Hypocrite.

Having re-read many of my previous posts, I have come to recognise a trend in my writing. I describe an area of depression that affects myself and others and I endeavour to shed some light on the impact that this illness has on one's life. I then weave duplicitous strands of optimism and morality into my writing in an attempt to cast a positive light on a situation which appears, for me, in reality, to be entirely without hope. 

The truth of the matter is that I am a hypocrite. I tell people to ‘just keep going’ and I remind them that there will be a time when they will feel happy to be alive; I urge them to think of those who love and care for them and to recognise that their survival is a success and yet I spend every day wishing that I had never existed, willing myself to die, feeling completely isolated and as though I will never see light again. It seems laughable that a single person should take heed of my words when I myself am unable to believe what I write. When I put pen to paper, (or in this case finger to keyboard) it is as though my depression pulls back a curtain enough to tantalise me with a sparkle of hope and logic, before filling my entire body and soul with a blackness that blocks, obscures and warps any light that may have once had a chance of finding its way through my sceptical skull. 

And if I cannot follow my own advice, if I cannot believe my own sentiments, then how am I ever to instil enough confidence in another person that my words should help their suffering to be lessened even a little? The words I write are not worth reading for they are the words of a liar. I cannot that everything will be OK in the end. I cannot be sure that one day, you will dance with joy simply because you are alive. The best way I can think of providing something on which one can found their hope of a life better than this is by using the words of one much wiser and more intelligent than I, George Eliot:
“It is never too late to be what you might have been.”

Failure.

Before I embark upon another long winded monologue about the ups and downs of living with a mental illness, I'd like to say two things. Firstly, assuming that there is someone who pays sufficient attention to my blog to notice my lack of posts last month, I want to apologise. As unlikely as it is that my words have a large, if any, impact on your life, the aim of my blog is to open up mental illness to people and make it reachable, understandable and acceptable. I also write in the hope that someone may derive a little comfort from knowing that they are not suffering alone. Words haven't come easily to me in the last few weeks and while I still don't feel capable of writing much, I don't want to discourage anyone with my silence. Secondly, thank you to everyone who devotes even a minute of their time to reading my blog. I find it so incredibly encouraging to see that in three months, I've had over two thousand page-views and so many positive and supportive comments! And now onto my main motive for posting today- failure. 

One aspect of mental illness that is almost entirely unavoidable is the often colossal impact that your illness will have on your life. It affects every aspect of your existence: your home life, relationships, education or career and even your physical appearance. Prior to developing depression, I was a hard worker, a high achiever and I most certainly did not know what it was to experience failure, which is a far cry from my current lethargic, disorientated and, ultimately, failing self. I, or rather my depression, perceives my incapabilities (which were, once upon a happier time, capabilities) as failures. I am not only forced to spend my every day in a state of despondent apathy, I am forced by a part of my own brain to consider this to be a deficit of my own making. Something that one of my therapists said to me, however, has made me reevaluate my position. She asked me what my definition of failure was, and then suggested that I redefine my perception of it. For it is a triumph to still be alive after almost eighteen months of virtually relentless agony. It is a triumph that I still find the strength to deny myself the compulsion to destroy myself at every opportunity. The fact that people are still living in the face of pain and suffering proves that they are not a failure. That is not to say, however, that those who have taken their own lives are failures. They are not. Suicide is not weak or cowardly and it is not a failure. It just shows that life fails people, and some are failed by life more acutely than others. Failure does not reveal itself in low grades or poor references on your CV. Failure is simply when you neglect to try your hardest at something that holds meaning for you. This makes 'standardised' successes irrelevant- each person succeeds according to their current capacity and this is irrefutably, undoubtedly a success.