Hey blog. I didn’t think I’d be back this soon. I stopped writing as I felt I had outgrown the medium. It was part of an old life and identity that I wanted to move away from. I did think I’d do a Christmas post on how well I’ve done but that was the only intention. A little time ago I realised I missed writing in English and had nowhere to do it. Still, l didn’t come back – the earlier points remained valid. I didn’t want to write like I used to write. I wanted different.

Now, however, back with the most throwback post imaginable, coming from the fresh and less fresh depths of misery.

This August has been shit. It’s been shit like no August before. It’s so shit that that we are not talking of dog poo but an entire binload of elephant poo.

Last night was nostalgic. I hadn’t been depressed or truly anxious for a long time in the way that used to be a monthly occurrence in my previous life. Lying in bed in a state of immbolity but mind racing, heart pounding, no thought, just pain. Even the tranquilizers did not help. I felt like on stimulants. I got up and walked to the window and remembered how these states used to be so frequent before. Then they disappeared and since last December I’ve been mostly depression-free with negligible anxiety episodes.

But right now, all the old stuff is right back here with me. The desire to stop existing. Not caring. The thought that it’d be better for everyone and a solution to many problems if I stopped being. Usually thoughts of my cat would interfere with this line but not this time. I knew she’d be alright and well-looked after and wouldn’t miss me all that much. Just thoughts.

Today, the physical passivity and inner anxiety has turned to bouts of crying and not being able to eat. Or when managing the brave feat, crying straight into my stew. Also old familiars.

For a while now, I experience an absurd tendency to cling to things of the past, even the bad and trivial ones. They are familar, secure and don’t seem half as bad from my current perspective. Nature and the videos of Elton John have been my few comforts.

The other day I got myself new earphones. The last ones had broken from excessive use. What I did: I didn’t have the heart to throw the old ones away because I had spent so many happy hours with them. My sentimentality and nostalgia are skyrocketing because the thing I’ve wanted more than anything else has been for my old life back, the quiet upward journey I was making out of the social deprivation and into the light, which sadly got interrupted.

I need help very much but there is no one to turn to. The local mental health professionals are not to my taste and I don’t think I even need a professional. Just someone like myself who gets it. And doctors won’t and can’t do nothing because it is not drugs but understanding I’d like to find. I knew the stress I’ve lived with for a long time would cause something to snap eventually and I guess that was the snap.

Maybe I feared worse. This is getting off lightly because it is familiar. Misery like that. It’s not getting off though. It’s like Act 1, Scene 5. There’s loads and worse of it ahead. I’m afraid.

I feel very bad, but I also know that once it won’t be elephant poo any more, I will be an altered person, whether worse or better I do not know. Some people might have noticed a few early signs already, like my reduced fear of things I used to fear. Much has become insignificant that seemed a big deal and vice versa.

The biggest of the lot is that I don’t care about my social anxiety half as much any more. It’s peripheral now. And this, I guess, is some positive side-effect of having your life turned to elephant shit.

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