I didn't ever plan on making this public (only a few close confidants have been aware of this), but I feel now is the time I must say something, however small and ineffective it may be.
In the last several weeks or so, I've been receiving numerous comments, notes, etc. from people asking me to do stuff, whatever the reason is, for them (JazzBerryTigerCandy
, I definitely don't mean you; I promise to get back to you within the week). Being too selfless and empathetic towards people is definitely one of my biggest character downfalls. Plenty of the time, I don't know how to say no, extremely similar in ways to the character of Wilt from Craig McCraken/CMcC
's Foster's Home For Imaginary Friends
. However, this time around, I need to put my foot down and speak up. For over a year, my obsessive-compulsive anxiety disorder, something I've had since I was about 11 or 12, has gone through the roof (indeed, OCD is a very real disorder that affects my way of living on a daily basis in the worst of ways and is not synonymous with being a perfectionist as social media has incorrectly been abusing it in recent years). In turn, it has brought on clinical depression (my previous therapist, Sabrina was more than concrete certain with her diagnosis) - the third time I've dealt with depressive symptoms in my 22 years from the first time when I was 11 1/2 and had attempted suicide, the second time when I was 14 1/2 whilst I was dealing with a string of issues, including an unexpected diagnosis of mononucleosis and Asperger's syndrome. The difference is: this time around, I'm not suicidal. I'm grateful for that at least. Though I'm on meds and am receiving therapy. The meds had worked for about three months - from July to mid October. In late October, the effects started wearing off.
Since then, shit has hit the ceiling real hard and fast and life in general has become increasingly overwhelming. Things of note: My baby cousin, Athena Rose who was born seven weeks premature on 22 May 2014 was unfortunately brought into this world with some of the worse physical disabilities that could afflict a child; she's a strong kid for having battled through two heart surgeries since her birth. This past Thursday, 14 Jan. she was meant to go in for a cleft palate surgery and had been at the hospital from 4 am to that afternoon with her single father and my favourite maternal uncle; however due to an infuriating mix-up with her doctors, her surgery date has been rescheduled. Perhaps, it was a blessing in disguise in many ways since on that same morning, one of the most brilliant actors and badass human beings known to man, Alan Rickman unexpectedly passed away from a short battle with pancreatic cancer, aged so young at just 69 leaving behind his wonderful family, an expansive group of friends and co-workers, and a strongly devoted audience from his approximately 43 or so years of a fantastic stage and screen career. Yes, he may have been ''merely an actor.'' True, I didn't know him personally, but as an artist and the type of compassionate person he was known to be, he meant a lot to me and I can't say I didn't idolize him, even just a little bit. Many people feel the same way, so I'm precisely not alone.
In the last three days since his untimely death from shock to denial to it finally sinking in, it has only conflicted with my depression in worse ways than it was before, yet this isn't to say my mental state is directly related to it. His death has created a lot of unnecessary anxiety as I strongly relate it to my Papa, or ''Nonno'' technically in Italian (my maternal grandfather), who is about the same age and has been fighting leukemia for the last several years. As the news surfaced, I immediately thought, ''That could be him... That could be us
.'' Leukemia may not be quite as much as a sneaky, merciless fucker as pancreatic cancer (as with pancreatic cancer, most people don't know they have it until its well into its advanced stages as the symptoms are utterly undetectable, at most appearing as minor stomach problems or flu-like, and even post-diagnosis, the survival rate is incredibly low; rapid decline from then on is persistent and plenty succumb to it within just 3.5 months whereas Rickman was lucky he made it to nearly 5), though like all cancers, the survival rate isn't exactly high either.
In other words, due to all of this bullshit, my mental stability is gradually deteriorating little by little. Crying spells are far more common these days and to simply put it, I need to worry less about other people and take care of myself. I hope that's understandable.