BenedictThibodea

Do n't Be Afraid to Ask

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When I made a grand for every time that I heard the phrase "somebody is it worse than you," I probably would not be writing this. I'd be on an island somewhere with no internet without the arseholes and alive like a king dressed like Robinson fucking Crusoe!

Yes there are people who have it worse than I do, however there is nothing I can do for them when the destructive tide of my mental illness sweeps me up and awakens my helpless mind against the eroding stones of my destroyed life. Think about that for a moment. As analogies go, that's almost just like beating a homeless man to death with a suitcase full of cash. That's actually not far in the present tone from which society sets its own criteria.

But it's not that the planet depresses me. It does, but it's not the main reason for my illness. Some individuals are just built wrong. Their biological contraptions are not made to last or they endure faulty wiring. I guess the latter is me personally and consequently I probably care more than I need to once I have it in me to care. But depression for one is not just about feeling awful. Most frequently I believe nothing at all other than a continuous feeling like I am being crushed gradually to death.

And the funny thing about living with depression and anxiety is that everything breaks all at one time, both your mind and your body endure the same aching sense of hopelessness and the longer you live with it, the harder it is for messages for back and forth between both. I am a zombie.

I'm barely over thirty and I have lived with it because my last years in high school. Until recently there was not much that didn't function. Most of the time that I felt like a hot corpse, wearing down the terrifying novelty of carrying up so much of my mum's money, patience, time and space. And then on the better days I felt like I was twenty to thirty years old before my time.

Merely to give you a good idea about what I've lived with since my mid-teens, I've been suicidal off and on; thankfully mostly off, in terms of urges. A few days your brain has a voice of its fuck tube own and your emotions look utterly alien. If you don't do what that person says, it is going to try to find a means to behave without your collaboration and that's a scary thing - especially when it shows you precisely how helpless you are against it.

Then there are the suicidal days where it isn't an urge or a voice but less or more a sense of fatigue so good that you don't possess the will to rationalise from the absurd. You just sort of shuffle around, accepting that it is not likely to finish well, and you let it eat at you as you haven't even the capability to make choices. You may die and not give a damn and which would be no major loss.

Hearing about folks who have it worse does not make me want to fucking smile. Should you feel differently, then obviously the wrong guy got ill!

If this account of recent events sounds disjointed or dispassionate, please allow me to assure you that this is not my aim and it certainly isn't laziness. However, I wanted to let you know about something that happened between me and my sister Eve.

Admittedly it is a tiny weird one, but hey, that's Eve; my lovely human being of a sister!

I could inform you about everything made me such a way. That might have a whole university research in itself in medicine and psychology, but because my immune system became perilously near non human as of late and hospital tests resulted in the discovery that the same goes for the majority of my hormones.

I could barely get it up to get most of my thirties. Each the antidepressants left my behaviour pretty unpredictable and sometimes harmful, so we had to try to find another route. Testosterone treatment left me violent also, so gradually I simply slunk back into exactly the exact same routine of living in a darkened corner so not to drain anymore of mum's savings, what was abandoned.

Eve didn't just hate to watch me like that. She was fearful. Five years ago among the closest friends, from the blue, threw herself to oncoming traffic. That put Eve to a depression but the tablets worked to her. I was not bitter in any way. I was grateful that using the mourning process leading up to and coming from the funeral, she managed to recover within a matter of weeks. However, in all honesty knowing that she desired me shut and really having the ability to help her made me feel somewhere closer to ordinary for a little while.

All of my life I've only ever cared for Eve so much that I could tell her that I love her and believe that it signifies something. I tell mum the same but - and this may appear odd considering - she's just mum. We've grown up with a regular of places and times when it was polite to say "love you, mum..."

With Eve, I inform her if I feel she and it does exactly the exact same. We have always been close. Some think we have always been closer than most siblings, in spite of the fact that we rarely hang out socially (I'm the only person as you can probably imagine).

So I couldn't bear to see her so upset, realizing that there was nothing that she can do. But being that I fought urges that I did not want and refused to take, I had to be brutally honest with her at some point or another. Her buddy might have been helpless against her struggle, but for whatever the reason, she dropped the ball. Not that I phoned her selfish for it. However, it wouldn't have been selfish to ask for help either. Eve owed her nothing.

What mattered to me then was that I'm there for her where most other family would keep their distance and to wait for communication to happen rather than to direct her through her mourning. As a part of me thought, if a friend might have such impact, then what would I have done for her had I taken my own life?

We spent some three weeks leaning on each other, phasing in and out of consciousness during the dark days and bad weather. I let her cry on my shoulder until I had been damp with saltwater, until the mourning itself became too much. Soon enough it was the right time to go and to proceed for her own sake.

But she wasn't pleased about leaving me, as she set it. I agreed that it wasn't reasonable that she could recover so easily and that I couldn't, but what could we do? We might happen to be peas in a rabbit however she had been the best one. She said she would do anything for me.

Putin let us down on those army distribution drops we requested for. So I was not going to become a millionaire fuck tube any time soon. I asked her to quit being so clever and really go get a job in KFC therefore she could bring me chicken every evening. In all honesty, she wouldn't have suited the top and cover anyway, not after I have seen her at a bear onesie.

Eve is just five years younger than me and carries a few added pounds, however in all the perfect ways. She is the best for cuddles, that I never got enough of, before I get to where this story's led. She is well endowed (F cups I think) and kept her coating of puppy fat and made it work to her benefit.

She's a long-haired brunette, likes to wear her hair up and retains a light tan during the year and she's got the friendliest smile and brown eyes which have been off limits to me. I love her dearly and it's always hurt me more to understand they are wasted on this stupid illness.

I frequently feel as though she must do it for me personally, and worry that she is left feeling that she fails me when out her and joyful love for me simply does not do the trick. I am a terrible brother!
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