I used to blog and then I stopped. I used to blog daily. Saved deciding which pen to use. It seemed so much easier than having to buy a diary. Then I realised that certain creeps could read my blog but those aforementioned creeps couldn't sneak into my room and find my diary. Or they could, but it was not nearly so easy. They'd have to find their way past my Togepi room guard. Togepi is hardcore, as room guards go.
As a teen I had a severe breakdown as a result of taking a well-known SSRI. Turns out this is not a good thing to take if you later go on to be diagnosed with Bipolar Affective Disorder. (Thank you to Dr. W for that by the way). Until then I had been "depressed", according to doctors. A word I never really felt entirely comfortable with. I knew people who were depressed and I just couldn't see any part of them in me. I knew there was something wrong with me, I just didn't know what or why.
When I was 13 I was watching Carol Vorderman's "Better Homes", one Sunday. Then a feeling of realisation crept over me. A realisation that I hadn't actually left the house for over a month. I realised I hadn't been to school, I hadn't seen any friends and I hadn't washed my hair. I certainly hadn't sprayed my body with the latest Impulse fragrance. It's hard to admit to that. It's hard not to blame Vorderman.
I used to flit between despairingly miserable and rambunctiously happy. Sometimes in a matter of weeks, sometimes in a matter of seconds. Never for any reason.
And then it pretty much stopped. Medication. It evened me out. There was a level playing field. I could be like everyone else! I could go out and not worry that the girl at the back of the bus was staring at me because she thought my left nostril was larger than my right (it is). It wasn't that I no longer gave a shit that she was looking at me oddly, it was that I didn't even know there WAS a girl at the back of the bus. I started to feel like someone that could FEEL important things. I could make connections with others; real connections. I could understand their feelings and thought processes rather than expertly and exhaustingly pretend to. I became a person who experienced things. I wasn't always on the outside looking in. Mostly falling deeply in love helped. Sorry NHS. I do love you though.
I'm user-friendly. Or so I thought. In fact, yes I definitely sodding am. I'm so damn easy to talk to that people forget that I too may want to talk. Perhaps that's because I listen too readily. I make myself too available. People are aware that there are no provisos. It's probably my own fault.
As a teen I attached myself to a group of people that were miserable. A group of people that needed counselling - they needed Agony Aunt Ace. I liked to feel needed. There was purpose. (Longterm of course, I've always been aware that my only "purpose" is to protect the eggs that lie within my ovaries).
That changed when I reached 18 and became romantically entangled with a long-time friend. He was the only friend with whom there was a proviso. There was an unspoken, yet mutual understanding, right from the outset, that we were going to be "together" in some way. It had to happen and it always was going to happen.
And so it was. We eventually overcame the idiocies of teendom and put our friendship on the line in order to try to achieve something more. I knew he needed me more than I needed him. I loved him though. I wanted him. Perhaps more than he wanted me. Sadly, I hadn't realised the many ways in which he would end up needing me.
He had problems. Problems more key than "Oh, this boy doesn't, like, you know, hold my hand much anymore", or "Oooh, I need a fake ID". His problems were on a par with mine and, like me, he wasn't keen to share them with just anyone who was willing to listen. We understood one another. He was a beauty, a real fucking beauty of a person. I'd have given up my family and friends for him. In fact, I did. He didn't ask me to and I didn't set out to. He was all I needed. He gave me everything. All of his energies; physical and emotional, his wonderful cooking ("It's just adding heat to food"), and his glorious face.
There were things I didn't know, though. Really important things. Things I discovered and lived with in the 360 days that I lived with him, before his heart stopped beating.
I may no longer be a teen but it's time to make up for the all of those times I didn't share with world just how I felt. There will be little talk of Lady Gaga, Justin Bieber or New Kids On The Block here. I hope that's okay. Oh and I'm ginger.
So, my darling blog, here I am.
