Truth

I used to think that time would sort me out. I used to think that in time everything would smooth itself over and soon enough I would be happy (whatever the hell "happy" even is). I used to think that by talking the words I needed to talk, or crying the years I needed to cry, I would be OK... I would be sorted out... I would be "happy". But it seems like these goals I set myself are no longer achievable, or at least they may be but just aren't in my current mindset.

See, for the past few years I've suffered with depression and anxiety (which hasn't been helped by a stutter, or my peculiar 'out-of-this-time' mannerisms). I've fought a long and hard battle with self harm (one which I thought I was winning) and even thought that I'd finally got my life back on track. It's stupid to hear (and a lot of information to take in at once) but, a mere three days before I was to sit my first A-level exam I was told that I could have testicular cancer. It was an awful blow and left me shocked to the point of bewildering unacceptance of the actions going on around me. I was told that I needed a scan but put off the initial time they gave me as that was in the middle of my exam (which later sparked an argument between family members and I), so would have to wait three weeks. Looking back on it now I realise that I waited so long as the doctors weren't concerned, and were only sending me for a scan as a precaution (a way to "cover their arses," if you will). However, this "cancer scare" as I have come to call it in an odd way helped me. Whilst going through this I told myself—and those around me—that I didn't want to die (something I've since realised came from the cancer controlling my death, and thereby taking the freedom of death away from me). It made me yearn for life and even made me less depressive (besides from the constant fear that I had cancer and was going to die—and yes I know that testicular cancer had something like a 3% chance of killing me, but my pessimistic nature—and my depressive want for death—automatically sentenced me to death), to the point that when I got the all clear, I considered going to the doctors and stopping my medication (anti-depressives)... something I, luckily, didn't do. I even (when I got my A-level results that August) decided that I was going to university!

I was ready, all the doubts and panic attacks I had suffered over uni were put out of my head, because I was going to University! Unfortunately I was ill for freshers week (I was still suffering from flu, which I had picked up a week or so before moving down to Brighton), and so remained mostly in my sea-front (yet, ally-facing) room for the week. The first week of leaning brought unforetold hardships (fitting in, finding new friends, my best friend leaving because of suicidal intentions [does it run in our friendship group!?... I hope not!], navigating my way around campus, and working out which bus to catch and from where each day), however, my hardest trail was that of sparking friendships with my roommates, half of whom were foreign students. Now I'm no UKIP supporter; in fact I support immigration and enjoy the thought that foreign students decide that my country holds the best university for them, but it was hard to not only understand their accents (my hearing isn't the best), but fit in with them.

Eventually I realised that I could take it no longer, and that if I were to stay there I would soon relapse into the coma-like state of depression I was in before the summer. However, I was too late. Returning home sent me back into my yearning for the blade. Even now, at 71 days without self harm, I am heavily tempted by the thought of cutting areas of my body no one will ever see (it got so bad I even ended up hiding my thighs from my girlfriend).

I've read many places that people can cry so much that they feel they've no tears left to cry, and often I've thought that to be poetic nonsense for Tumblr posts or Millennial (yes, I, myself, am a Millennial, as I was born in the year 2000) Instagram Story worthy, however, it seems to have rung true tonight. As I lay in bed, next to my lover, I feel myself wanting to cry... needing to expel these trapped emotions, yet can't. I feel that I have run myself dry and have no expelling point (talking to my girlfriend can help, however, she's going through her A-levels this year so I don't want to be responsible for yet more stress on her shoulders).

It's getting harder to breathe through all these emotions... still, who am I to bother about? Good day.