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Are You a Victim ?

Lucretia Stroud (2018-08-10)


If I made a grand for each time that I heard the phrase "someone has it worse than you," I probably would not be writing this. I'd be on a island somewhere with no internet and no arseholes and alive like a king dressed like Robinson fucking Crusoe!

Yes there are those who have it worse than I do, however, there is nothing I can do to them if the destructive wave of my mental illness sweeps me up and smashes my helpless mind against the eroding stones of my destroyed life. Think about that for a moment. As analogies go, that's almost just like beating a homeless man to death with a suitcase full of cash. That's actually not far from the present tone by which society sets its own criteria.

However, it's not that the planet depresses me. It will, but it's not the reason for my disease. Some people are just built wrong. Their biological contraptions are not made to survive or they suffer faulty wiring. I guess the latter is me personally and because of this I probably care more than I should if I have it in me to take care. But melancholy for one is not just about feeling bad. Most often I feel nothing at all other than a continuous feeling like I'm being crushed slowly to death.

And the amusing thing about living xxx videos with depression and anxiety is that what breaks at once, both your brain and your body endure exactly the same aching feeling of despair and the longer you live with it, the tougher it is for messages to get back and forth between both. I'm a zombie.

I'm barely more than thirty and I've lived with it because my final years at high school. Until recently there was not much that did function. Most of the time I felt like a warm corpse, wearing the heinous novelty of shooting up a lot of my mum's cash, patience, time and space. And then on the better days I felt as though I was twenty five to thirty years old before my period.

Just to give you an idea of what I have lived together since my mid-teens, I have been suicidal off and on; mercifully largely off, in relation to urges. A few days your mind has a voice of its own and also your emotions seem completely alien. If you do not do exactly what that voice says, it will look for a means to act without your cooperation and that is a scary thing - particularly when it shows you precisely how helpless you can be against it.

Then you will find the suicidal days in which it isn't an impulse or a voice however less or more a feeling of exhaustion so great that you don't even have the will to rationalise from the irrational. You just sort of shuffle about, accepting that it is not likely to end well, and you let it eat you as you haven't even the capacity to make choices. You could die rather than give a damn and that would be no major loss.

Hearing about individuals who have it worse doesn't make me want to fucking smile. Should you feel differently, then clearly the wrong man got sick!

If this report of recent events seems disjointed or dispassionate, please let me assure you this is not my purpose and it certainly is not laziness.

Admittedly it is a small weird one, but that's Eve; my lovely human being of a sister!

I could tell you about that which made me such a way. That might take a whole university research in itself in psychology and medicine, but because my immune system became perilously near non human as of late and hospital evaluations led to the discovery that the same went for most of my other hormones.

I could hardly get it up for most of my thirties. All the antidepressants created my behavior pretty unpredictable xxx videos and at times dangerous, so we needed to attempt to locate another route. Testosterone treatment made me violent too, so gradually I simply slunk back into exactly the identical pattern of residing in a darkened corner so not to empty anymore of mum's savings, what was left.

Eve did not just hate to watch me like this. She was fearful. Five years ago among her closest friends, out of the blue, hauled herself into oncoming traffic. That place Eve to a melancholy but the pills worked to her. I wasn't bitter at all. I was thankful that using the mourning process leading up to coming from the funeral, she managed to recuperate within a matter of months. But in all honesty understanding that she desired me shut and really having the ability to aid her made me feel someplace closer to normal for a little 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 signifies something. I tell mum the same but - and this may seem odd considering - she's just mommy.

With Eve, I tell her if I believe she and it does the exact same. We've always been close. Some think we've been closer than most sisters, regardless of the fact that we rarely hang out (I am the only person as you can probably imagine).

So I couldn't bear to see her so angry, realizing that there was nothing she can do. However, being that I struggled urges that I didn't want and refused to accept, I had to be brutally honest with her at some point or another. Her friend might have been helpless against her own battle, but for whatever the reason, she lost the ball. Not that I phoned her greedy for this. However, it wouldn't have been selfish to ask for support either. Eve owed nothing.

What mattered to me then was that I be there for her at which most other family would continue to keep their space and to wait for communication to occur rather than to guide her throughout her mourning. And a part of me thought, when a buddy could have such impact, then what could I've done to her had I took my own life?

We spent some 3 months leaning on one another, phasing in and out of awareness through the dark days and poor weather. I let her cry on my shoulder till I was damp with saltwater, before the mourning itself became a lot. Soon it was the perfect time to go and to proceed for her own sake.

But she wasn't happy about leaving me behind, as she put it. I agreed that it was not reasonable that she would recover so easily and I couldn't, but what would we do? We might happen to be peas in a pod but she was the most best one. She said she would do anything for me.

Putin let's down on those army supply drops we asked for. So I was not likely to become a millionaire any time soon. I requested her to stop being so smart and really go get a job in KFC therefore that she can bring me chicken every night. To be honest, she wouldn't have satisfied the shirt and cover anyhow, not after I have seen her at a bear onesie.

Eve is five years younger than me and includes a few extra pounds, however in all the proper ways. She is the best for cuddles, which I never got enough of, until I get into where that story's led. She's well endowed (F cups I think) and maintained her coating of hair and left it work to her advantage.

She's a long-haired brunette, likes to put her hair up and retains a light tan during the year and she's got the friendliest smile 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're wasted on this stupid disease.

I often feel as though she must do it for me personally, and worry that she's left believing she neglects me when her out and joyful love for me just doesn't do the trick. I am a bad brother!



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