It may get hairy…

So, I believe it’s official – this blog has decided it’s a permanent and personal fixture, rather than a place –

Smash! There goes my water glass. Thanks Guns

– to practice my writing. It’s not that good anyway and we all need a vent. It’s this or smoking and lately I’d rather do this, but this could change.

So, on that topic, I’m still rather peeved at the reactions of some to the recent changes I’ve had. Apart from having upturned my entire life and lodging myself firmly in the sand here at the coast, I’ve also (only in the past few weeks) managed to shed the interminable depression that’s been lurking over me.

I’ll admit that I got pretty damned pathetic. Everything was negative and…well, (if you can’t blog it, when can you say it, eh?) I partly mimicked my adolescent suicidal self. Never fear, I wouldn’t do anything that drastic, I’m way too atuned to the consequences of my actions, but that horrible cliche ‘I hate my life’ was very real to me.

It’s past now, and I have to say I’m rather proud of myself. It took a lot of hard work. Depression’s a bitch and, as my friend says, “depression is a miserable, lying bastard,so it gets away with a lot. When you’re certifiably depressed (by this I mean, not ‘oh woe is me, I’m late for work and stubbed my toe’ depressed) you cannot see a positive. Imagining something going right is impossible; getting the energy to try something is nigh impossible (as any efforts would be moot) and just waking up proves to be a nightmare. I can’t tell you how often I got up, showered, brushed teeth and fell back into bed again, not being able to rise for a good half-hour. I wasn’t sleeping, but getting up and facing the world just became beyond me for awhile.

Now, this isn’t to highlight how freaking sad and pathetic I was, but rather to show you why I’ve been the way I’ve been for the last few months and to highlight how freaking sad and pathetic many of my friends and acquaintances have proven themselves to be.

So let me make this simple. If you consider yourself a good friend, here are some of the guidelines (applicable to this case) that you should follow:

  1. If your friend is normally a good friend and checks up on you frequently, asking you how everything is and picking up where things aren’t going so well…and they suddenly stop this. Find out why.
  2. If your friend says they’re not happy but doesn’t feel like talking about it. Find out why. Bug the hell out of that bugger, because the miserable, lying bastard that is depression also makes it’s host a lazy-ass sod who’d rather keep their problems to themselves.
  3. If a previously very social friend suddenly stops communicating. Find out why.

It doesn’t take a brain surgeon to figure out something’s wrong and yet, perhaps three of my friends realised something was up. I’m a pretty social person, so suddenly acting disappearing off social networks that are my life (and my living) should have been a pretty big fucking warning sign to those who cared.

To the few that realised something was wrong, followed up with me to find out why and forced me to talk, you hold my faith in humand-kind (if I were to be melodramatic) and, quite honestly, without you I’m not sure I would be smiling now. You are truly awesome people and I’m so damned lucky to have you in my life.

To the rest of you, this is what I see: People who are desperate to be considered good friends, so desperate that they cling to stupid little sayings and nicknames that imply friendship, but go no further. Trust me, when I’m staring down a bottle of pills, that little nickname could quite possibly push me over the edge, not bring me back (example, let’s not freak out and call Sez a psychiatrist. I am not suicidal. I was just miserable. Like uber). I see people who are so thoroughly wrapped up in their happy existences that even a cry for help, such as “I’m not doing so well, but it’s cool, not really in the mood to talk about it” goes unnoticed. Shiny, happy people who have forgotten that a real connection is not someone who matches you drink for drink, but someone who will sit down with you even when they’re feeling vrot, just to make you feel better.

All this I can look past, but what I cannot look past is being told by these same people that I’m a bad friend, because I haven’t been there to wallow in their guilt-ridden hangover with them. That I’m spamming people with the blogs that help me feel better (again: defriend, unlike, and unsubscribe, I haven’t the foggiest why this is difficult) and the implication that my life no longer matters, as I chose to leave the ‘big city’.

On this note, I’ll stop venting and go back to my coffee, whilst watching the sea, because I’m a happy bunny again. I’m also exhausted and woke up pissed off after a dream about aforementioned prats – hence the  blog. Yesterday was spent following 3 ambulances, accruing goodness knows how many speeding fines, getting my grandfather settled into 3 hospitals, keeping his panic at a minimum, organising medical records and handing out death-threats to retarded EMTs – all of which started at 4am and finished at 8pm, so I’m a little tetchy, but Grandad’s doing well.

Postscript: To the author of Rage Against the Black Dog, thank you for the support, you rule 😉 It’s pretty amazing when someone’s going through rough times themselves and still finds the time of day to check in with someone like me, who’s pretty much just wailing about nothing 😉

Side note: to those of you that noticed something was wrong and helped me through it, you have the right to say I wasn’t really there for you, so this is not aimed at you. Additionally, friends who have joked about my blogs being spam are also the batteries not included. I love you all and this is just my little vent to those that I will soon crop out of my life.

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