The Beast

It's difficult to contemplate myself as human at times. There's something quite otherworldly about suffering from a severe mental illness; particularly one with the power to transfigure the individual to such a grievous extent, physically as well as psychologically. How can I see myself as Naomi when I am not that joyful, precocious child who saw wonder and curiosity in everything, relishing life's small pleasures without question, able to live and love and laugh? It has been so long since I knew her, simply her, without this coexistent presence. Longer than I can remember.

It has been suggested to me before that my illness is so entrenched due to some companionship that has been cultivated over its course. There is little capacity for companionship however between two entities so intertwined that they are indistinguishable from one another: for trying to discern the two independently would be as complex as the process of separating salt from sand. Neither one is the fundament, nor the complement; they simply are together, their amalgamation forming one. 

Thus I cannot define my illness as a friend, because I do not regard it as a separate presence. Even writing or talking about 'it' seems unnatural to me, though something I endeavour to employ in the light of objectifying my situation to those who may not otherwise be able to comprehend it.

If I was to address my condition as anything (with great difficulty) it would be as a seducer: whispering sweet nothings in my ear, persuading me toward self-destructive fulfilment with promises of contentment and pleasure and security. After an extended period of intense attachment with anything, even an abusive lover, it can begin to feel as though one cannot be without the other; for each is a vital component of the whole which could not otherwise function. My illness may have inflicted the gravest hurts imaginable to me and those I love, but realisation of this does not sever the bonds so ineradicably fixed that they are beyond means of perception. I lay with this beast day and night, though no longer out of choice. He has taken over me and through this strange act of coition we have moulded into one flesh. In manipulating me into this new creature he has ruthlessly robbed me of who i used to be.  

Freud believed that behind every act of pleasure lies a conflict with a subconscious drive toward self-destruction. Perhaps it would be deemed morbid to reflect on a secret desire within us all to destroy ourselves; but is this not the crux of many mental afflictions who render the sufferer with a debilitating disability - an inability to cope with life? Certainly, if i was to acknowledge a separate side of myself, its ultimate intention would be death. I can acknowledge that: it is out to kill me. It may sing sweetly of short-lived relief from the turbulence and frustrations of ordinary complications which obsession eclipses through the nature of its consumption - yet I know that evasion from life's difficulties can only be secured absolutely in the form of nothingness. That is what it wants from me: total annihilation. That is what I want from myself, or so it feels when I allow myself the ease of being blind to a separate presence of the possessor. The struggle comes with finding the life force beneath it all. When in the throes of despair it is totally extinguished by the desperation to escape life completely. Everything has become so complex - too complex - for me to discern where my true ambitions lie, and where they are distorted by some ulterior motive. Of course there are times, predominantly during manic episodes, when I can accept, or even embrace the wonder of life: but beneath the thrilling hysteria of it all I am never without this subliminal force resenting and fighting back at every will to live. 

I have so much to look forward to, but it's impossible at times to see ahead past the next hour when every minute feels a torturous battle I would rather not fight. There are opportunities coming up which I desperately want to enjoy but I fear them when the power of the beast is growing stronger by the day. I am desperate to be positive but I feel alone. I'm not sure that anyone can fully comprehend how much of a struggle everything is. My morning routine is a predictable one: I drag myself out of bed and put on my mask, which few have the misfortune of seeing fall. There are times during which my facade of coping is obliterated by the intensity of rage or fear or misery which can overwhelm me in an instant; but in most situations it fools everyone surprisingly well considering that I had always thought my skills as an actress decidedly poor. Perhaps it's a positive practice, to put on a social front, in the hope that one day it would not be a no longer be a glamorised misrepresentation of the internal. Maybe one day pretending will turn into believing. I don't want to live like this though - it's exhausting, to keep this beast caged behind bars whilst I attempt to function like any other person, going about day-to-day activities when behind the stage curtains there is a monstrous creature raging. I want to be without it, desperately, but I no longer know how to be rid of something which is not part of me; it is me.

I'm not here for myself in the slightest: I am here for everyone else. I would say that one day I hope that I can truly live for myself as oppose to for those I love, but I have such difficulty in accepting myself that I'm not sure how I could ever do such a thing. I hate myself, completely and utterly. How could I not want to hate myself? Hate fuels hate, therefore I hate myself for hating myself, to such an extent that I hate myself even more. 'Hate cannot drive out hate, only love can do that.' It's one thing to change an action, but to change a prejudice, a mindset, is a completely different matter. I'm not sure how to undo the hate, when it has literally endured for nearly as long as my earliest memories - I'm not quite sure how to go about this curious activity of 'loving' myself.

If, for now, it takes coexistence with this demon, who trips me each time I look in the mirror, haunts me in my sleep, screams at me each moment that I am awake, then that is what I can only attempt to survive. I don't visualise recovery as ever possible for myself, that is a certainty, unfortunately. However, even as I write a fresh determination to achieve what I want to in spite of it is growing. I am going to Paris with my best friend in July. I am going to enjoy my summer with friends and family. I am going to get through my A levels and go to university. I must hold onto these things with any strength I have left. It's such a shame that positivity and hope is a comparatively transient creature, a butterfly at risk of being crushed in the beak of the cruel raven who tears through the sky without grace of warning.