When I Made A Grand For Every Time I Heard The Term "somebody Is It Worse Than You," I Probably Would Not Be Writing This. I'd Be On An Island Somewhere With No Internet And No Arseholes And Alive Like A King Dressed Like Robinson Fucking Crusoe!

When I Made A Grand For Every Time I Heard The Term "somebody Is It Worse Than You," I Probably Would Not Be Writing This. I'd Be On An Island Somewhere With No Internet And No Arseholes And Alive Like A King Dressed Like Robinson Fucking Crusoe!

Yes, there are individuals who have it worse than I do, however there is nothing I could do for them when the damaging tide of my mental illness sweeps me up and awakens my helpless head against the eroding stones of my destroyed life. Think about that for a moment. As analogies go, that is almost like beating a homeless man to death with a suitcase full of money. That's not far from the present tone from which society sets its own criteria.

However, it's not the the planet depresses me. It will, but it's not the main reason for my disease. Some of us are just built incorrect. Their biological contraptions are not made to survive or they endure faulty wiring. I guess that the latter is me and consequently I probably care more than I should once I have it in me to take care. But melancholy for one is not just about feeling awful. Most often I believe nothing at all besides a continuous feeling like I am being crushed gradually to death by gravity.

And the funny thing about living with anxiety and depression is that everything breaks all at one time, both the brain and your body endure exactly the exact same aching feeling of hopelessness and the longer you live with it, the harder it's for messages for back and forth between both. I'm a zombie.

I'm barely more than thirty and I've lived with it because my last years at high school. Until recently there wasn't much that didn't function. The majority of the time I felt as a warm corpse, wearing down the frightening novelty of carrying up a lot of my mommy's money, patience, time and distance. And then on the better times I felt as though I was twenty to thirty years old before my time.

Just to give you an notion of what I have lived together since my mid-teens, I've been suicidal off and on; thankfully mostly off, in relation to urges. Some days your brain has a voice of its own and also your emotions seem completely alien. If you do not do what that person says, it is going to look for a way to behave without your collaboration and that is a scary thing - particularly when it shows you exactly how helpless you can be against it.

Then you will find the suicidal days in which it is not an urge or a voice but less or more a feeling of fatigue so great that you don't have the will to rationalise against the irrational. You just sort of shuffle about, accepting that it's not going to finish well, and you let it eat at you since you have not even the capability to create choices. You can die rather than give a damn and that will be no major loss.

Hearing about individuals who have it worse doesn't make me want to fucking grin. If you feel otherwise, then clearly the wrong guy got sick!

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

Admittedly it is a tiny bizarre one, but that's Eve; my lovely human being with a sister!

I could inform you about everything made me such a way. That might take a complete university study in itself in psychology and medicine, but as a result my immune system became dangerously near non-existent as of late and hospital tests resulted in the discovery that the same went for the majority of my hormones.

I could barely get it up for most of my thirties. Every one of the antidepressants created my behaviour pretty unpredictable and sometimes dangerous, so we needed to try to find another route. Testosterone site treatment made me barbarous too, so slowly I just slunk back to precisely the exact same pattern of residing in a dark corner so to not drain anymore of mommy's savings, whatever was abandoned.

Eve didn't just hate to watch me enjoy this. She was fearful. Five years ago among her closest friends out of the blue, hauled herself into oncoming traffic. That place Eve into a melancholy but the tablets worked to her. I was not bitter at all. I was grateful that with all the mourning process leading up to and coming from the funeral, she managed to recover over a matter of weeks. But in all honesty understanding that she desired me close and actually having the ability to help her made me feel someplace closer to ordinary for a while.

All of my life I've only ever cared for Eve so far I could tell her I love her and feel that it signifies something. I tell mommy exactly the same however - and this may appear strange considering - she's just mum.

Together with Eve, I tell her if I feel she and it does exactly the same. We've always been close. Some believe we have always been closer than most sisters, in spite of the fact we rarely hang out socially (I'm the antisocial one as you can probably imagine).

So I could not bear to see her so angry, realizing that there was nothing else she can do. But being that I fought urges I didn't desire and refused to accept, I needed to be brutally honest with her at some point or the other. Her buddy might have been helpless against her battle, but for whatever the reason, she lost the ball. Not that I phoned her selfish for it. But it would not have been greedy to ask for support. Eve owed nothing.

What mattered to me then was that I'm there for her at which many other family would keep their distance and to wait for communication to occur instead of to direct her throughout her mourning. And a part of me thought, when a friend might have such effect, then what could I have done for her had I took my life?

We spent some three months leaning on each other, phasing in and out of consciousness during the dark times and poor weather. I let her cry on my shoulder until I had been moist with saltwater, before the mourning itself became too much. Soon enough it was the right time to let go and to proceed for her sake.

But she wasn't pleased about leaving me, as she put it. I agreed that it was not fair that she could recuperate so easily and that I could not, but what could we do? We might have been peas in a rabbit however she was the most perfect one. She said she would do anything for me.

I requested her to rob a bank. Putin let us down on these army distribution drops we asked for. So I was not going to be a millionaire anytime soon. I requested her to quit being so smart and really go get a job in KFC therefore that she could bring me chicken each night. To be honest, she wouldn't have suited the top and cap anyway, not after I have seen her at a teddy bear onesie.

Eve is five years younger than me and takes a couple of extra pounds, but in all the correct ways. She's the very best for cuddles, which I never got enough of, until I get into where this story's headed. She is well endowed (F cups I believe) and maintained her coating of hair and left it work to her advantage.

She is a long-haired brunette, likes to wear her hair up and keeps a light tan during the year and she has the sexiest grin and brown eyes that have been off limits to me personally. I love her dearly and it is always hurt me all the more to know that they're wasted on this stupid illness.

I frequently feel like she has to do it for me personally, and worry that she is left feeling that she neglects me when out her and proud love for me just does not do the trick. I'm a terrible rap!

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