A story of me.
by endlesspsych
At one point or another the illness get’s too much and the mask has to slip.
So you all get to see the pathetic, petty, selfish fuck up and human cunt garbage that hides behind the pretence of me being a reasonable, even likeable, human being. In reality I am just a hateful mess of guilt, shame and recrimination. I am an idiot who does a half hearted impression of someone with half a brain I sit here and wait for everyone to find out just how stupid I am. I am Beyond ugly, physically repulsive, a distended and corpulent mess of fat, stretch marks and scars. My reflection makes me want to vomit. I am a consumer, a machine for taking without giving back. I am without a doubt a spectacular waste of all the oxygen and other resources that goes into maintaining myself as this useless blight.
But why? Did Mummy not love me?
I’ve now spent more than half my life wondering that. She’s ill you see. Far more ill than I am. A delusional schizophrenic diagnostically. I wonder many things about Mum. Does she believe I exist for one? Does she ever think about us? Does she still believe the malevolent forces of the SQA (the Scottish Qualifications Authority) are moving against her and hiding secret messages in number plates? Does she still think there are recording and listening devices hidden in the TV and Radio? Does she still sleep with a knife under her bed?
Is she still looking for Batman?
Did she ever hear me knocking 0n the door every time I went up just to try and see her over the past 15 years? Was she always out or did she just ignore me?
Twice I’ve been in love (properly anyway). Once was passionate and bordering on mutual self destruction – it ended messily. The other was stable but amazing. So of course I had to run away. Run away before the mask slipped.
It’s all getting a bit disjointed now.
I don’t like myself very much and I want everyone else not to like me as well because that makes it easier.
I don’t drink because I know that would probably let me jump over the last few hurdles that stop me from not being here any more. But it worries me how much I want to be drunk.
Painfully eloquent. Sorry, still like you. Sorry you’re hurting so much.
You may be imagining all sorts of unpleasant reasons why many people seem to be ignoring you over this. I think the most likely is that we just don’t know how to respond appropriately.
I think Lisa has said it as best as anyone can. I don’t want to comment further with useless platitudes or patronise you. No doubt you’ve heard it all before. And I don’t have any useful advice for you that you won’t have heard before. I really wish I did.
Since we have never met, it wouldn’t seem right for me to say I like you. But you clearly have a conscience and act on it and go out of your way to help other people. I could call you a fat Scottish cunt though if it would make you feel better? I expect it wouldn’t make much difference either way.
People don’t know how to talk about mental illness and avoid discussing it. I don’t want to talk about private family stuff in any detail here but there was a suicide in my extended family that some family members believe may not have happened if we’d all been aware of what was going on and had discussed the issues openly. Yet we still avoid talking about it. It has caused a rift.
I would say I think it’s honest and brave of you to write about this publicly, but I don’t believe you’re doing this because you’re being brave. I hope getting all this off your chest is helpful.
And I know I said I didn’t want to come out with platitudes but I do really mean this one: look after yourself.