For what it’s worth …

My mental health is not good. Okay, so it’s not terribly bad, but like a lot of people, I have my issues. I was diagnosed with bipolar disorder and borderline personality disorder, and whilst I’m not a huge fan of labels, having those diagnoses has enabled me to get treatment. Sadly, that treatment is mostly in the form of medication. Our good old NHS, which everyone seems to love and adore, only provides 6-10 sessions of counselling – the talking therapies – and as someone who has been on both sides of the table – as a counsellor and a client – I know that the NHS is only interested in meeting quotas and measuring outcomes. Anyone who has sought out their own counsellor, and paid for the sessions themselves will understand the true power of not having a defined end point to the counselling experience. Over the last few years, I’ve paid for counselling with a couple of different counsellors, and I’ve measured my own outcomes. Sometimes that can be something as simple as, “Hey, I managed to offload a lot of shit to someone who listened to me without giving me their opinion.” Other times, I managed to learn something new about myself.

And no, I’m not trying to sell anyone my services as a counsellor. I left that profession once I had my diagnoses. You can’t really counsel someone when you have borderline personality disorder or bipolar disorder. It’s not ethical, and anyone who says different has questionable motives for doing so. That’s not to say that counsellors do not experience mental health problems. The best counsellors have been through their low points and have managed to come through the other side, still alive, if not entirely unscathed.

And that’s the positive part of this blog post. Now for the somewhat more negative part. You see, I’ve been through a couple of life-changing incidents over the last couple of years. I’ve been brought back from the brink of death, and have had my own near death experiences, and I found there to be nothing on the other side. Perhaps I wasn’t truly dead, but close enough to give me a taste. Not that I expect there to be anything on the other side. I think that’s a fairy tale we sometimes tell ourselves in order to lessen our fear of dying. You know, it’s not the end, so don’t stress about it. That kind of thing. But it is the end. At least, that’s my belief. I’m in my mid-fifties and I haven’t achieved much, if I’m being brutally honest. I’ve existed, and I’ve experienced some moments in life that have been entertaining and some which have been thoroughly hideous. But I’ve not left any lasting mark on the world. I’m no Einstein, I’m not Bukowski, people won’t remember me when I’m gone. Well, perhaps for as long as it takes for their own life to come to an end, and then, like the vast majority of all of the humans who have ever lived, no one will remember me or know who I was. Just a corpse, turned to ash, disposed of, the memories wheeled out at Christmas. “Oh yeah, Shaun. He was a laugh, especially after a few beers.”

It’s become something of a running joke in our house that when Friday comes round, I say to the missus, “I can’t believe it’s Friday again.” And it seems as though I say that every day of the week, the days zoom by so quickly. It could be that I might only say that phrase another 500 times before I die. Pessimistic, I know, but it’s true. That would see me into my mid-sixties, my fitness levels would have decreased, my diabetic-ridden body would begin to break down, and life might stop being enjoyable to experience, if it hasn’t already. Do I want to spend the last couple of years of my life stumbling over my words like a demented Joe Biden, pissing myself and stumbling over thin air? Is that any kind of existence? I mean, what can I possibly achieve between now and then? When I’ve said, “I can’t believe it’s Friday again,” for the 500th time? The young people are constantly complaining that it’s people my age and above who’ve fucked up the planet and left a rotten future for them, so it could be argued that I’d be doing them all a favour by sucking on one final breath before expiring. “You’re stuck in the past, man,” they tell us. “Quit telling us it was better back then. It’s better now, with those rainbows and an infinite number of genders, and equality (so long as you’re not a white, middle-aged man), and you screwed us over with Brexit, you selfish old men!”

But what young people can’t grasp is the value of the past. What is their past? Something which is still within their grasp. Something they don’t have to look back on, because life is for living, and they’re going to enjoy life. They have no concept of the past. They’re not at the age where they don’t yet have halcyon days to look back upon. I think of time spent in a job I enjoyed, the pranks I played with my workmates, the lunchtime drinking sessions. I think of fast cars and fast women. I think about the endless nights in my local pub, getting drunk and having a laugh with my friends, friends who, like me, have grown older in the time between. I think of the past, and it’s so far beyond my reach, some of the memories so distant, clouded as I view them through rose-tinted spectacles, that they can never be repeated. Time has moved on. My friends have moved on. We are all much older now, and the past is getting longer to look back upon, the memories fading. Is it any wonder we think of our halcyon days with a fondness in our hearts and a bitterness in our bones that things will never be like that again? And as the weeks speed by, is it any wonder that we moan that things are changing too quickly for us?

I will be honest and say that recently I have thought about ending my life. I mean, seriously thought about it. With something akin to regret, but also a clarity that the impact my passing would leave would not be so great as to cause anyone heartache for anything other than the merest fraction of time. I have the most peaceful method of bringing such an end to myself – not something I will share, lest I give ideas to someone who might be considering something of a reactionary suicide rather than a well thought out ending. And for most writers, the most satisfying words to write are always “The End.”