Disreputable Nonentity

Source: whedonversegifs

Source: whedonversegifs

I’ve been seeing this on my Tumblr a lot recently, and I thought, seeing as I found my college photos, I’d do one for myself. Self portraits - aged 16 and aged 26.

Not much as changed, really. More or less the same colour scheme. I generally more tired, more angry now. I was depressed at 16 too, but back then I cared more about not letting anyone know about that, so I hid it behind bleach blonde spikes.

This is a character from a story I’m writing. Her name is Bryn who, as she is the daughter of the town’s Pellorec, is the only woman allowed to stand in Cabri’s famous Archery Guard. 

Which, in a very meta way, makes this fan art of my own stuff. Weird.

I hope you like it. If you do, let me know! Oh, and check out the full resolution image here: http://elgorgadier.deviantart.com/#/d519wor

Source: whedonesqued

I’ve been thinking about this for a while now. A quote from excellent UK situation comedy Spaced pops into my head.

They say that the family of the 21st Century is made up of friends, and if that’s true, then you’re the best auntie I’ve ever had. [Tim kisses Marsha]

The Tim kissing Marsha bit doesn’t have anything to do with what I’m talking about here really, but Spaced is a bloody funny series and every time I’m reminded of a quote I can’t help but smile and then laugh and when you’re on your own in a flat with only an elderly rat as audience, that’s pretty OK.

So.

Now, I tend to talk about anything on Twitter - how my comics are going, what my plan for the day is, the odd witticism from time to time, that kind of thing. I also tweet a lot about my depression and how that shit’s affecting me. I see Twitter in a few different lights: as a worldwide soapbox for me and my bullshit opinions, a meeting place for my mates, and a publicity catalyst for Dead Ends.

It’s that second one that’s the thing, isn’t it? A meeting place for friends. Now, a few of the people I know and like in “real life,” whatever that means, are on Twitter, which is kinda why I joined the site in the first place, probably, not that I can really remember. But, since I joined the site so many years ago, I’ve accrued a number of followers whom I talk to on a regular basis, and it’s needless to say I follow back.

I talk to these people about anything and everything, from the latest goings on in the Doctor Who universe to gorgeous food to my crushing feelings of suicide. They’re people I can banter with, who support me, and whom I can support. We have conversations, tell jokes, and share details about each others’ lives. Which, in the way I’d define it, sounds a lot like friendship. 

So I wonder what the definition of friendship is, these days? Because, other than those people I knew from my life prior to Twitter, I have never met these people face to face. I’ve only spoken to a couple on Skype. Our communications have been almost entirely text based. Does that mean the feelings behind them are two-dimensional? 

No, of course it doesn’t. Just because you don’t see the person in front of you doesn’t make the connection any shallower. If we’re going by face to face contact as a rule for friendship, I’d consider my work colleagues to be my soul mates. The fact is, I’ve even told the people I work with I have more inclination to let Jesus into my life as my lord and saviour than I do to look at them as friends. It’s not that I hate them - I don’t care one way or the other. 

It’s the future of friendship as I see it. With unemployment rising and more retail establishments moving their business from the high street to the internet, people are more and more going to turn to human beings behind Twitter handles for friendship, companionship and relationships, no matter what the distance between them.

And yet still, in this age of technological society, the age where infants have smartphones and even the jockiest of jocks knows how to work a computer without having to beat up a spotty, bespectacled kid to help him, there is still a stigma attached to internet friendships.

It’s always the same old arguments, isn’t it? How can it be real, you’ve never even met? How do you know they’re really like that and not just showing you what you want to see? How d’you know they’re not really some massive fat pervert called Steve from Dunstable who wants to rape you?

Well, 1. I’d say the friendships I have with friends of mine over Twitter are as real as any of my in person friendships. How’d you define “real” anyway? They like me, I like them. That’s kinda how it works, isn’t it?

2. This argument can easily be swung around the other way - how d’you know they’re not showing me what I want to see? Well, isn’t that what everyone does? Everyone puts on a face and persona depending on the people they’re with. It’s not like you’re being too faced or owt, but people do act differently around the different cliques they’re in. It’s no different on the internet, as far as I see it.

And as for Steve, well, that’s always a worry. But then, as with all of my relationships, my internet friendships are based on trust. I trust my folks, and they trust me. 

The internet was designed for this reason - for communication without boundaries. Some of my closest friends live in Canada, Australia, Finland, Shetland. This is awesome in the most literal sense of the word. 50 years ago, you could call these people on a phone and it would cost you an arm and a leg to do so. Now, communication is instantaneous and free.

So let’s stop bashing internet friendships, shall we? I mean, shit, people can meet, fall in love, and marry people they meet on the internet. If that’s no more valid than meeting someone in a club whilst pissed, waking up next to them and deciding they’re the best you’re gonna get so you might as well stick with ‘em, then I don’t want to live on this planet any more.

So I wrote a song for no damn reason. It’s kinda depression related, specifically about my recent feelings. It’s probably gonna be in A minor, because I am an unoriginal guitar player. When I have music to go with the words, I’ll see about popping a recording up here. 

Note: It occurs to me that without music, this looks very depressive and, dare I say it, emo. I make no apologies. I mean, come on, it rhymes!

Life Will Still Go On

My friends, they have all left me
I feel I can’t go on
I’m so sick of this century
Only a few years old and it’s gone on way too long

And when I’m feeling down
My mood has sunk to none
The saddest thing of all
Is that life will still go on

Can you see the fire that burns inside my eyes?
Stoke the embers please, my dear, and please don’t let them die
Things, they only change when they go from bad to worse
Today I go on foot; tomorrow it’s a hearse

I’m so sick of this city
This place, it drags me down
I can’t afford to leave it
I can’t move out and go and live in another town.

As I walk down these streets
I see battles lost and won
And the saddest thing I find
Is that life will still go on

Can you see the fire that burns inside my eyes?
Stoke the embers please, my dear, and please don’t let me die
Things, they only change when they go from bad to worse
Today I go by foot; tomorrow it’s a hearse

So yeah, that’s about it. Please to enjoy.

sanguination:

i know  that feel….

This is the one scene in Buffy the Vampire Slayer which made my cry so hard and so deeply. Beautiful.

I very much doubt that this post is gonna be as mentally stream-of-consciousness as my previous. I’m feeling a lot calmer at this moment, and so I’m allowing myself to write this shit. It’s along the same lines as the last post, so if you’re bored of reading my depressive drivel, you’re probably not going to get much out of this.

Anyway, after my last post, I came to the conclusion that I should probably head to the doctor. Talking to a friend of mine, Neil, about his experience with the NHS, I was determined to explore more than the only two options I’ve ever been given by a doctor: pills or counselling. 

I’ve tried counselling. I sat down with this woman and felt terrifically self conscious. I started talking about my childhood because I figured that I should give my character’s backstory before I discuss the present. Now, I know when my depression started. I know what the trigger for that first episode was. I went into this counselling session knowing this. So for the counsellor to attribute - after a forty-five minute session - my entire condition to my mum and dad’s divorce when I was barely sentient was not only outrageously offensive, presumptuous, lazy, and Freudian, but this was also when I was at one of my lowest points, and that, to put it mildly, didn’t help.

Which is why when doctors tell me they’ll refer me to the gateway worker (the beaurocrat in charge of assessing you according to a checklist before sending you to a counsellor), I shrug, smile, say I’ll do it and leave. Usually with a prescription.

At my GP surgery, patients have to phone up the same day they want the appointment and they then get allocated an appointment with a random doctor. So my hatred of the doctors of Worcester isn’t based on a few meetings with one doctor alone. This time I got one of the good ones. She listens. She’s even told me that if I am to self harm to cut on the back of my arm as there are fewer important bits on that side. She seems to understand.

So when I came into her office, desperate as all hell and feeling just as bad, she bollocked me. She told me off because usually, when the pills either stop working or make me feel worse, or I feel I don’t need them, I just come off them and don’t tell a medical professional. 

I accepted the chiding and made my own point about the lack of options, citing my friend’s previous recommendations of CBT or even seeing a psychiatrist. And then she blackmailed me. Try some new pills and stay on them for 6 months, and THEN we’ll send you to the gateway worker (whom it transpires can make the CBT/headshrinker/NLP decisions and not just counselling). I have to admit that I admire the doctor’s cunning. And I like that she seems to care for her patient enough to try and make him do things properly, because let’s face it, the patient has hardly done things right up til now.

So, ultimatum agreed to, down to business. Pills. She mentioned a drug I’d heard talked about before (a couple of my Twitter friends have mentioned this), Venlafaxine, mentioning that this is a relatively new drug and that not many doctors are willing to prescribe it as they’re not as familiar with it. I’d agreed to it, so I accepted the prescription and walked out.

Venlafaxine is an SNRI. Up until now I’ve been put on three SSRIs (Selective Serotonin Reuptake Inhibitors): Citalopram (nausea, migraine, vomiting, 1 month), Fluoxetine (fairly successful, nearly a year), Duloxetine (The doc mentioned this one, I couldn’t honestly remember having done so. Guess it didn’t last long). Mirtazapine was a tetracyclic drug. I haven’t looked up the differences between SSRIs and tetracyclics, I just know that the doc figured that after 3 different pills clearly SSRIs weren’t working for me. SNRIs are Selective Serotonin and Norepinephrine Reuptake Inhibitors. How this differs in a practical sense from the other two, I’ve no idea. I just know that it’s different. 

As soon as I left the pharmacy I popped the first pill. I figured it was morning, I had the day off work, let’s start the day as we mean to go on. I got to Café Bliss, the place I generally spend my off time and use as my comics studio, and lit up a cigarette. And, feeling slightly queasy, bought a packet of crisps. I managed four before I was the most painfully and violently sick I can ever remember being. My own stupid fault. Having now read the information leaflet, I’ve eaten the pills along with food ever since.

I’m now 11 days in. I’m told that they might start working on the actual depression after two weeks. I have a follow up appointment a week this Tuesday. So far, nausea. Most of the time, an in-the-background, generally queasy feeling. Some of the time, waves of intense oh-shit-I-need-a-receptacle prevomit which never makes good on its promise. All accompanied with a background, neverending headache which pills do very little to combat.

And the sleeping. Oh Christ. This is a weird one; the way I describe it as insomnia on 6 hours a night. An insomniac doesn’t get enough sleep, but still, on average, gets 4 hours of broken sleep. I’m getting more sleep than that, my usual 6 hours or so, and it’s mostly uninterrupted, but I’m waking up as if I’ve hardly slept at all. 

One common side effect of most antidepressants is help with sleeping, but that’s not a problem I have. I’m not one of these cool depressives, with their never eating and never sleeping. I’m the opposite. The fat and lazy type. I’m determined not to sleep any more than my usual. I don’t want to have to go to bed early and I certainly don’t want to waste my days off by sleeping in. So, until I adapt to the side effects or they stop, I’m going to be thoroughly exhausted. People were telling me how tired I looked. Haven’t had that in a while. I keep having to explain that I’m getting just the same amount of sleep, it’s just that my body’s apparent need has changed. The bastard.

So that’s the update you’ve all been waiting for. Before I sign off, I’d love to talk to folks about their experiences with venlafaxine. Hit me up on Twitter if you want to.