When I made a grand for each time I heard the term “someone is it worse than you,” I probably wouldn’t be writing this. I would be on an island somewhere with no internet without the arseholes and living like a king dressed like Robinson fucking Crusoe!

Yes, there are people who have it worse than I do, but there’s nothing I can do to them if the damaging wave of my mental illness sweeps me up and smashes my helpless mind against the eroding stones of my life. Consider that for a moment. As analogies go, that is almost just like beating a homeless person to death with a bag full of cash. That is actually not far from the present tone from which society sets its standards.

But it’s not the the world depresses me. It will, but it’s not the reason behind my disease. Some people are just built incorrect. Their biological contraptions are not made to last or they suffer faulty wiring. I guess that the latter is me and as a result I probably care more than I should when I have it in me to care. But depression for one isn’t just about feeling bad. Most frequently I feel nothing whatsoever besides a constant feeling like I’m being crushed gradually to death by gravity.

And the funny thing about living with anxiety and depression is that everything breaks at one time, both the brain and your body endure exactly the exact same aching feeling of despair and the more you live with this, the tougher it is for messages to get back and forth between the two. I am a zombie.

I am barely over thirty and I have lived with it website (https://www.designspiration.net/) because my last years at high school. Until recently there was not much that did function. The majority of the time that I felt like a warm corpse, wearing the terrifying novelty of taking up a lot of my mommy’s cash, patience, time and distance. And then on the better times I felt as though I was twenty to thirty years old ahead of my period.

Just to give you an concept about what I have lived together because my mid-teens, I have been suicidal on and off; thankfully largely off, in terms of urges. A few days your brain has a voice of its own and your emotions seem utterly alien. If you do not do exactly what that person says, it will try to find a means to behave without your collaboration and that’s a scary thing – particularly when it shows you exactly how helpless you can be against it.

Then there are the passively suicidal days where it isn’t an impulse or a voice however more or less a sense of fatigue so great that you don’t have the will to rationalise against the irrational. You just sort of shuffle around, accepting that it’s not going to end well, and you let it eat at you because you have not even the capacity to create choices. You may die rather than give a damn and which would be no significant loss.

Hearing about people who have it worse does not make me want to fucking grin. If you feel otherwise, then clearly the wrong guy got ill!

If this report of current events seems disjointed or dispassionate, please allow me to assure you this is not my aim and it certainly is not laziness. However, I wanted to let you know about something which happened between me and my sister Eve.

Admittedly it’s a bit of a weird one, but hey, that’s Eve; my beautiful human being of a sister!

I could tell you about everything made me such a way. That might have a whole university research in itself in psychology and medicine, but because my immune system became dangerously near non-existent as of late and hospital tests led to the discovery that the same goes for the majority of my hormones.

I could barely get it up to the majority of my thirties. Each of the antidepressants created my behavior pretty unpredictable and sometimes harmful, so we had to attempt to find another route. Testosterone treatment made me violent also, so gradually I simply slunk back to precisely the same pattern of residing in a darkened corner so not to drain anymore of mum’s savings, what was left.

Eve did not just hate to see me like this. She was terrified. Five years ago one of the closest friends out of the blue, hauled herself into oncoming traffic. That put Eve to a depression but the pills worked for her. I wasn’t bitter whatsoever. I was grateful that with the mourning process leading up to and coming away from the funeral, she was able to recuperate over a matter of months. However, in all honesty understanding that she needed me close and actually having the ability to aid her made me feel somewhere nearer to normal for a while.

All my life I have only ever cared for Eve so far that I could tell her I love her and feel that it means something. I tell mommy exactly the same however – and this may appear odd considering – she is just mother.

With Eve, I inform her when I believe she and it does the exact same. We have always been so close. Some think we’ve been closer than most siblings, regardless of the fact we seldom hang out socially (I’m the antisocial one as you can probably imagine).

So I couldn’t bear to see her so angry, knowing that there was nothing she can do. However, being that I fought urges I did not want and refused to take, I had to be brutally honest with her at some point or the other. Her buddy might have been helpless against her own battle, but for whatever the reason, she dropped the ball. Not that I phoned her greedy for this. However, it wouldn’t have been greedy to ask for support either. Eve owed nothing.

What mattered to me then was that I’m there for her at which most other household would continue to keep their distance and to await communication to happen rather than to direct her through her mourning. And part of me wondered, when a friend could have such effect, then what would I have done to her had I took my life?

We spent some three months leaning on each other, phasing in and out of awareness through the dark days and bad weather. I let her cry on my shoulder till I was moist with saltwater, until the mourning itself became too much. Soon it was the ideal time to go and to proceed for her sake.

But she was not happy about leaving me, as she placed it. I concurred that it wasn’t fair that she would recover so easily and that I could not, but what could we do? We may happen to be peas in a pod but she had been the most best one. She said she would do anything for me.

Putin let’s down on those military supply drops we inquired for. So I wasn’t going to be a millionaire anytime soon. I requested her to stop being so smart and really go get a job in KFC therefore she could bring me chicken each night. In all honesty, she wouldn’t have satisfied the top and cover anyway, not after I have seen her at a bear onesie.

Eve is five years younger than me and carries a few added pounds, however in all of the correct ways. She’s the most appropriate for cuddles, which I never got enough, before I get to where that story’s led. She is well endowed (F cups I think) and kept her layer of hair and left it work to her advantage.

She is a hot brunette, likes to put her hair up and retains a light tan during the year and she’s got the sexiest grin and pretty brown eyes that have been off limits to me personally. I love her dearly and it’s always hurt me all the more to know they are wasted on this stupid disease.

I frequently feel like she must do it for me personally, and worry that she is left believing that she neglects me when her out and joyful love for me just doesn’t do the trick. I’m a bad rap!


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