Final Year, Part 1

In September of last year I began writing a diary coinciding with my return to college for the beginning of my final year. The idea was simply to document how the year progressed because I had set my targets relatively high and I had anticipated a rather difficult time in attempting to achieve these. Reading back was actually quite entertaining from me and I would recommend it to anyone, especially if you are in the process of targeting specific goals. 

I have taken several extracts from the first seven weeks of the diary and included them below, along with some more recent reflections on them. I can't imagine anyone ever wanting to read this shit but it's been an enjoyable afternoon for me nevertheless.  

Tuesday 16th September

' "I will improve myself," says Anne Frank. Dying at fifteen she never got the chance I have. Continued with classes today but already beginning to feel a little weariness seep in. Careful! Although not altogether difficult I am finding absorption of the material a problem at the moment. On a more positive track I have 100% attendance and even began to do a little homework tonight. My mantra is 'six-week segments'. My social life is bound to suffer and I plan on being complicit in its demise.'

I remember Anne Frank's diary was the last book I was reading before beginning the semester. It took me by surprise how much I enjoyed it and I was l little taken aback when it ended so abruptly. When I was in Amsterdam I disdained at the idea of visiting her house when there was a red light district and a city full of weed to see. Now I think I'd rather see the secret annexe. 

     I look at this today an can scarcely understand what the fuck I was on about 100% attendance and feeling weary,..it was my second day of the semester! Although by my previous standards two days in a row was a worthy achievement and I probably indulged in a celebratory piece of cake that evening. It is interesting to me that the shut-down of social activities was already in place at this point. 

Wednesday 24th September

'Two more days to the weekend and I get that breather. I am in that transitional phase where I have got a lot of work on , some of it started but nothing finished as of yet. I'll be happier when I get one or two things parked.                                                                       Presently it seems difficult for me to get out of bed in the morning but when I am up and moving I am pretty wide awake. Perhaps the Berocca and vitamin B tablets are having the desired effect . It strikes me that women were once my only active goal and now...'  

Obviously my idea of a fitness regime around late September was a bowl of Crunchy Nut Cornflakes washed down with a glass of Berocca and a vitamin B supplement. It was the secret ingredient to my going after the distinction I desired. Maybe I shouldn't rest too heavily on the sarcasm though because I did get out of bed and go in every single day during this stretch and that is something I'd never been able to do before. And that was half the battle for me because the time became an investment that I wanted to see a return on even when the days were not always productive.

Saturday 27th September

'Another Saturday night in and a rather productive one. Some Matlab, Kicad and Galileo work done. Highlight of the day has to have been seeing Manley with a child's bicycle wedged beneath his car. He drove off of course. Was a laugh hanging out with the lads and A today. I wonder if any of them have the same disappointing relationships with their families. Last night I was hoping Georgia would invite me in for tea when I drove her home. I'd concocted some wild fantasy of a passionate liaison. She knows I am sure but I must remember my exile.'

I remember this day rather more vividly than most of the others in this post. There are two reasons for this. Firstly the aforementioned child's bicycle wedged beneath the car and the swiftness with which the smiling culprit absconded from the scene. Obviously you should never ever leave your bike unattended on a pedestrian footpath. The second reason is that Phil Jagielka scored a stunning equalizer in the merseyside derby at the Kop end. I rarely admit this but I am an Everton supporter whenever I am a football supporter at all.  

      Of Georgia (Georgia is not her real name if you hadn't already guessed) I had excited myself that myself and her would engage in some quixotic affair worthy of one of the classics. You see Georgia is in a solid relationship and I believe her partner was working late this particular evening so my mind accelerates to where it should not go. In any event an awkward incident was avoided because I kept my secrets to myself (for once). So my self-imposed exile from the female form continued.

Friday 3rd October

'You know what? I had such a laugh with J tonight at work. We were laughing about M&S hiring policy after someone was found to be lifting from the tills. They seem to hire a lot of smelly, ugly people. I thought she was going to cough up a lung at one point. College was good today. It felt pretty productive, which is always good. Still a lot to get done in the next few weeks and I have Dublin tomorrow night for Sean's stag. I would rather not go as I need all my focus for study. Anyway I will bid my interlocutor, you, this page goodnight 7am start!'

They really have been hiring some very smelly people over the past few years, almost as if that is one of the primary criteria. This one guy was smelly, ugly, had a weird walk and absolutely no rapport with customers. And to top it all off he was lifting too. Laughing about it and ridiculing the whole thing was probably the only way I could find to get me through those Wednesday and Friday evenings in work.  

     I was apprehensive about going on Sean's stag because I was working from eight that morning (I was falling asleep at the wheel on the motorway) and I had a million assignments due the following week. Despite that it was a really good evening and introduced me to a bar called Whelans,which I had never been to before but have been back a few times since. It always pays to keep an open mind...always! 

Tuesday 7th October

'The possibility of a social life seems further away than ever. The reports are just filing in one on top of another right now. It's going to be tough to shift the tide. I'd like to start getting some grades soon so I will be motivated to maintain the good work. I think in many ways I am happier this way. I failed to pick up my ADs today. I must make sure of them tomorrow. I didn't receive an email reply from B today although I doubt it will be long in coming. I look forward to it. I replied to Luiza today but I must keep correspondents to an absolute minimum.'

By October I think I had pretty much cut-off all interactions with my friends barring the odd game of football. I am trying to make up for it now but I know I had to retreat into my bedroom during that period just so I could get some work done. But like I said, I was strangely content at the time. 

     Failing to collect my Anti-Depressants was something that happened a couple of times over the course of the year. When it results in one or two days without them it's usually not a problem. Any longer than this and it leaves me feeling like there is intermittent machine-gun fire ricocheting off the inside of my skull. Fortunately it is not something that I allow to happen terribly often. 

     The final statement from this extract alludes to an horrific error of judgement from the previous Saturday night. Drunken and in Dublin I resorted to texting someone I really shouldn't have been texting. Fortunately she never replied that night and we never did meet up again. I awoke that Sunday morning a relieved man and even thought to myself, "they were right, there is a God!". 

     
Saturday 11th October

'I wish I were as brave as Malala Yousafzai. I wish I were talented enough and concerned enough about something so important that I could dedicate myself to it completely. I fear I am too selfish, to materialistic to make that kind of impact.  I realise I am only here for me. Today I was once again struck by my atheism and the pressure to suppress it. I was particularly struck by the thought that I can't even be myself with my family, making it difficult to be myself anywhere. Disassociate yourself from other people's outcomes. I need to work harder.'

Malala is the young lady who defied the Talaban over the education of women and was rewarded with a bullet. She had won the Nobel Peace Prize that week and it had me considering my own lack of achievement. Here was this girl, at the age seventeen and with none of the material advantages I have had, achieving greater things than I will ever get close to and it made me think I am just wasting my fucking time on stupid meaningless shit. Of course I know it is not true but the thought that I could be doing so much more lingers.

Thursday 16th October

'I have been labelled "in the zone"  and productive today. I guess I am but not to the extent that the description implies. I really won't know until the semester is finished and I have my results. It would be redemptive to at least go a little way towards making up for the A-Level disaster by getting good results this year. Is college all I ever talk about? I still haven't seen Mairead's baby. It's been almost two weeks. Although I have been busy it really isn't an excuse but I am unlikely to rectify the situation tomorrow. This girl off Question Time tonight is a babe. And smart.'

Jesus, what the fuck am I talking about with this girl off Question Time. Evidence that I was definitely getting a little horny around the 16th of October. If I remember correctly she was quite sexy though!

    As for the pretext to that wonderful sign-off sentence it is telling that I have attempted to use my destruction regarding my A-Levels as a driving motor for my motivation. Honestly, my fuck-up in those exams (although I understand the reasons more now) have been a source of great embarrassment for me ever since and greatly choreographed the path I took afterwards. I looked in the mirror and felt like Gazza with all that wasted potential. It was a powerful motivator for me.

Monday 20th October

'Not having enough time to read other shit can be a frustrating side-effect of study and work. Something to make up for in the future. I'd really like to do some proper cycling this winter. Get the cold weather gear and head out christmas day. That sounds good to me today. I am definitely becoming more introverted except around a specific few people. It is becoming impossible for me to initiate or maintain a decent conversation with most people even if my brain is working fine. The "use it or lose it" philosophy of neurological process appears to be proven here.'

First thing's first, the cycling thing never happened. Not even close, it was a lie all along. But it did sound good at the time and still sounds good to me now. There is not question that I became incredibly introverted at various stages throughout the semester but it is my natural disposition not something I contrive. I have really had to work hard on my social skills in the past so when I let them slide a little they can deteriorate drastically. It is actually quite helpful when I am in that kind of single-minded mode and I can always find a good conversation with my internal monologue. The only problem there is that he tends to want to talk a lot at night when I am trying to sleep.

  

Tuesday 21st October

'I got the call today. The one I've been waiting for but not the one I expected. Mairead has asked me to be Godfather. I told her that it might be a problem, that I had my reasons for thinking that it might be a bad thing. I still felt like shit, even when she said it wasn't a big deal if I refused. It will have a profound affect on me either way. I know I will spend more time thinking about it, considering its consequences than any of the others did. I feel I am lacking council today. Is it really too much to ask that people accept, without rancour, that I don't agree with them and only try to do what is right.' 

I had several days of real turmoil after this phone call from my sister. I had always maintained in my head that I would never stand up and be the Godparent to a child when I am completely against any ceremony that forces a single religion on children. I didn't want to be a hypocrite, but it's not so easy when you finally get asked. 

     There were so many reasons why I was unwilling to facilitate the request and I won't bore you further with the details, some of which you can probably guess at anyway. But the pressure to do it, to please my family and not disappoint my sister seemed incredibly intense at the time that I was gravely concerned about the consequences of making the wrong decision. I was also keen to make it clear that my refusal should in no way be taken as a rejection of the baby. If anything it made me more interested in her life. 

      In the end I stuck to my guns and honestly haven't regretted it for a moment since. 

Tuesday 28th October

'My motivation has gone too soon. It's felt like that this evening as the work I have to do appears more and more insurmountable. I know it is largely because I am tired and I am aware that it will to-and-fro for the next few weeks. With the winter settling in this week I am worried about a repeat of the degeneration that occurred during this period last year. At least I am aware of it. Perhaps this will give me a fighting chance this time. Also tonight the desperate tinder swiping and sexual frustration that stores energy through repression. I need a shag.'

Motivation is a very sensitive aspect in my life. Occasionally impressive, it is all too prone to dramatic attenuation. So as the winter rolled in and the workload began to increase I found myself peaking and dipping several times a day. All I could do was persevere. 

   The previous winter I completely capitulated and was lucky enough to survive relatively un-scarred but this played on my mind for most of that semester. I was always waiting for my habitual assailant to return one more time for the memories but it was something I avoided right the way through the year.

    For anyone using Tinder as their primary social outlet I highly recommend that you abstain immediately. It can be a fun little play thing for people who want to have a laugh and kill ten minutes. It can even be catalyst for a first date or a one-night-stand but for someone in the position I was in it just becomes an irritating distraction. Tinder in that circumstance only exacerbates the feeling that you're missing out on something by committing to the books. Better to just have a quick hilary to dissipate that sexual energy and get back to studying!

      

Thursday 30th October

'I seem to be going through some kind of a change at the moment. It happens to me from time-to-time. I get this impression that I am really not where I should be and I begin to drift into dreams of exotic travel. My outlook becomes more profound and a little austere. I think of time wasted and my desire to learn all I can when there isn't enough time. I am lost among my friends because either we don't share the same outlook or I am unable to express mine. My mood is not as light as it has been and I am increasingly wary of S.A.D. Especially in light of last winters events.' 

That sounds like I am talking about the menopause. I am not. However the things I am talking about are very familiar to me as feelings I have had at variable intervals in my life. It begins as a more serious outlook on my life and drifts towards the things I haven't done and the things I absolutely should be doing. It is a lot to do with the inadequacy of the current trajectory I'm on and discerning where best to aim for in the future. At these times a lot of the frivolity is taken away from life and I become acutely aware of the rapidly ticking clock. It all sounds terribly sullen but I consider it a good attitude in moderation. It helps me to set goals and push myself harder even though it makes me despair about the past just as often. 

Well that seems to be how I finished those first six or seven weeks of that second from last semester. I'll tell you the rest some other time. 

  

My Venlafaxine

I wanted to die again. However briefly the feelings gripped me the compulsion was always an earnest one. A more effective form of pain relief does not exist. This time I began goading myself to see if I had the balls to do anything about it. I didn't. I am very lucky I didn't.

Venlafaxine is a good drug. Maybe even a great one. It has certainly had a positive effect on my life. Almost seven months ago to the day I reached the lowest point of my depression. A complete mental capitulation whose antecedent causes I had been ignoring for too long. It spliced me right out of my work and social environment and had me bouncing from doctors to psychiatrist, to mental health clinics. I've never been as sick as I was at Christmas. I have never felt as lonely and rejected.

The point is that Venlafaxine, though by no means totally responsible, has had a dramatic effect upon my recovery. I think most people who know me would believe that my climb out of the sewers of despair has been both majestic and seamless. It probably appears as if I am more often happy and contented than I have ever been before. For the most part I would agree but there is still remaining something a little apocryphal in this idea. Depression still owns me. I will almost certainly remain its bonded chattel for the duration of my lifetime. I can have no control over the capricious malevolence of this master. All I can really hope to do is to shore up my defences as best I can. Learn from all the thrashings I have received from his hand and confront him. Eyes fixed, chest out!

It is my recurring inability to protect myself that makes me so fucking angry with myself. Despite being fairly intelligent I have a cancerous streak of naivety running through me. It encourages me to overlook obvious oncoming symptoms of depression. It allows me to completely ignore dangers I would otherwise be guarded against. It tickles me into believing that doing the same thing again and again will not have the same desultory affects.

So when I say that Venlafaxine is a great drug that has helped me massively I also have to admit that I disrespect it by pushing myself down to a place where I know I should not go. Drinking often and in high volume has in my case always at some stage resulted in a snap because the elastic has been stretched too far. I know this. I bet a lot of other people know this about me too. I am Bart Simpson continually touching the cupcake despite the electric shock.

I can't say I didn't see this Saturday night/ Sunday morning coming at me. There is no way I can suggest that it wasn't a certainty to happen if I continued as I had been doing. What does this mean? Well it tells me that I have some power to change the course of these events and by doing so resisting or at least delaying the agonising rupture of my progress. It tells me that I made a mistake once again by going beyond my safety threshold and that I am entirely to blame for anything destructive that I may have let happen.

I hope that once more the Venlafaxine has resumed its steady good work as the tyrannical alcohol subsides and my serotonin comes out to play once more. I am still a young man. Dans la force de l'âge. Still capable, still progressing, still stupid, still naive. If I can protect myself better from the constant self-criticism, the loneliness and depression by learning from my previous mistakes then perhaps I can at least allow myself to face it down with weapons more suited to the task. Eyes fixed, chest out.

drinking

Briefly I was back where I don't ever want to be. Sick and depressed with a dread in my stomach about having to see tomorrow. Pathetically fearing sleep because of the hallucinogenic dream nightmares. Feeling worthless like an old 50p. Three fucking horrible black days. Body and mind ripped apart and strewn out like animal carcass. My only true interlocutor is a blank page I couldn't force myself to write to.

Greasy globules of sweat disappearing beneath my uniform collar. They leave a silkworms trail along my face, stinging my eyes along the way. I think I'm about to have a redbull heart-attack and if it were to leave me unconscious it might even be a result.

Fucking alcohol. Fucking stupid me.

  You should avoid alcohol while taking this medicine. 

I have to come clean this time. I really have nothing or no-one to blame for feeling this way. It wasn't like I needed any encouragement to push the boat out just a little further upon a tide of tequila. I know I suffer from depression. I know I can sometimes struggle with drink depressions. I know I am on anti-depressants and I know better.

Saturday was a great laugh. An absolute belter of an evening. But I think for the first time that even a really fun night on the booze didn't get to within a galaxy of being worth the days after. It has scared the shit out of me in a big way. I really don't want to have to feel like that again. My brain felt to me like it was floating around inside a test tube, banging against the glass. The worst three days of 2014 by far felt as if time had stopped and I was the only person moving. I wanted to be held, dependant, looked after. It wouldn't happen however. 

I don't recommend binge drinking to anyone ever if it leaves you in tears driving home from work two days later like it did for me. That's the thing with these drink depressions, they tend to leave you vulnerable to some emotional conflict that you can otherwise control. In my case it lead to a very disappointing end to something I didn't want to end. It was dead anyway, it's just that it has been said now.

Fucking alcohol again. Fucking stupid me again. 

When you know the risks and do it anyway it doesn't seem fair to go crying to friends even when you really need them. Sometimes a hug makes it just a little better but I don't deserve any.

Heads or tails?

What if I could prove without contest that it really would be better for everyone if I just did it? Who could deny me then? Surely it would be okay if I could show you all that the short-term trauma would make things easier in the end. Easier for you, easier for me.

Maybe it is a moral issue. Maybe it is just plain wrong. I didn't ask to be born but I sincerely hold it as privilege, if not always a pleasure, that I was. I know all the things I have that should make me happy. Would it be viciously disrespectful to do it in the face of those things other people might die to experience once? But then I'm not one for top ten lists and besides I am well aware of all that good stuff I have. I'm depressed even with that. Not sure I want to stick around to face losing it.

I'm not expecting to go anywhere after leaving here. This is it and when it finally isn't any more then my one chance will have expired. There is nothing more for us after. Maybe this will disappoint some people and I can sympathise if it does. However, I have this curious sensation that it's this one conviction that is keeping me here. If I thought I was moving on to something better then maybe I'd be gone already. But is nothing better or worse than this?

Do you think it's fair to leave everyone who cares? Everyone who would be devastated by your absence. The domino effect could be more staggering than is possible to predict. You might not be taking only yourself off. Can you justify bringing them down to where you are? Seems to me this is not how you have lived thus far, Ciaran. But of course you know how much that need to help fix other people is another symptom of what's got you here. Perhaps this ultimate act of selfishness is merely selfishness long overdue.

This soliloquising like Hamlet is my daily bread at the moment. Often the only interlocutor in my discussions is myself so it's important I try to look at things as objectively as possible. Not an easy task but I must continue. If the cataclysmic finale is ever too occur prematurely I'd like everyone to know that I can see all the things I'd be leaving behind. All the people I love infinitely more than I will ever love myself. The beautiful sensations on earth that only humans are lucky enough ever to comprehend. The hopes for a time when things may seem better for me. All of this and more I couldn't bare to live without. But living with them can be a difficult task too. I don't want anyone to think I didn't realise how lucky I am. I won the lottery when I was born. The problem is that even with that being said I'm still not happy. I might never be. I think I am just a sad person.

Behind the Fossette

It was by mere chance that I was born this way. There was no divine plan, no omnipotent overseer of my fate. It seems to me to be a ludicrous pretension that any heavenly king would have the remotest interest in any one of us. But that's just me. The odds of my existence at all are severely negligible. The combination of factors leading to my appearance on earth, from the cosmos exploding into life to the chance moment of conception, are so unlikely to have lined up with such definite perfection that I might be forgiven for believing my life was not only an accident. Perhaps even some part of me wants to believe I am here for a reason (everybody likes to be needed). But it's clear to me that there never was any plan for me being here, even if there are any number of reasons for me to stick around. It was nothing but an accident, and in my present state of mind I see it as a rather unhappy one.

Strangely, my implacable godlessness has in my happier moments had the effect of stirring something like true wonder and awe inside me. The world is a beautiful place, what does it matter to put a label on a maker when we can't ever possibly know? I don't need false piety to exert twisted morals on me so that I know the right thing to do. I'm still a good person. I know what is right without having to be told. I try to look out for friends even when it takes more from me than I can really afford to give. The most enduring effect of my Roman Catholic upbringing was undeniably a poisonous lie. The feeling of guilt so intertwined with all christian theology has left a lasting impression on my personality. I am predisposed to self-doubt and self-loathing among many other personal failings but throwing an unnecessary weight of guilt onto my shoulders for things I don't even believe are wrong is a sin I find unforgivable.

For about a month or more I have been holding back a leaky tap that disguises a waterfall of existential dread behind the fossette. Incrementally, my words are drying up as my days spent in bed become more frequent. God can't help me. No-one can. Not that I am contemplating suicide at this moment. Maybe if I had the conviction that I really had nothing I wanted to stick around for or wasn't grasping at something I can't grip. Maybe then I might have gone ahead and done the job already. On that point however, the knowledge that when I am dead and gone means just that, and not an eternal sleepover at a celestial retirement village fills me up with excited certainty that life needs to be lived all the more intensely now.

All I really feel I know now is how much I dislike this improbable collection of genes and protein cells. I'm not sure what it is I wanted to be but it is not this. It occurred to me today that one of the most evil long-term effects of depression on me has been the absolute and final destruction of any shred of true inner confidence I might have had. The outward show is only an act. As it happens, put on more for myself rather than anyone else. If I decline further inwards then I return to a useless waste. I will cease to improve but regress. I won't be a good friend, although I am beginning to feel like I give more than I get anyway. My brain will turn to mush and I will return to the days of crying at soap plot-lines hiding in my bedroom. It's already started.

It was suggested to me that I don't want help. Implying my depression is contrived, I assume to exude pathos. It seems an unfair criticism to someone who has spent his entire life considering how to be at least contented. I have lost count of the number of doctors waiting rooms, anti-depressants and therapy sessions I have had. The number of self-help books I've been through to find the treasure map to confidence. You may laugh but I've even gone to the bible for answers (there weren't any). If I were in complete denial I might claim there was no truth to the charge, but we both know better.

It is a shame that we only experience the world from inside our own bodies cage. Perhaps if I could interchange the senses of others with my own I might find myself not thinking as I do. Maybe in a far off evolution. As it is I am stuck with myself. On the flip-side we should be grateful that no-one else is.

Anyway, I guess I have spilled over enough for one evening. It is approaching quarter past two in the morning and I want a cigarette.

I should finish by crediting Christopher Hitchens with helping to put a lot of these ideas in my head. Unfortunately his effect on me was posthumous but nonetheless impressive for it

sixty-nine being nothing but a number

Bend over and twerk me, force me down and hurt me. Straddle me, get on your knees for me. Stimulate or tease me. Stammer out the words s,s,s,s,sixty-nine? if you resist it will be the only time. Degrade yourself to please me. In the moment you belong to me.

That is what I want.

I trust you were happy to allow to me to park all of my trademark sensitivity for a moment. It's still here of course but right now it is being steamrollered into submission by my selfish sexual appetite, animal noises and filthy fantasies.

All men have secrets and here is mine, so let it be known. I want to rut with her. I want to lay with that girl. I think I even want to make love to some of them. I'm telling you I don't want sex with one person, I want sex with literally millions of people. Why should I limit myself? I'm not sure I've got the stamina to reach the full seven figures but when there are men so old that they need scaffolding to maintain their erections still having sex, I'm happy that at least time is on my side.

For any women readers out there who might pretend to think I'm crazy when I talk about the scale of the male sex drive I will try to illuminate my point a little. Every single day I'm faced with new people coming into contact with me or cutting across my eye-line. I am always going to have an initial instinctive reaction like, 'what are they doing here?' or 'what can they do for me?'. Now here is the controversial bit. With every single one of those people my first instinct is to ask a question: 'Can I fuck it?'. Assuming an affirmative answer, a second, and potentially more important question is posed: 'Would I fuck it?'. You might be surprised how often the second question returns a yes.

It's in our nature, all of us, to want sex. To want good sex, with the people we're attracted to. Even at inappropriate times and places. Unfortunately, at some point this fact seems to have gotten perverted to the point where it is dangerous to admit the truth. We all get horny sometimes!

It's degenerated to the stage now were a man can claim an addiction to sex for compelling him to cheat on his wife. It's not Tiger's fault, he has a medical condition. It was the same for Michael Douglas. He didn't want to have sex with all of those beautiful and willing ladies. It was simply a case of a relentless addiction taken hold. My opinion on all of this is a little different to the conventional. If these guys are sex addicts because they wanted to have sex with a seemingly endless line of women the I'm sorry to say that almost all men are sex addicts. I'm a sex addict. My friends are sex addicts. Your boyfriend is a sex addict. The difference between men like Tiger Woods and an average Joe is availability and risk assessment. Be realistic guys, if you had drunken women throwing themselves at you like you were a premiership footballer do you think you wouldn't try to have your cake. Most normal guys also have to consider whether it's worth the risk to lose out on the regular sex in exchange for the possibility of some extra sex.

Girls! Girls! listen to me. Your virtue doesn't lie between your legs. It lies in the better part of you. The bits that make up the person you really are. So, take this as a call to arms because I'm not going to judge you. Girls! If you feel like you want to have sex then why don't you just go ahead and do. Do it as often as you like. Ya wee skitter!

The truth is, it's the constant search for all the sex I can find that's really been holding me back all this time. Here I am blaming it all on drinking and depression when perhaps the problem is that I drink to give me the confidence to go chasing ass and then get super depressed with everything when it doesn't happen.

If I were truly in love with someone. Then maybe things would be different.

fatal addiction

I am definitely addicted to sadness in the way Gotye say in that song. Things have been going good for me the last few months by any measurement but how long can that ever last. There is no middle ground for me. It's euphoria or depression. Live or die. When you leave one of your best friends house, having not seen her for months, feeling like crying then you know it is going to be difficult not to slip. I had forgotten what it was like to really want to die. Today I'm starting to remember a little.

But like I say, I'm addicted to sadness. I go looking for things to make me feel that way. There is something in me that needs it constantly. If I'm not sad, I'm delusional. Which is better? Last night I went looking for it, knowing I would find it. Knowing that I wasn't likely to hear what i thought I wanted to hear. Should have left when things were going good. Shouldn't  ever be allowed to use my phone after midnight.

It's not always that i want what i can't have. Sometimes it's simply that i cant have what i really really want.

And now it looks like I've got to do something I don't ever want to do because it seems like the only option. I'm unbelievably upset about it but I guess that is what i went looking for.

I have been waiting in the van my whole life. Procrastinating, formulating, dissecting and projecting my emotions onto others who don't need it. Oscillating, prozac taking, smile faking and hospital waiting rooms that only seem to help for a little while. Down one road or another it always leads back to my lonely room and feeling like i'm not ever happy because I don't want myself to be. I've put so much conscious effort into being happy that now I'm just exhausted and need to be myself for a while.

Here I am, back to being my own interlocutor in almost all of my conversations. Some people might thing I am quiet and I am. The thing is though, I think I'm talking more than anyone, it's  just that I'm only talking to myself.

I bring about sadness in people around me. There is something in me that teases out the real heartaches in my friends lives. I don't know why but it feels like that stuff just orbits around me. The rest are having fun talking and laughing and having the craic but when it's me with someone I find a way of directing the traffic to the bad things that don't get talked about so often.

My name is Ciaran and I am an addict...

Saturday Night

How are you all? I hope you're feeling good. Saturday night! Are you feeling in a bit of a party mood tonight? I hope you are. Going out and having a drink and a dance. I think that's what they invented these weekends for. Out tonight girls? Yeah I know, I can see you've got the legs out. Now, don't be blaming them lads when they are chasing you later. It's all good tonight. You say you are all feeling good? Feeling like tonight's the night and all that. Good I'm glad. I hope you're all in a party mood tonight!

I'm not in a party mood. No I am not. Not going anywhere tonight. That's just how I want it tonight because I just don't have it in me to do the saturday night out thing this time. Oh if you had seen me one week ago you might think there would never be a day I wouldn't want to be out. I was pretending to be happy then. But that was then and this is now and I'm not really pretending anymore.

I am tired. No, tired doesn't quite do it. I'm exhausted. Totally drained of energy like I've been on a crash diet for a month. I can't get out of bed in the morning, can't sleep at night. In between making a cup of tea is about as productive as I've been this week. At the moment I'm still dreaming big but I can't follow through. I want to, I really do but I feel weak like a cancer patient. If they gave out prizes for all the things I'm going to do...

It's entirely my own fault. There is no self pity here this time. I did this. What this is, is the physical symptoms of depression leading from the front and dragging all the other stuff willingly along for the ride. No sympathy this time because I new it would return. Perhaps I even encouraged a backlash as I taunted myself with more and more booze. I'm not going to lie and say the last month or so drinking on the weekends hasn't been fun. It has, sometimes even too much fun. But it was fun I knew I would have to pay the price for somewhere down the line.

I don't regret it, even if I probably should have rested a week or too early. Not regretting it means it will happen again. Continually. And with that comes this feeling of wanting to put my head through a mincing machine. So, I can't feel sorry for myself and neither should anyone else. I was in control of this thing and I relinquished it in the name of drinking and fun. And when I'm back in charge of myself I'll do it all again.

There is more to putting and end to the self-pity though. My life is not really that bad and my problems aren't shit. Nothing that bad has ever happened to me so I can't sit hear feeling sorry for myself. Not when I can see the sadness in other peoples eyes 100 million times worse than in my own. Something happened last week that makes me very sad. But it give me a little perspective on myself. I'll tell you a bit...

You don't ever want to see a coffin being carried by one man. Chances are he is carrying his own child. His own little baby.

She was stillborn on Tuesday. Blessed and buried on Wednesday. Loved everyday before and since. There she was in her mummy's arms, a little bundle of human perfection that doesn't get the chance to be anything but perfect. I've never had a child, not sure that I ever will. I can only imagine the heady euphoria of it all. Couldn't even begin to explore the crushing devastation of losing a child.

I catch myself glancing at photographs of Aine and Grace lying together in their hospital bed. I take glances because I can't properly focus on the scene. It's too much reality for me. It makes me feel a little ill.

In the church two scenes compete to attract my eyes. One is the tiny white coffin with a baby inside. The other is her tearful parents consoling each other. I'm a little teary eyed but I'm holding. I don't want to cry here. Watching Neil and my Dad lowering the coffin into the ground I feel a little detached from it all. Like I'm watching television with the sound off. When the prayers are finished I line up to hug my sister like everyone else. I guess I done my duty but it felt completely inadequate. If being there was all I could do was I really doing anything at all.

That was a humbling experience. My problems aren't nothing. They are very real and maybe even potentially fatal. But how can I ever feel sorry for myself again when that little baby didn't get the chances I have?

Even more humbling than any of that though, was this one text message I received from a woman who had just buried her little baby girl barely an hour before. If the other stuff couldn't force the tears from my eyes this would. Aine wrote:

" Hey lil bro, r u ok? Sorry didn't get chance to talk to you at the grave.. but if you find things hard to deal with and need some1 to talk to im always here for u..ok, don't be getting too down, I know it's easier said than done! xx "

 That one doesn't get deleted. 

Imagine my face in the first 5 seconds of a bungee jump

I want to do things. Somethings and nothings. Good things and bad things. Important things and damn stupid things. Everything really. So why is that I'm sitting here feeling like I've done absolutely nothing at all. Procrastination has become a lifetime habit I'm going to attempt to assail.

Today I have that massively overused quote in my head. The one that says life is what happens when you're busy making plans. Actually, I think it's time somebody came up with a new quotation to get the point across. Anyway, it does sound a lot like the title of my autobiography. But then everybody does it. Nobody more than me. I love to dream. All the extraordinary things I am going to do when...

Allow me to wander through a small sample of the things I've always said I would like to do. Learn a second language. Alternately Spanish, Polish and Italian. Start a band. Visit every country in Europe. Travel the the rest of the world(except Australia). Become a genuine PUA. Reach my peak fitness. Start speaking my mind, regardless. Finish reading every single word on my bookshelf. Bungee jump or skydive. Start volunteering some place where I can at least try to help other people.

That last paragraph is less than a drop in the ocean. Sure I have made attempts to start some of the things I want to do. Have a few European countries ticked off and even began learning some languages. The problem is the amount of time I have spent trying to make these things happen is nothing in comparison to the time spent talking about it, thinking about it or imagining it. It's obvious that I spend too much time thinking and reflecting on things. That is a big part of it but not the whole story. It's the sheer lack of action that is really hurting. If you don't go for the things you want you just end up with what falls your way. So don't complain when it's not what you thought it might be.

Thinking about all the things holding me back I wonder if they're not all excuses. I feel like I have always struggled under the burden of being the youngest child. People who aren't the baby of the family won't get this. Carrying around this guilt that if I leave the house for good I would be signalling the beginning of the end for my parents. I left the house. I came back. I felt guilty for leading my own life. But really, was that not an excuse so I could slip back to my comfort zone with no pressure to do things for myself. It seems likely to me now.

Money or lack of it could be used as a reason not to have done some of the things I wanted to. Travelling costs money. Looking at that and being honest though, I would say I could easily find the money if I tried to save properly and stopped spending on random nonsense like a book on how to save that turned out to be another terrific waste of money. Another excuse.

I use my family, my depression, my romantic interests and fear of disapointment to retreat from endeavor. Why try anything when I have all these other things to deal with? Wouldn't it be better to wait until my life is absolutely perfect before I start shooting for the stars?

You may have guessed that the above was a rhetorical question. Or you may not. Anyway, it is pretty clear to me right now that waiting for the right time is absolutely the wrong thing to do. I need to go out and really struggle for the things I want. Otherwise I'm just wasting time and not really having fun wasting it. Sometimes I think about using depression as a catalyst. What I mean is I know I'm going to sink into a severe depression once more in the future. It's odds on. I'm looking at that and telling myself that it is all the more reason to do the things that I want to now, when I have the capability.

When it comes to those last few days when I can write the school report on this lifetime it  would be nice if I could say I at least tried to do all the things I wanted to. Regret the things you haven't done, not the the things you wish you hadn't. Up until now almost all my regrets are for the things I haven't done. Oh well, can't go back now but maybe I can start doing the things instead of just thinking about things.

The foot in my ass needs to be my own

I woke up this morning like everyone else in Ireland. With the sun illuminating my bedroom, stirring up a heatwave that we all long for eleven months of the year. I can do anything I want today. Anything!

The thing is though, I just want to close the blinds, crawl under the sheets and disappear from it all. Depression has washed over my entire body. I feel sick to the stomach. Helpless. Hopeless. Not in depair yet but it is going to take work to hold it back. Where has this come from? It's been maybe the worst year of my life but I've been pretty happy for the last month or so. Even if I didn't believe that myself, there are enough other people telling me I'm my old self again to make it true. It was good while it lasted.

I'm lying there in bed with two choices. Retreat or attack. Surrender or fight. One means doing what I've always done and let the depression own me again. It means giving myself an excuse to fail. A reason to stay in bed and avoid reality. A chance to imagine what I could do instead of having a go. To be honest, that's what I want to do. Reach for the cigarettes, sleep and sad songs.

The second option is a little harder to define. Obviously if I'm to stay and fight It's going to take some constructive action on my part. Trying to figure out what that is makes staying in bed today seem like the only realistic way to proceed. But I'm trying to change that negative pattern of thinking. I've been going to see a mental health nurse for the past two months because I was so under the influence of depression it was making me climb dangerously close to the ledge and jumping. I'm not there today. She's been trying to put it into my head that when I wake  up feeling like I do today that I just have to do something. Anything that isn't what I've always done. It will probably be painful but it's the only way to keep me from getting back up on that ledge.

Today doing something or anything means I dragged myself out of bed. Had breakfast. Took my bike out for a cycle. Avoiding going to the shop for cigarettes. Getting on here to write this. I'll go to work later and talk to people and laugh. I am going to finish a book I've been reading. I know it doesn't seem like much but when one day in bed can turn into two months of avoidance and desperation it could be a small step to saving my life.
I'm always clinically depressed, even when I'm laughing and joking. Even when I'm focused and determined. Even when I'm so outwardly confident that picking up girls in nightclubs is the easiest thing in the world again. I'm only a mishap away from falling back again. You can forget how bad the depression can get. Like today, most people would find it difficult to remember just how cold it can get in Ireland in winter. With me in good spirits, it's very hard to look back and feel empathy with the way I felt when all I could think about was dying. I have to keep reminding myself to remind myself to be careful.

I was writing something the other day about needing someones foot in my ass to keep me moving in the right direction. It's true. I do. I went for three days at the weekend without feeding any of my prescribed anti-depressants into my body while I absolutely saturated it with alcohol, a depressant. So, I really can't crawl around in bed all day wallowing in self pity anymore. It was my own choice. It seems the foot in my ass really needs to be my own.

Todays been good

Dug out this old thing I wrote down a few months ago. I don't feel like this today at all, but It's important to remember where I've been so I can focus on not going back there.To be honest I'm having a good day. Cycled this morning, did some reading and worked on some other stuff I had to do. Actually started looking into some charities to volunteer for too because someones gone and put the idea into my head. I even had time to write a love song. Okay, that last one was obviously a big lie. Not that I haven't done that before.

Here it is. Probably with spelling mistakes and bad grammar. I don't care.

Do I have an affection for depression? I always looked on it as something edgy and cool. Marlon  Brando behind a cigarette, like it was the depression that might get me the girls. Up until now I thought for the most part it was a chemical problem. But it's not. There are some deep rooted anxieties lying within me. I'm not living, I'm breathing. That is the difference.

I sympathize with some of the character traits of my depressed self. I take some morbid joy in the way it makes me feel about people. Usually love interests. I project myself as the dark hero in a story of unrequited love or passion. But it's not the way things are. That's a transcendental perception of my illness. It doesn't stem from a spiritual desire to monopolize pain to spare others. It's a fatalistic outlook. A way of viewing life as starving me of essential nourishment.

People say you control your own destiny but that is not entirely right. We are what we are when we're born, not a blank canvas to be painted in the fashion of our desires. We all have basic functional abilities that get developed unconciously through young life. So to say I can be whatever I want doesn't work for me. The best way I can attempt to emphasize the point is to say I can't be you, I can only be me.

Of course there are many threads interwoven together to make up the complete picture. I'd take up on such a thread as my childhood. We grow up reading about people reminiscing about happy childhood memories. Christmas, birthdays or summers. But for me I don't remember ever being a happy child. In fact, I don't have that many memories of my youth and any that I do, tend to have negative connotations. I have read that people with strong memories of their childhood tend to be those with positive and happy memories. For instance, I remember when I was around 10 years old that I cried because I didn't want to get older. Already frightened by the future without really understanding why.

Another factor in my story, although a few puberty affected years later, is my absolute certainty that I was clinically depressed by my mid teens. The first thing I did after school was to sleep for hours on end. I was always smart but really an underachiever. I got into mild trouble. Spending hours walking in biblical rainstorms was another favourite of mine. Never went to discos. Played golf with the men instead of the boys my own age. I look back on that time with a huge amount of regret that it wasn't detected then. How was I to know? I thought I was just of a sullen disposition. I needed help then but never recieved the succour I craved.

I shouldn't blame others for that though. I would have tried to hide it, I'm sure. But a large part of the pain is the time wasted between then and now. I really am no further on. It's said that the most long lasting and vivid memories elderly people hold onto are of the time of their late teens and early twenties. I'm not sure I have any that can withstand the passage of time. Would I have been happier if I had never been born? All I can say for sure is that I would have preferred to have never been born than to have to kill myself. But who's to say what that even means. I don't know what, if anything, lies beyond the borders of that first and last breath.

Prozac with a sprinkling of tequila

Maybe I need someone's foot in my ass. Or somebody to shake the shit out of me. Obviously there's potential rumbling around inside me creating thunderstorms but so far I just haven't been able to convert it. I'm acutely aware that it's down to me now. I get that in a philosophical way. But in a practical sense I have no real idea what I want to do. Where do I take myself and all my potential?  Apparently sitting around waiting for something perfect to come up and slap me in the face is a long odds game.

I'm a week away from what we hope will be my last ever appointment at a mental health clinic. A big part of me is going to miss it because over the weeks as comfort has built up I found myself more and more able to say what I really want to. I could keep going there forever and shooting the breeze but as I said, It's up to me now. The sole protector of my own destiny and happiness.

Helps to have someone to tell you your shit stinks without them having any preconceived ideas of who you are and what you're supposed to act like. She can tell me to stop putting some people up on a pedestal because I think they're so much better than I am. She tells me that I'm really quite a normal person but that I let a small part of my personality, i.e. depression, become the dominant factor in my whole movie show. That I give no credit to anything that I've ever been able to do is pretty obvious so when I'm forced to slightly change my perspective it I can sort of see that I'm not completely useless. J told me one thing on friday that I already knew. When I allow myself to drink like I always have done and find myself staring at a pavement wanting to crash into it from height, I have to stop taking the easy option to feel sorry for myself by blaming it all on the depression. In those worst cases there is only one thing to blame. Alcohol makes me want to die sometimes.

So why do I still do it? I drink for fun, amongst other things. So, although I am trying to reduce my alcohol intake, I have been crying out for some fun. So last week I went on a two day binge drinking bender with absolute conviction that I was going to have fun. After all I had managed a month since my last episode.

Three prozac, cocktails, beer and shots shouldn't sound like a good mix for any normal person.  Especially to a man trying to stop his propensity for depression being submerged by a tide of tequila. But it does sound like a good mix to me and last weekend it certainly certainly was. Four lads, away from home, off the leash and all on tip-top form is a michelin star recipe for a cracking weekend. And it was. Whether it was taking over the stage playing wonderwall with a random older woman from Derby. Falling in love with a nurse, whose name it transpired later, you didn't even know. Trying to learn a mixture of Spanish and Italian from the babe in the smoking room. Going home with a girl to a house in the middle of Belfast and wanting to cry because you left the ten pack of condoms in the car. Dolling that 40 year old woman just because you can. Or, in my case, almost being eaten by her mate kissing me like a pterodactyl. Being cockblocked by the campest of camp hotel receptionists. Chatting to a lovely looking maths teacher and deciding that the best course of action was to tell her that you too were a maths teacher. Primary five maths co-ordinator in fact. Deciding you didn't want to text a girl amymore because she spelt the word nothing wrong. Threatening to call the police on the hotel receptionist because you think he is holding your bags hostage.

Funny thing is, that's not even half of it. Just imagine the bits we can't remember...

I would like to take this opportunity to say thank you to the alcohol. Just this once, mind you. But you definitely had a big part in making a good weekend happen. Do me one last favour? Lets all have a big performance in Edinburgh next weekend so I can come home with some stories for on here.

Back to the original point though, because it's so easy to overlook how things could have gone the other way. The path where I find myself staring into the Lagan, weighing up my options again. Because that's just it. Things can so easily flip for me that I need to be really careful. I need to be properly looking after myself from now on. It's no good falling back on the old excuses anymore. If I want to put an end to the real sucidal danger, then at some point I am going to have to accept that I will have to drop the alcohol levels much closer to zero. Shame though, because I know I'm not nearly ready yet. I think that's why I might need that foot in my ass.

I've never dedicated anything to anyone before but it seems like a good place to start. My sister is going through a really hard time. I wish I could take it all on me, but I can't. That's probably one of the few admirable qualities of my depression, that I want to take everyone elses pain onto me. I hope things get better for you soon kid. I'm sorry I'm not as much help as I should be but I am here. This one, whatever it is, is for you princess.

I'm just fucking waffling now

Twenty-five. The number of days since I last allowed myself to have a drink. Jesus, I make myself sound like a park bench alcoholic on the run from years of special brew and cheap cider. I'm not by the way but I'm nowhere near ready to finish just yet.

I hate to admit it, but it is fair to say that those days added together see me in a better place than I was before. Not that they were twenty-five consecutive steps to where I am either. I've been riding on a high frequency sine wave of moods in that time and it only feels as if it's starting to flatline now.

There are definitely some serious benefits to this not drinking carry-on. I suppose most people would assume the obvious benefit would be improved physical fitness. Especially for a pints drinker. But for me up to this been point I haven't noticed significant gains. Then again I have been smoking quit a lot recently as a part of a coping mechanism but that's just a passing phase for me. Anyway the cigarettes are primarily used as an accessory for my leather jacket.

Been reading more in the last month. I love to read when I can so it's been a real positive to get back into it. It might be a little hard to see a correlation between drinking and not reading but with me a hangover means not being able to read for a week or more. Even if it's just a newspaper article, not that I read those at all anymore. If you get a chance read some of Richard Dawkins' books. I've just read The Selfish Gene and The God Delusion. Both excellent.
I would never have been the most faithful believer but the argument against a God and religion in The God Delusion is too compelling to ignore. Makes me angry some of the disgusting things done under the banner of religion. It is difficult for me to understand how humanity is so blinded by it all.

Whoa! I'm really leading myself off on a tangent there. It's like the group conversations I have with the boys. Somebody begins telling a story but half an hour later we've gone off in so many directions that we never got anywhere near the end of the original story.

Oh Yeah, so i have not touched a drop of the good stuff in twenty-five days. Now comes the revelation. I'm making a comeback this Friday. In Belfast. Returning to the scene of the crime so to speak. And it cannot come quick enough. I'm going to enjoy this one...

Wasn't all bad

Arctic Monkeys lyric from back in the day:

"Anticipation has a habit to set you up for disappointment in evening entertainment but tonight there'll be some love. tonight there'll be a rawkas yeah, regardless of whats gone before"

There is something in that I think. The anticipation building inside before a big night out, but like a rubber band, the greater the energy of the anticipation the more violent the returning force becomes. It's kind of how I feel about going out now. If I am really excited for it I want to drink. If I drink there is a good chance of the night leading to disappointment and depression.

Reflecting that I might have gone off course a little with the last couple of posts I thought this time I might try to stay on point. So where was I? Ah yes, attempting to drastically reduce my alcohol consumption, hoping that it might stop me feeling like I want to throw myself into carlingford bay.
       Last friday, hungover and on a massive downer, I stood there in Belfast considering whether or not I really do want to live. Like with most of my problems I am aware that the alcohol is a major factor in bringing out these thoughts but just knowing that ain't ever going to be enough to stop them.
       So now, a week later, somewhat refreshed and thinking with more clarity you might think I am certain to never drink again when I know the effects it can have on me. How could I ever want to feel that way again? I don't. Of course I don't. But that's not the reason I drink. When I think of drinking now it is only the good things that come to mind. Intoxication, laughs, confidence. Pure fun. The excitement rising to a crescendo as I enter the nightclub. Legs, breasts and ass. Fake tan and bleached blondes. Shots and cigarettes. Jesus, I'm getting pulling pants on just thinking about it.
       How could anyone not want to feel like that? I could go on feeling like that forever. I just can't continue to withstand the downers and depression and thoughts that I might just end it one day. I've had to grow up a bit I guess. Realise that if I was serious about getting help that I was going to have to put in the work myself. Can't keep doing what you've been doing Ciaran. Well you can but it is not going to be getting any better.
       I'm not angry with myself for drinking last week in the way that I was the next day. If anything it has helped me see once again that I can't keep overdoing it. Look on the bright side. So far I have had three nights out since starting this and I stayed sober twice. Nice one.
       Can't imagine myself ever not wanting to drink. Too many good memories to ignore. A personal favourite of mine was a friday evening pub crawl in Galway  with some of my best friends. I don't know how, but we found ourselves in the backroom of one of the pubs playing a very drunken game of djenga. I'd never played before but on this day that game was the most important thing in the world and it was epic! Following that diversion,Cooney(me), found my way over to a strip club with the help of my friend Barry. Yes, a strip club in Galway, Ireland. Needless to say with a lapdance costing over 100 euros neither of us had enough cash on us for anything like that. That is when the devil climbed up onto my shoulder to remind me of the debit card resting in my pocket. No stopping me now.
       Waking up to find a receipt from a gentlemans club with 120 euro on your bank card isn't as unpleasant as it sounds. Quite funny really. The others had a good chuckle anyways. So did I when I found the jeans I had been wearing the night before were as good as ruined because now they were covered in...fake tan. #WINNING

I think what I am saying is that I wouldn't change any of the stupid drunken things I have done in the past. Most of them were fun. Some are why I am friends with people. Now it's up to me to make some new stories in a different way if I can. Just won't ever forget what went before.