I love October. As both a die-hard fan of horror and an openly queer person, October is the month I often refer to as 'Gay Christmas': it's a time for weirdness and expression, something I celebrate in my everyday life but even more so around Halloween.
It will come as a surprise to nobody that I was excited for October this year, yet it didn't turn out the way I hoped it would. In fact, October was possibly the worst month of 2019 for me.
Let's rewind. In September, I managed to grab a job as a retail assistant. Up until that point, I'd been unemployed for three years (following a very embarrassing incident at my last job combined with an enormous mental breakdown and relapse into alcoholism). So, knowing I had finally managed to become employed and be self-sufficient gave me the boost I needed to keep on truckin'...yeah, that lasted all of two weeks.
Unfortunately, I spent 2019 so focused on completing my degree, so focused on worming my way out of the debt university/bills had put me into, that I had neglected to take care of my mental health. I suffer from "severe depression", which means that I cannot function in the same way that a neurotypical person can: I often refuse to eat, get out of bed, shower, speak to people and generally live like a 'normal' human being because of my mental illness. So suddenly plunging myself into a job, even a part-time one, was probably not my brightest idea.
Nevertheless, I put on that godforsaken uniform, put on my determined goggles and set forth into the ludicrous world of capitalism and minimum wage. For a while, I was fine. In fact, I was surprisingly good at my job, something I hadn't expected going into it. My colleagues were wonderful and understanding people and, for the most part, the customers weren't that bad (I'd heard many horror stories of retail prior to getting the job).
After a fortnight, however, I realised something was wrong. Getting up became more difficult, holding back tears whilst stacking shampoo on the shelves became impossible, and I would regularly have meltdowns wherein I'd shut myself in a cubicle upstairs to have panic attacks. It became so bad that, on my penultimate shift, I found myself looking down at the box-cutter I was using to unpack laundry detergent and thought I'm perfectly content to drive this thing through my face.
On my last shift, I had such a psychotic break that I spent two hours in the staff room, bawling my eyes out, struggling to breathe, panicking over my situation. I needed the money but I knew in my heart that I wasn't able to do it anymore. And with that, I resigned.
Quitting my first job in three years was one of the toughest decisions I've ever had to make. There was a gigantic risk in doing so, because I needed money to self-sustain and pay my rent, but I knew Universal Credit was an option and, despite it completely crushing my pride, I knew that I had to do it that way.
Fast forward to the week I've just had. The council are messing myself and my housemate around, sending me in circles for documents and evidence that I either can't access or is incorrect. My university kicked me off the surgery registry to make way for new students and I'm having a difficult time re-registering elsewhere because of documents and my medication (I take sertraline, an antidepressant) has run out. Plans have been cancelled, hopes have been crushed, and I'm left sitting here in the evenings wondering why I'm even trying anymore.
Here's the thing. I am naturally hard-wired to be despondent; pessimism is the drug I've been taking since birth. So, to an outsider, my situation probably looks like an utter shit-show and you'd be amiss if you thought I was handling it well (even with the aid of medication). But it's times like these that I think it's important to take a step back.
Severe depression clouds your judgement. It's incredibly hard, sometimes impossible, to remain objective in the face of dire situations. It's a tool that you have to practise and utilise when and where you can, though most people I know tend not to because it's "too difficult". I understand that but look at it this way: there's no harm in trying, and if things still go wrong, at least you can say you did everything you could.
That's how I'm looking at October. Things aren't resolved right now, and they probably won't be for a while, but I take any energy I have and I push it into problem solving. That might mean some days I don't leave the flat. It might mean I forget to eat lunch, then dinner. It might mean I smoke entirely too much and scratch my throat. However, I'd rather take those punches than the feeling of failure, the feeling of defeat or acknowledging that my mental illness has bested me.
I wound myself up so much this week that I became physically ill. I felt vulnerable, angry, confused by the state of this country's system and its lack of empathy towards people like myself. Yet I know sitting and complaining will not change my circumstance: it will only add fuel to the melancholic fire that's spreading across my brain.
My tip for the day is simply look at the little things. I finished a jumper today: it's ugly, it's ill-fitting, it's terrible crochet but I did it. I phoned various people to sort out my situation, and despite not getting the answers I needed, I can say I tried because I phoned them in the first place. I got up today: that in itself is the biggest accomplishment you can ever achieve in your day-to-day life.
Find something. Anything. The smallest thing, whether that be making a cup of tea, texting your friend, watching one YouTube video and spacing out for the rest of the day. Nobody is making you run a marathon all at once and don't let anybody push you into doing more than you're able to.
- K
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