Escapism

I am the queen of escapism. I live in my kingdom of creative media and come out for no one. My TV/DVD player are remote controlled so I only leave my bed to change the disc. My CD player has radio, USB and 'auxiliary' functions, but as the mini-jack lead stretches over to my bed and the player itself is remote controlled I only have to leave my bed to change the disc. I do have one problem though: remote controls weren't big in the eighties so I do have to get up if I want to play cassettes or vinyl (shock, horror!). Beyond that, my lamp switch, phone and laptop chargers, favourite books, blades, tissues, condoms and sex toys are all at arms' reach from my bed. My bed is my cushioned palace and only my dog and my boyfriend are permitted entry.

I am the queen of escapism. When I leave my bed it is to drink coffee and smile. When I leave my bed it is to see a movie I've never seen before. When I leave my bed it is well documented on social media so that I am portrayed as lively, youthful and happy. When I leave my bed it is to 'work', although I work in a form of escapism where my colleagues and clients are all 'players' - some with their plays and others with their games. When I leave my bed it is to walk side by side with a neighbour or a colleague, allowing them to take the responsibility away from me. I am shrewd and evade all true reality. I am a Peter Pan of sorts.

I am queen of escapism and have been heard quoting Evanescence:

'Don't say I'm out of touch with this rampant chaos, your reality.

I know well what lies beyond my sleeping refuge - the nightmare I built my own world to escape.'

But I don't live in Neverland or captain the Lost Boys, I am lost myself. I spend my days trying to squeeze a little bit of fun out of the lemons I've been thrown but let's face it, lemons are only good for tequila. I don't understand why my body fails so constantly without true consistency. I question my happiness, where I am in life, and I go back to my escapism.

How did I get here? When did I actually stop going to class to live in this bubble? I spend so much time in my bed that my boyfriend doesn't come over anymore, he wants me out of the house and knows he's good enough bait. After every new blow, no matter how small, I have to coax myself out of the house with promise of stickers and trips to Tiger... What if I couldn't afford that though? What if I had to just be?

"You develop bad habits when you spend too much time alone... You're the absolute monarch in your own little kingdom. You have to answer to no one. That's a very dangerous thing..." (Ruth Steiner, Collected Stories by Donald Margulies).

I have started to demand the support of my only two real human friends that bare no relation to me, but unreasonably so. I throw them disparaging words of my utter suffering when they refuse to be by my side and when they are here all I do is point towards this blog. I have lost my voice. I no longer express in a personal manner. I am slumping into the isolation once more and I have no idea what is fencing me in.

'But that's not right.' a little voice tells me. 'Why make a u-turn while you're healing?' it ponders. 'Fear' is the feeble little answer I muster up. I have been low for so long that it's normal. Why get better when my illness excuses me from so much of a normal messy life? I started dating my boyfriend in this murky desolation, how will being strong and healthy affect the relationship?

I point again to Collected Stories; Ruth's character tells us 'I had given up hope. No hope was the code by which I lived. It was strangely comforting; it left little room for disappointment.' Shakespeare's Hamlet chooses life over death as we 'rather bare those ills we have than fly to others we know not of'. It's a strange thing, fear, but it can keep us comfortable in our depression, for my sadness is no surprise when I'm always sad.

The key is to recognise this if it is in you. If you are stubbornly hopeless like I have been you need to shake it off. I feel really stupid writing this post to you because stigma tells me I should hate to be in a position of poor mental health. I should want to improve... But a lot of the time I want to vanish and be the anonymous blogger that has no name and no face. I wouldn't wish this on anyone and I wish someone would take it for me too. But that's how depression works - I live in a sequence of oxymorons. I want to tell you it starts to get clearer but I can't, I'm not there yet. All I have to take solace in tonight is a wonderful little song by a man called Dave Grohl, and hope that enlightenment suddenly visits me.

Here's to hope, eh?
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