All I wanted was to run away from all of it. But wherever I ran, I was still running into the same truth: I was mentally ill. I was on medication. I wasn’t okay. Wherever I ran, I ran into that fact over and over again: I wasn’t okay.
This blog was a last-ditch attempt at sanity. In the months before my medication truly settled I found myself desperate for a narrative. In a moment of not-recommended personal fury, I referred myself to that old TV show cliché that Counsellors in psychiatric institutions often ask patients to write out their feelings. The last time I had undertaken this task had been a fitful three weeks from initial hypothesis to medical diagnosis in which I vainly hoped that I might virtuously pray/write my way out of the oncoming sentence. I still can’t bring myself to read it through.
Of course, the same thing happened again, and after the initial setting up this blog lay dormant. Occasionally it was pumped with an injection of creativity and thought, but most of the time I stayed away. I was still working out what it means to be living this way, and getting used to the idea that it might be okay to confess it in the world and be heard. This was a little black corner of the internet where nameless faces and screens come and look and read, maybe, but overall the words simply hung out there in the blackness. Just having said them made feel a bit better. From my point of view, on the edge of Scotland where almost no one really is, it was totally unseen.
But it’s been a while now and I’ve developed respect and trust with some of the people who read this blog, people I am likely never to meet who’s friendship extends out to me from across the internet. I am forever grateful for their support. I also made the decision to open the blog up to my friends and family in an attempt to be more honest and open about what I struggle with, and maybe help some other people to do that too.