Floating

I am floating
It’s dark and there is no air
I cannot feel or hear myself breathe
Am I still alive?

I am floating
I have no anchor, no tether, nothing to hold me

I am floating
Is it cold?
I don’t know
I can’t feel my skin

I am floating
I am alone
It’s quiet, but the sound of my loneliness is deafening

I am floating
I stare into the abyss
Who am I?
Why am I here?

I am floating

No.

I am drowning.

Too Many Rooms

Today I feel the urge to write about a girl; my best friend.

She’s saved me from myself more times than I can remember.

I had these feelings of emptiness and despair and she let me know it was called depression.

My chest hurt and I wanted to run away from the world, she let me know its name was anxiety.

I talked about sexual abuse and she let me know I needed therapy.

She’s my age, so how did she know so much?

Because it was her life.

From as little as 8 years old, this little girl had to grow up fast.

Plagued by demons both internal and external.

While other kids were at the park, she was busy fighting.

While other kids were on the swings, she was busy crying.

Isolated in darkness,
Shrouded in pain,
Such was her existence.

An absent father, whose love and acceptance she craved like oxygen.

Children, whose hate fueled words flamed the fire.

Her body, a prison she couldn’t escape.

Her mind, a house with too many rooms.

The place she calls home, frequently changing.

On her knees she begged and cried out to God, but she was met with silence.

So she built an armour only she could cut through, so that she could control the pain.

At 15, she tried to dim the light, but still it flickered.

At 16, our paths crossed, like an angel she shined so brightly.

She found love, but didn’t have the strength to receive it.
“He reminds me of my father,”
She tells me.

Home changing once more, across the sea she went, sisterly bond still remaining, deep but not the bottom of the ocean.

“There’s too many rooms” she says, but I didn’t understand.

“I want to escape from this prison” she says, but I didn’t understand.

New Year’s Eve
“Happy New Year!” I tell her.
“I’m sorry,” she tells me.

While fireworks flashed, her light dimmed.

PANIC!
Worry.
Sadness.
Anxiety.

Light slowly flickers back on.

Relief!

Anger.
ANGER!
“How could you?!”
“Why would you?!”

“I’m sorry,” she says, “there’s just too many rooms.”

Too many rooms…

“I’m sorry,” I tell her, “I didn’t understand.”

“It’s OK,” she says, “nobody does.”

I knock, and she lets me in.

I see the chaos…
the endless passageways,
the dark corners,
the stairs that lead to nowhere,
so many rooms, some labeled…

Dad
Bullying
Abuse
Low self image
Depression
Anxiety
Night terrors
Bipolar
Bulimia
Self harm
Suicide

I see the sealed basement door, no label.

“What’s in there?” I ask.
“I don’t know,” she says, “nobody goes there, not even me.”

“I’m sorry I didn’t understand.”
“It’s OK,” she says, “you’re here now.”

I visit often. Sometimes I meet others there, others who had knocked.

Sometimes I can’t visit.

“What’s wrong?” She asks

“I think I have rooms too.” I tell her.

I let her in, and she visits too, helping me clean like the clean freak she is.

“I’ll do what I can,” she says, “but you need a professional in here at least once a fortnight.”

I watch her,
Her strength
Her endurance
Her resilience
Her tenacity
Even with her multiple rooms she pushes forward,
Striving, Surviving, Struting.

Every so often she gets tired,
“I can’t do this anymore,” she says, “I’m tired, I’m tired of pills, I’m tired of talking, I’m tired of trying, I’m tired of being tired, it’s just never going to end.”

I have no response.
I’ve run out of the ‘it gets betters’ and the ‘hang in theres.’
Because the truth is, while some rooms can be demolished and others can be locked with the key thrown away… some rooms are there to stay. There’s no lock or key and the only thing you can do is clean up and decorate to make it more habitable.

But you don’t have to be there alone.

I’ll help paint the walls.
I’ll find nice, comfortable chairs.
I saw some scented candles on eBay that would be perfect.
I’ll bring flowers every week and come with games.
We’ll listen to music and dance till our feet hurt.
We’ll discuss the theory of our existence as human beings and the Kardashians all in one sitting.

We’ll sit and do nothing, together.
We’ll be happy, together.
We’ll be sad, together.
We’ll be lonely, together.

I’d go to the end of the earth and back for you, and I need you to remember that, whenever you’re sitting in that room, caged in the darkness and blinded by pain, I need you to remember that you are so very loved and that at times you may get lonely, but

You Are Never, Ever, Alone.

---

Read her story: Struts As Her Mind Fragments

You’re Not Crazy

In my first ever post I briefly mentioned being advised to go to a social anxiety group therapy and well… I went.

The first hurdle was actually deciding to go, it’s so laughable to even say the words ‘social anxiety group therapy’.
I’m not sure what the motivation was; whether it was having to confess to my friends that I didn’t go or just being fed up of running away from therapy, whichever it was, I’m grateful for it.

I was the last one there; I took a seat, barely looking up at the 6 maybe 7 people already seated.
I’ve always known other people suffer from social anxiety, it’s a given, but knowing is one thing, actually experiencing it is a whole ‘nother level.
It’s so different when you’re actually in a room and everyone there understands exactly how you feel.

It’s difficult trying to explain social anxiety to people who don’t know or have never experienced it, even those who can empathise can never really truly understand. Whenever I tell friends they go, “what?!”
I get hit with the usual “but you seem so confident.”
Keyword here being ‘seem’, I may look OK but it’s World War 3 inside my head.

Social anxiety is much more than feeling shy or nervous or “she’s just an introvert.”

Finally, I was a room where I could say out loud that I actually get migraines from being in a crowded room and nobody looked at me like I was crazy.

I could say sometimes I feel so uncomfortable having to interact with strangers that I dig my nails into my palms until it hurts or bite my lip till it bleeds to calm myself down, and all I received in return were knowing nods.

Or when I explained that just 5 minutes ago I thought I got someone’s name in the group wrong and I haven’t been able to pay attention to anything that was being discussed since because I’ve been thinking about it non-stop I kept telling myself to let it go because it’s not that big a deal Esther for the love of God but it was driving me crazy I wanted to slap myself I should have just asked for his name again why didn’t you just ask for his bloody name idiot it’s not that hard now too much time had passed It would be awkward bringing it up now damn it why do you always do this to yourself all the time there’s always something what is wrong with you breathe

And someone replied,
“I get it. Sometimes someone would call me the wrong name and I wouldn’t correct them, then I’ll just go by name anytime I see them until it’s like yup, I guess my name is now Sam.”

It sounds silly, but I was on the verge of tears at this point; not because I was sad and not particularly because I was happy but because finally I felt a sense of validation.

“You’re not crazy.”
I tell myself.
“Or even if you are, at least you’re not alone.”

Here were other people who also avoid social situations like a plague, who also overthink every interaction they have…
People from all walks of life; a father, a student, an I.T specialist, a girl who looked like she stepped straight out of a Victoria’s Secret Catalogue.

It was only the first session but already I was learning so much about myself; I learnt that my incessant need to be a perfectionist was because of my social anxiety.

I remember the time I had a meltdown all because I had spelt one word wrong in an email to my manager.
Usually I read those things about 10 times to make sure it’s perfect before sending it, but this time one word evaded me, why? Because of Nigerian parents.
Any child in an immigrant family will know the struggle parents have with pronouncing certain English words, and my parents have always said ‘prospone’ instead of ‘postpone’, that was lodged deep into my subconscious and it decided to resurface on that particular day and in that particular email.
After I sent the email, I checked it again because, obsession, and that’s when I spot it.

I had written ‘prospone’, and when I was proof-reading, because it felt so natural to me, my brain completely missed it.

Cue the meltdown.

At first I tried to bargain, maybe this is one of those things where Americans spell things differently from English people.
I watch a lot of American shows and that happens sometimes, I spell something the American way instead of the English way.
“Yes!” I thought, “that must be it!”
….

It wasn’t.

I wanted to cry.
How could I have missed it?!
Why am I surrounded by Nigerians who just remix English words anyhow?
Now for the dilemma- do I leave it and hope she doesn’t notice or do I acknowledge it and correct myself in another email to her?
At first I thought, just leave it, but it bugged me so much I ended up sending an email correcting myself;

---

Dear Manager,

Sorry to bother you again…
*I am an absolute twat wasting your time with this nonsense but I won’t be able to sleep unless I send this email*

I just realised I said prospone instead of postpone in my previous email…
* And I am f!#king mortified!
I swear I’m not illiterate, I have a university degree and everything!
I studied and graduated, even wrote a 10,000 word dissertation!*

I’m not sure what happened there…
*I know exactly what happened, my Nigerian parents is what happened*

Thanks again for your time…
*I’m sooooooo sorry I wasted your time… I’m a crazy person*

Kind regards,
*Once again, I apologise profusely,*
Esther
*World’s Biggest Idiot*

---

Unsurprisingly she didn’t acknowledge the email, I don’t blame her. That overreaction is my life right now though, and I know I’m not the only one.
And that’s the thing, there’s 7 billion people and counting on this planet, and with the internet age, it’s so easy to find those with a kindred spirit.
Furries found eachother, so did Bronies, hell even flat earthers, no matter how weird or silly you may feel, there are people out there who are on your wavelength.

You’re not crazy, and you’re not alone.

Pills & Self-loathing

I have a crush.
I’m a 24 year old woman constantly checking her phone for messages from a guy she can’t have; I feel like such a teenager. Except it’s not the usual “does he like me?” Or “oh he’s so cute!”
Don’t get me wrong, he’s attractive, but my thinking is more along the lines of “he makes me feel safe”, and “I don’t have to be crippled by the anxiety of meeting his family because I already know them.”

He’s a good friend, and it’s just infatuation. But to be honest, as annoying as it is, I’m actually glad for it.
With my history of sexual abuse, I thought it was going to take a very long time for me to trust another person enough to actually like them, so the fact that it’s happened sooner than I thought is a good sign… right? I dunno, I think I’m going to have to discuss that with my counsellor…

Anyway, it’s a much welcome, albeit infuriating, change of pace. I’ve lost a lot of myself over the past few years; for example, anyone who knows me knows how hungry I am for human contact. I’m forever hugging, and cuddling, and touching and planting smooches. My brothers suffer the bulk of this unavoidable trait, and my friends have learnt to get used to it, now they welcome and expect it.
But after my most recent violation, I started to find myself being triggered by human contact, especially ones that took me by surprise. A friend was being playful with me, which is usually perfectly normal, until I suddenly started feeling weird and uncomfortable.
“Stop! No, stop! I don’t like it!” I shout abruptly.
He stops, looking confused, and rightfully so because it was very unlike me. Luckily he’s very easy going so he doesn’t ask questions and we move on.
But it wasn’t until I was telling my friends about this stupid crush I had that I realised that when I’m with my crush, there’s human contact and I don’t even register it enough to feel uncomfortable. My subconscious however, took notice, and that’s why it was gravitating towards him, trying to latch onto that feeling of safety and security, forgetting how torturous it would be for me…

Anyway, speaking of torture, I recently went off my meds. So stupid, I know.
I take medication for depression and anxiety, and I’m usually on the ball. Every day, my reminder goes off and I take my medication.

However, I started reconnecting with people despite my anxiety; I was going out more, being more open and I was happier. I had made up my mind that 2018 was going to be my year and I was riding on the waves of ecstasy and endorphins… until it all came crashing down.
Feeling happier, I neglected to get a refill on my prescription. As my pills dwindled, I kept telling myself I needed to go to the pharmacy but I was too comfortable in my false sense of happiness to do that.

4 days after taking my last pill, I told myself,

“See?! You’re fine!”

Ignoring the little voice of reason that reminded me of my Doctor’s warning; that we needed to slowly wean me off my medication when the time came that I no longer needed it.
7 days later came an almighty crash. Events throughout the day slowly chipped away at my fragile state of mind and I would spend the next few days crying, arguing with my friends, dealing with insomnia and feeling sorry for myself.

If I wasn’t a believer in the effectiveness of medication before, I certainly am now. I can tell the difference when I’m on and off them. Believe me, like many people I was very skeptical about medication; I didn’t want to depend on meds and I didn’t want to ‘abuse’ my liver by taking medication everyday… which I find so ironic. It’s like when you see someone smoking and you’re turning your nose up at them thinking lung cancer and all that but yet you just walked out McDonald’s after eating a heart attack on a plate, and then someone else would see you eating junk and turn their nose up at you yet they’ll go to the pub that evening and obliterate their liver… the bloody irony.

Anyway, I had to resort to medication because I was at end of my rope, I was so suicidal that I was actively thinking about ways to do it. At first, thinking about my family and friends stopped me, but after a while, it wasn’t enough anymore.

I was watching a YouTube series called BkChat London and they were discussing the topic of suicide. I kept hearing comments like “how could someone be so selfish” and “if that was me I’d think about the pain I would I cause my family and I wouldn’t do it.”
And I wanted to throw something at my screen!
Why they couldn’t get someone with experience in mental health or even someone who’s attempted suicide and came back from it to be a part of the discussion, I would never understand!

Why do mothers commit suicide? Fathers? Brothers? Sisters? Friends? You think they don’t love their family? Of course not!
But the reality is, when you’re in that frame of mind, and the darkness and emptiness and hopelessness and despair consume you, rational thought, friends, family, all that goes out the window.
All you can think about is MAKING THE PAIN STOP.

The sad truth however, which a friend made me realise, is that the pain never really goes away, instead it just gets transferred to your loved ones and the people you care about.

My Doctor told me medication wasn’t going to be a ‘happy pill’. You don’t take it and suddenly become happy. What it does is it helps balance you out chemically, so you can think more clearly and hopefully more rationally. Some people suffer from clinical depression, also known as Major Depressive Disorder, which means they unfortunately may have to rely on medication for the rest of their lives. But needing medication doesn’t make you weak or less than, it means you’re courageous enough to accept help. Having said that, medication alone won’t suffice, you still need to work on the underlying problem; taking medication without dealing with your issues is like putting bandage on a wound without disinfecting it.

I think the common misconception about depression is that it’s just about sadness. That is not true, it’s so much more than that.

The above is just a simple example but I recently stumbled across a poem that I think is so genius in its delivery, because to those in the Know, it resonates, and to those who aren’t in the Know, it illustrates:

I am the voice that tells you you’re not good enough
I am the disgust you feel when you look in the mirror
I am the emptiness that fills you
I am the anxiety you feel in large groups of people
I am the suicidal thoughts that flash through your mind
I am the stress you feel for no reason
I am the tears you’re afraid to shed
I am your inexplicable sadness
I am the lack of concentration you feel
I am your disinterest in activities
I am the negativity that stains your thoughts
I am the insomnia you suffer through
I am the guilt you feel for being happy

Always lurking in your mind
Never completely gone

I am Depression

by Tripoqgirl, March 2015

I don’t really have anything inspirational or uplifting to say after that, because this is the grim reality and everyday struggle for so many people, myself included. My friend once asked me to say ‘I love myself’ and I’m telling you, if I had been hooked up to a lie detector, it would have exploded, because in that moment I realised I didn’t even like myself, let alone love myself.

But, I am on a path of recovery, though the journey is so long and tiring, I wish I could take a mental Uber.
However, fret not.
I have learnt to deal with the lows, cherish the highs and relish in the mediums.
I enjoy the company of my friends, I dance to music, I write when I’m feeling down, I laugh at memes my brothers send me and I smile whenever I see a message from my crush. I can momentarily forget my self-loathing and lose myself in the giggly, pulse-racing, butterflies in the stomach feeling. Every little helps folks, every little helps.