Writing a journey in retrospect.

Writing a journey in retrospect isnt writing a journey. It is writing the ideals of a destination reached.





I am referencing here my mental health journey.


I dont want to write about how I conquered my depression, my anxiety or the crippling emotional and physical lethargy that comes with that one I have. That wouldnt be a true map to recovery- it would presenting results or solutions without giving any sort of an idea about how hard the day to day actually is.

I think that that is extremely important. People only take in information if its memorable, and it's always more memorable if its relatable. I cant even relate myself today to myself a week ago, never mind me a year ago- so how would I expect this to truly resonate with anyone else unless it was authentic?

I wanted to start writing this before Christmas, when all of this was truly raw. The true realisation that I wasn't just down, this wasnt just circumstances. This is an uncontrollably stunted state of being. I knew if I started writing last week my sentences would be short. Angry. I could perhaps have written how that initial day felt better than I can now. But that is just it... I didnt have the energy or the capacity to do it. I knew I should if I really want to document my process, the process, to process.

I couldnt. I couldnt find the time in a week where I did nothing. I sat in my car and stared into the grey. No music, for hours. I sat inside and “watched” tv. I could barely even pull up the energy to play games which is normally one of my more addicting methods of escapism. But the hours felt as long as if I was sat watching the seconds on a stopwatch.

So why couldnt I find the time to write?

Well. That is it isnt it. Depression and anxiety afflicts people in many different ways. It hits everyone in the parts of themselves that makes them them, and smooths over it will cold hard nothingness. For me it was my social skills, my never ending positivity and my energy to always be about some form of new adventure.

Now I dislike most people, every day feels “grey” as my mind struggles to explain it, and I can barely muster the energy to walk from the sofa to the kitchen to prepare some form of food. Even the food I prepare wouldnt be the interesting meals I normally prepared for myself, or the infinitely more bland versions with the intent of providing my body with excess exercise materials to grow stronger. Instead, I now feel I have neither the energy or the time to prepare pasta in a mug. Maybe with toast. What has become of me?


At some point i forgot that I could crest the hill. Hard work WILL get me somewhere. There is light to reach. I know that, I speak it, but I clearly stopped believing inside. I have no internal drive at the minute.

A quote from Haiku... “Results are a byproduct”


Its still taken me at least two weeks after writing all that to actually act on it.


The Diary I keep on here is my progress and attempts at becoming a resemblance of myself again.


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