t the first time it had happened to me. It was a recurring pattern. And, realistically, there are times when it will likely happen again in the future.

The one thing that people don’t seem to mention about depression is that it can be addictive. Sometimes, when given the choice between 1) getting up to do something positive that you know will make yourself feel better and 2) slumping on the sofa staring at an interesting spot on the wall for several hours, all your brain wants to do is 2). It gets into the habit of doing 2) and it becomes a natural, conditioned response to anything that upsets you or frustrates you. Over time, it gets harder and harder to not do 2) even though there’s usually at least a small rational part of your brain saying “STOP IT! STOP IT! STOP IT!” That rational part gets drowned out by the bit going “staring at the wall is comforting, safe, and you won’t have to talk to any people.”

Getting over that stage is the difficult part. Fighting against the desire to do nothing and wallow in your own self-pity is one of the hardest things anyone suffering from depression has to do. Only then can you figure out exactly what to do when you pull yourself up off the floor/bed/sofa and make a conscious decision to do… something. Whether that’s simply trying to “get on with your life” or actively seeking help to if not “cure” your condition then at least improve it.

Sometimes even the most straightforward tasks can be made to feel like insurmountable obstacles to those suffering a depressive episode. That in itself can cause people to feel ashamed of their condition and not want to talk about it. Thankfully, I’ve seen a heartening trend recently: people overcoming the stigma attached to talking about mental health issues and publicly baring their souls about these important topics. Jeff Green’s post is just the latest example of people with higher profiles than me publicly “coming out”, as it were, and talking about this aspect of themselves that, however unpleasant it may be, helps define the person that they are.

Feeling able to write about it publicly and talk about it face-to-face are two very different things, however. I know that personally speaking, I still find it difficult to talk about depression with anyone except my very closest friends, but I’ll happily (perhaps the wrong word, there) post things like this to an (admittedly small) audience the world over.

The important thing to remember if you have ever suffered from depression, though, is that you most certainly are not alone and that there is nothing to be ashamed of. You may hate the condition and what it does to you, but that doesn’t mean you should hate yourself or feel you should lock yourself away in isolation. On the contrary, you should seek out people you feel able to talk about it with and then get some things off your chest. And you should seek help if you need it.