It’s been a long time since I wrote anything, it’s been the sound of silence of the keyboard that’s permeated here, and yet somehow people are trafficking Spilling Ink. It’s a kind of human trafficking but not the kind that the results in sex trade, well not as far as I know anyway, I should bloody well hope not.
My life is changing and the kind of stuff that used to get me mad and whinging are slowly leaving my life or diminishing in importance. I’m truly cut lose and just drifting the big oceans, and for once I haven’t a clue as to where I will end up.
I know some things I’ve done though.
I have quit the meds. I have stopped with the bloody Prozac and I’m flying without a safety net, and it’s not bad. I still have depressive episodes. I still have anxiety. It’s at levels that are far more manageable than it used to be so I consider myself sort of cured. It still requires work, like monitoring runaway thoughts that sometimes behave like a bunch of panicked stampeding retard cows, not to cast dispersion on bunches of panicked stampeding retard cows, but it’s also a lot of fun because when you have to work with your thoughts you begin to realise that parts of your brain come up with some real bollocky crap.
That's right. Bollocky crap.
Bad thoughts, depressive thoughts, are made of real bollocky crap and so is anxiety. It’s about learning that you can choose better thoughts that make yourself feel better, and that while you don’t always succeed in doing that, you learn that it’s OK when you don’t. You learn that you can reset any time, have a bloody great roaring laugh at yourself and go on as if it never happened. In the words of Edith:
Non, je ne regrette rien.
It’s the way we should live unless of course we’ve managed to slip up completely and have ended up being serial killers or dictators killing people en masse just because you suspect that they don’t agree with you about which cereal to have for breakfast, hell they could be all against having cereal for breakfast which could be seen as being incredibly peculiar if you’re a cereal fan, so you have to kill them. En masse. Stamp it out before it spreads and becomes a revolution. Dictators don't favour revolutions as a rule. I know I’m not a dictator personally because I’m not a fan of cereal for breakfast. I also am quite certain that I’m not a serial killer because I’ve not managed to kill a single person ever.
I know myself well. It’s all part of the journey back from the nervous breakdown.
The only thing I don’t have any sort of clue about is this love thing. I still want to believe there is such a thing but I have a track record that’s so bad that I sometimes think I need to get Obama to fly in and declare my love life a disaster zone. At least then I would know for sure, everybody would know for sure, and then maybe I could just move on and be happy having fail relationships. It’s all about lowering your expectations you see.
I will hopefully be back here more now and part with more of my incredible wisdom and sage advice. I know you’ve missed it. I know you have. Admit it!
I also have these plans, I use the word “plans” loosely because I know myself, to add more blogs to the Spilling Ink suite, and these blogs will play with things like the concept of it taking 21 days to change a habit, resources for beating depression and anxiety, and other weird completely unconnected shit. Some of it's already started manifesting at http://the-life-hack.blogspot.com.au/ but there's not much to boast about there yet to be perfectly honest.
In the meantime, know that, I know you have been coming back and I appreciate your patronage, whoever you are. (Yeah, especially you here somewhere in Australia but I just want to add that you may need a life, you're spending a little too much reading my crap, I'm just saying, sorry this is getting a bit creepy.)
Take care of yourself. I’ll be back.
I’m just saying.
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