Can I tell you about how I’m feeling? Can I tell you what I’m thinking about? Can I relay my deepest, darkest truths? Can I put down the terrible burdens I carry with me every moment of the day, at least for a moment?
No. No I can’t. And that’s a problem.
There are things I can’t write here because it might be read by people who know me and I don’t want to worry them. And this blog is supposed to be entertaining and there are somethings that I just can’t make funny. But I could write them on an anonymous blog.
I could write some of them anonymously but there are things that are so toxic and dangerous that I can’t put them anywhere online in case someone vulnerable read them and was further damaged by them. I could write them down in a pen and paper diary though. Of course eventually other people might read my diaries but by then I’ll be dead and some of the sting will have gone out of the words.
Some of the sting. There are things I can’t write anywhere in case some day my children read them. And even if I could write things down somewhere no one would read them that’s not the same as telling someone.
Maybe you’re wondering why I don’t just see a therapist or a counsellor. I can’t afford to pay one and, though I live in the UK and we have free medical care, the mental health services are badly underfunded. My doctor wont refer me to anyone because I’m not sick enough. The life-long battle with depression hasn’t killed me yet so I must be doing OK. My doctor also wont give me pills because reasons.
There are free counselling services. The local one had an 11 month waiting list last time I checked. With so little coverage I’d feel guilty taking up their time. There are certainly people around who need it more than I do.
So I’m stuck here thinking things I can’t write down or say out loud but I need to talk about. I’m worried that I might get frustrated and say something to the wrong person and then I’ll have hurt someone. If I keep silent the only person I’m hurting is me.