I've been running away, hiding from the truth, living in another reality only to be dragged back to this one. I did't even realise it's been 10 days since I last posted, I figured it would've just been about a week. Clearly not. Time has been rushing past so quickly, this exact time last month I would've been laying on a deck chair, soaking in way too much sun. Then soon I would be getting ready for dinner, and being utterly content.
The chatter of the locals and tourists alike contrasted beautifully with the conversations of the wind and waves. On one side of the hip-high wall you would have laughing, language and liveliness of the village. On the other side, the wall wouldn't be hip-high at all but easily 6 foot high - the sand would move effortlessly at any touch, the various colours melted together to create what looked like a starry night on the ground (due to the black sand) which melted into ever moving, musical waves. Standing there, letting the waves wash over my feet, I was calm. I was calm and collected. I didn't have any indecision. I knew what I wanted to do, and I done it. I didn't think "oh should I go back yet, or should I just stay here for a while longer". I stayed until it was time to go back. That time changed of course, but I knew what time. It felt nice. Good. Time didn't rush past, it didn't threaten the people and it didn't threaten me.
With the low hum of the constant moving of traffic here in England, it makes the waves seem even more distant. The idea that if you had a boat (and of course the proper sailing equipment and knowledge) that you could go anywhere, that instead of being deterred by the sea, you are the sea. The same could be said about cars, but cars eat money and excrete harmful gasses. Instead of feeling the grains of the black, sparkling sand in between my toes, I feel hard, cold concerete beneath my feet. I would be lying if I didn't say that time didn't scare me, because it does. Time, and consequently age and death, scared the living daylights out of me. It's like time moves as quickly and as slowly as traffic. Sometimes it'll go ridiculously quickly, others it will move at strolling pace. But the two get mushed together so much that I feel like I'm not even in it anymore. That I'm just a bystander. Watching as the traffic goes by. And I can't help it. I can't move into the road. I'm just walking along side everyone else, and anytime that I do go into the road I'm pushed right outside again. Exiled.
I didn't even know what this blog post was going to be at first. I thought it might've been about my indecisiveness, and it started out that way. I had a doctors appointment the day after I returned from Tenerife but I didn't go to it. I didn't even say I wasn't going to it. I got up to go to it. I got ready. I was about leave the door, but I just couldn't. I didn't know what to say because I don't what I'm feeling. 10 days ago I said I was going to kick my arse into gear and I haven't. I haven't gotten any more fitter, and I haven't gotten any more happier. (Saying this, I actually just called the doctors and scheduled in the only available appointment for 8th of September @ 9:40 - today is a good day). I know I'm going to continue writing this blog, I know I'm going to continue to listen to my saviour that is music, I know I'm feeling rather indecisive about almost everything but that's about all I know. The fact that I know that I don't know how I'm feeling is a little ironic, wouldn't you agree?
Thursday, 11 August 2011
Monday, 1 August 2011
Blog post number one
Blog post number one...
Don't really know what to say here... hello?
I've thought about what to do for a first blog post for a while. Months even. I've had several blogs but either never posted anything, or I forgot the name/password/email. The problem with me is: I'm lazy. I am fully aware of this. I've had depression for about 6 years now, and it's not that bad. I mean, it's not a walk in a lovely part of Hyde Park, no. It changes between months, some months it will be very bad and I won't see the point in anything, I won't care about many things, but others it will be very mild and it's like I'm almost normal. I'm due to go into counselling soon but I don't know what that's going to be like... I'm not the most talkative when it comes to me. And I've never really had to do it. (I am aware I don't "have" to do it now, but I think I want to). I've never really spoken about what made me depressed, maybe because it's too hard or maybe because I never thought anyone really cared enough to know.
Either way, I need to kick my arse into gear and actually do something about it. I've done it before, I've been so low I didn't think there was any point in anything, but I came back from that - it is possible. You see, my mum had a slight drinking problem (I say slight but it was slightly more than slight) and when she's drinking solitary she gets agressive. My dad didn't live with us and my sister was always of the house, I had to deal with her jibes and criticisms alone. I'm not looking for pity, that's if anyone is reading this. Which I highly doubt. I don't even know how this blogger website works. Silly I know.
In regards to my name: nameless wanderer. It feels like it suits. My real name doesn't really feel like it should be my name. I don't know why but when someone calls me by it, it just seems really out of place. But so does every other name I've come across. I'm just going to be nameless because that seems to suit more than anything else. For the latter part, I don't actually feel like I have a home where I live, but only when I'm moving, travelling, I feel at home. Which is a bit strange but that's just when I feel at peace and at home.
This blog is just of me, my highs, my lows, my adventures and, most likely, my annoyances. I was going to do it about my struggle with depression but depression is now such a deep part of who I am it would be hard to just separate that from other aspects. There is also more to me than depression, and I'd like to show that people with mental illnesses (although not 100% "normal") aren't soppy marshmallows, just shells of people. Obviously I've had depression for such a large amount of my life that I can't quite remember what it was like without depression and even so that wouldn't have counted because I was quite young. If there is anyone reading this, thank you. I hope it wasn't too boring, but if you got to this point you may have just liked it. I don't really know how you're meant to end these things... so I'll just end it here.
Don't really know what to say here... hello?
I've thought about what to do for a first blog post for a while. Months even. I've had several blogs but either never posted anything, or I forgot the name/password/email. The problem with me is: I'm lazy. I am fully aware of this. I've had depression for about 6 years now, and it's not that bad. I mean, it's not a walk in a lovely part of Hyde Park, no. It changes between months, some months it will be very bad and I won't see the point in anything, I won't care about many things, but others it will be very mild and it's like I'm almost normal. I'm due to go into counselling soon but I don't know what that's going to be like... I'm not the most talkative when it comes to me. And I've never really had to do it. (I am aware I don't "have" to do it now, but I think I want to). I've never really spoken about what made me depressed, maybe because it's too hard or maybe because I never thought anyone really cared enough to know.
Either way, I need to kick my arse into gear and actually do something about it. I've done it before, I've been so low I didn't think there was any point in anything, but I came back from that - it is possible. You see, my mum had a slight drinking problem (I say slight but it was slightly more than slight) and when she's drinking solitary she gets agressive. My dad didn't live with us and my sister was always of the house, I had to deal with her jibes and criticisms alone. I'm not looking for pity, that's if anyone is reading this. Which I highly doubt. I don't even know how this blogger website works. Silly I know.
In regards to my name: nameless wanderer. It feels like it suits. My real name doesn't really feel like it should be my name. I don't know why but when someone calls me by it, it just seems really out of place. But so does every other name I've come across. I'm just going to be nameless because that seems to suit more than anything else. For the latter part, I don't actually feel like I have a home where I live, but only when I'm moving, travelling, I feel at home. Which is a bit strange but that's just when I feel at peace and at home.
This blog is just of me, my highs, my lows, my adventures and, most likely, my annoyances. I was going to do it about my struggle with depression but depression is now such a deep part of who I am it would be hard to just separate that from other aspects. There is also more to me than depression, and I'd like to show that people with mental illnesses (although not 100% "normal") aren't soppy marshmallows, just shells of people. Obviously I've had depression for such a large amount of my life that I can't quite remember what it was like without depression and even so that wouldn't have counted because I was quite young. If there is anyone reading this, thank you. I hope it wasn't too boring, but if you got to this point you may have just liked it. I don't really know how you're meant to end these things... so I'll just end it here.
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