Lonely is defined by “causing a
depressing feeling of being alone”. I look up the definitions of words more
these days. Supposedly, simple words. The meaning is simple to read.
Complications arise in the feeling aspect of words. At times, I could be in a
crowded room and be the loneliest man on Earth. How does one rid me of that?
Am I lonely 24/7? Do I like it? Am I
used to it by now? Have I accepted it as a part of my life?
I have been sleeping a lot lately.
Well, when I get to sleep. The dreams and nightmares have ranged from complete
terrors to slightly enjoyable experiences.
I find myself often with thoughts.
More riddled than understood. I feel and think, some days I got a good solid
grasp on this Depression. I feel I understand myself more as a person and
identifying areas I need to improve on. I feel I can come to terms with what I
am. Am I at peace with myself? No. Not yet. That area of the highway is still,
shall we say, under construction.
As an advocate for Mental Health, I
feel and think I can do more. Maybe I can’t, but I don’t agree with that.
Something keeps motivating me to strive to do more. I am not suggesting people
aren’t doing their jobs to advocate. Personally, I feel I can reach people. I
feel I can help people. I feel I potentially save someone’s life. It could be a
close friend. It could be a stranger. I am going to help save their life. Just
as someone helped save my life. My son will thank you when he is older.
I am paying it forward.
Here’s a thought that crossed my mind;
when I hear of someone committing suicide because of a Mental Illness, I feel
responsible for not doing more. In a weird, possibly twisted way, suicide is a
death we can prevent to a certain degree. It bothers me when I hear of a
suicide across Canada, but really hits me hard when I hear of them in Nova
Scotia and Newfoundland and Labrador. It is close to my heart. Am I trying to
prevent the unpreventable? I like to think I can and believe it is possible to
help others. The moment I don’t believe help is possible, is the moment I fail
as an advocate. I am not afraid of failure. Failure is like the old quote; “Keep
your friends close, and your enemies closer.” I do that with my failures so I
can learn from them and not let it happen the second time. Why do I have this
mindset? My answer to that is HOPE.
Since the word is forever tattooed on
my arm, I should know the meaning of it. Hope means, “The feeling that what is wanted can be had or that events will turn
out for the best”. Another rendition is, “To believe, desire, or trust”. Personally, I think it is fitting
that is comes ‘of unknown origin’. What I mean, a lot of words have origins.
Hope doesn’t. Hope cannot be bought. Hope cannot be fake. Hope is one of the
feelings that connect us all as human beings. There are over seven billion
people on this planet. Anyone and everyone can have hope. Rich and poor.
Christian and Jewish. Canadian and Swedish. Young and old. Hope does not
discriminate. That’s how hope is connected to Depression. Like hope, Depression
doesn’t discriminate.
I have no money in my bank account,
well, not very much. I hope to win the lottery this weekend. I could win $60
million this Friday. I could go to bed being a millionaire. But guess what? I
still wake up as a person suffering from Depression. I could wake up a very
rich man, but still have thoughts of tying a noose to use as my personal
assassin. Do I know why I want to kill myself, other than it is because the
demonic puppeteer within says so? Effortless, pulling the strings that I
sometimes cannot reach to cut the connection to my mind. My point is simple.
Just because one life event that is positive or perceived to be positive, it
doesn’t magically solve my illness. I could win $60 million and eight hours
later think up a new way on how to kill myself. “That’s dreadfully warped, T.J.,”
I hear within. “You have no idea,” I reply.
I hear the phrase, “He/she couldn’t
handle it anymore, that’s why they killed themselves.” I am not sure where I
stand on that statement. It’s 1:29 a.m. I am going to sleep. I will discuss
this statement tomorrow…
Sorry for going to sleep.
I couldn’t handle it. I almost lost
it. I almost lost myself.
“Couldn’t handle it anymore?” I can
see some justification in this. I will remind you of this, though; if you do
not suffer from a Mental Illness, you have no idea how much someone “can handle”.
When the Depression sets in like the
fog on the bay, the feeling is the same. Throughout the body, it is a common
and familiar feeling. Much like being in the fog, I have no sight or sense of
where things are. I stand alone in my boat on the abnormally steady water. The
fog is heavy now. The sounds are feint and confusing. Why is the boat not
rocking? How come I am not moving? I can’t see. I can’t move. I am restricted.
All my senses are temporarily paralyzed. Except my hearing. The only sense I
wish that was non-existent sometimes. I can’t see any lighthouses. Are there
rocks nearby? When the Depression rolls in, I am alone on my boat.
I am alone and in the fog. I can’t
understand why the boat isn’t moving. I cannot feel any waves. I just hear
things. Noises coming at me from every angle. Since I am on a boat on the
water, there is nowhere for me to escape. The motor is broken. I don’t have a
life-jacket on. If I fall in the water, I am done. I can’t swim. I could use the
oars. Mysteriously, I cannot figure out how to use them.
How far is land? Are there any other
boats on this water? If I get to land, what or who will be there for me? I am
not a sailor. Jumping in can be so easy. If a storm is imminent, I am unaware.
The silent attack. I am scared.
"If I want to believe that life is lonely and nobody loves me, then that is what I will find in my world."
- Louise L. Hay
Yours Truly,
T.J. Smith
