When I was about 15, one of our teachers (maybe Mr Pinnock – Economics) told us that by the age of forty (or something like that), twenty-five percent of the people in that room would have received psychiatric help for some kind of mental illness, and I remember thinking ‘that is not going to be me’.
And it was not.
I have held on to that thought my whole life. I have looked at my behaviour, my moods, my rants and raves and thought ‘not me’. And it has prevented me from seeking help. And still, as I type this. I am thinking ‘no, I am not going to confess to being mentally ill. I am just not.’
I believe in the power of belief. I believe that I am what I think I am. I believe that if I believe that I am mentally well, then that is what I am. And it stops me from talking about my mental states. And I can feel myself resisting the urge to talk about them now.
Right now = I feel down. I feel dark. I feel dull. But I know that these will pass. By tomorrow, or the day after, I will feel up, light and sharp. I always do. I just ride up and down these waves. I dip and I crest. Nothing new.
So in a sense, there is nothing to tell you. This is a no-story post. Except that it’s Christmas, and those around me have to cope with me. They have to cope with my silence. They have to deal with the blank expression on my face. They have to come to terms with my terse replies. And I cannot imagine that it is easy for them.
And yes, I know that I should ‘snap out of it’, and I know that I could if I wanted to. But I do not. I am waiting.
For the mood to lift all by itself.
Ha, I just noticed the ‘Grammarly Tone Detector’ at the bottom of this text I am typing. It comes in the form of an emoticon. When I hover over it I see the text I get a message: ‘Here’s how your text sounds: Sad.’
So there you go. Enough said. Mission accomplished.