Hi my name's Chris,
I've been suffering from anxiety/depression for a long while now, I'd say acutely for the past 5 years or so. I'm twenty-five years old. The last two months had been great for me, I've been on medication for OCD specifically, because I suffer from a lot of obsessive, irrational thinking, specifically concerning HIV/AIDS. I think I've always had a fear over it, simply because of the fact it's labelled in the culture as the ultimate death sentence, when really, of course, that isn't necessarily the case with today's medicine and treatment options. My fear of acquiring the disease is often inflated. I constantly think I have in some way acquired the disease and will pass it on to my loved ones.
Sometimes my anxiety charged me with a lot of energy to get things done. I'm a writer, or, I hope to be one. I've worked many different menial jobs so I could write on my own time. I did have a certain romantic self-image about the writer and I've suffered from it. I did a lot of drugs and thumbed my nose at a lot of people. I had an attitude, still do, and consequently I've pushed a lot of people, who I used to be friends with, away. I smoked a lot of pot and took a lot of pills without any real conception of the state of my nerves. My father has always had a drinking problem, and I thought it would make enough of an impression on me that I would learn something by it, but I got caught up in things. Like a lot of people, I would imagine. I've been living with my Mom for the last a year and a half, it's in the suburbs and I don't have as many friends as I used to, so I spend a lot of my time by myself, reading and writing. I can imagine this is probably the same with lots of other people who suffer from anxiety/depression. For years I thought reading was a portal to some kind of higher cultivation, something along the lines of: if I read as many books as I can, I must be becoming a better person than the next guy or girl. A lot of arrogance.
Since moving back home, my HIV fears have escalated to near insurmountable levels. Sometimes I pass people on the street, and I'll see someone spitting on the pavement and then immediately my brain sends me the message: he/she has spat in my mouth, I have acquired HIV. Or I'd drink and black-out and the next morning convince myself I'd performed oral sex on someone HIV +, or solicited sex from a stranger etc. etc. A lot of my friends I went to high school and college with have moved on with their lives, and I've always been the guy you can hang out with when you're not seeing your girlfriend, because I was crazy, with a loose mouth, I always had weed, good movies to watch, you could trip out on shrooms with me or whatever. I've never really had a girlfriend. That's always bothered me. I've had some girls say some pretty mean things to me, or just laugh at the thought that I could ever be sincere. I've always been really sensitive, but I grew up with a mouth on me. But now, as it stands, my friends have their own lives, steady girlfriends, advancements, and so in the last six months to a year I'd been drinking by myself. But recently, every time I'd drink I'd black-out. I mean I used to black-out a ton when I was a teenager, but I'd shake it off. Now though, I black-out, I think I've acquired HIV through some means, I've even doubted my sexuality (heterosexual).
If I were really all alone, I wouldn't care about getting HIV - you know, I'd of course go through an enormous amount of emotion pain, but nothing compared to the very notion of passing it off to my Mom. You see, my Mom is the most important person in my life. She went through hell with my Dad, he was very abusive, and I was too shy and scared around him when I was a kid, and because of that, I want nothing bad ever to happen to her. Sometimes, you know, I won't let her hug me, or I'll just stay in my room all day.
I addressed all these problems two months ago, around Christmas time, when I went to the doctor and he got me on Clomipramine, and I stopped drinking. It wasn't hard for me, I never have the urge, but I am very wary given my Dad's penchant for the stuff. I was doing fairly well, I started research on a book I was going to write, I had money left over from a warehouse job I'd been working - the plan is/was to write this book and send it off to the world, or at least BC, and be the recipient of untold accolades. You know, so finally people can see the workings of my head, laud the thoughts, that sort-of thing. I've been putting in eight-ten, sometimes twelve, hour writing days, and my Mom's been totally supportive, but she's always been that way with me. She's never doubted me, and she showers me with an incredible amount of love.
But the writing hasn't been coming. I wrote short-stories all throughout my time in Montreal and my friends and peers were always congratulating me on them, so I've invested my all into doing this piece of prose. But it hasn't been coming. I've been rewriting the same pages for six weeks now. And yesterday, I felt like I was visited by a very cruel truth: that I would never write. I've invested every fibre of my body to this, and I can't perform. My whole life lost meaning very, very quickly. I had eight beers, then went out to a bar and had another pint, and I was kicked out of the place for being too drunk. I drove back home. When I woke up, I had forgotten the actual process of my getting into bed and going to sleep, and now, once again, I am convinced that I have solicited sex from an HIV + person off the street. And today, I feel extremely lousy. I've been crying all day without stop, and my Mom's out of town, I'm not really able to talk to my Dad, my friends have more or less moved on with their lives, and I've been home by myself without anyone to talk to. I feel so empty, and so useless, and really like a disgusting person. I'm afraid for my Mom, too. I don't want her to get infected by me. I can't even imagine hugging her or anything, because of this.
Very long-winded I guess, but I can't help it, I have no one to talk to, and I just came upon this forum and I couldn't help but spill my guts. I feel weak in so many ways, and really, I don't even remember what I used to be like. But I'm also so fundamentally lonely, deeply, deeply lonely in ways that hurt so much, but I'm afraid, at this point, to leave my house, just as I am afraid to touch someone now, even though I have so much love in my heart, but I don't know what to do with it. I've never really been sincere ever. Like I said, I always thought I was a rebel, or absolutely punk rock. It's real dumb saying it, but I used to try to live my life like that. Now, though, I feel like I'm six years old, absolutely afraid of everything. If I can't write, I just don't much see a point in anything.
I'm not so desperate I'd do anything to my life, I can't do that, but the pain is really quite strong. I'm very sorry to bog you all with a response like this. And, if it's the case, I'm just a stuck-up smart-allick kid with unrealistic expectations and my feelings are the result of some spoiled sense of entitlement, then please just leave this message. I just really wanted to say what's on my mind.