Wrestling and Depression Part 3 (ROCK BOTTOM…ROCK BOTTOM…BAH GAWD KING HE’S BROKEN IN HALF)

Fuck knows.

I suppose its difficult to write about these things without sounding like a self involved pain in the arse, but its not like that. For so many years when the depression had its firmest grip, I achieved nothing in life, and took nae risks in an effort to stay in my wee cocoon of fuck all. Writing about the way I feel right now, and keeping in touch with any possible rhyme or reason for it feels like the only way to stop myself going back to that place. Understanding why my brain feels like its in a vicegrip of despair and working through it feels like the only way. So regardless of whether you think my words mean anything, they’re going out there. I have fuck all to lose and everything to gain from writing this stuff down, and considering how reticent I once was to even talk to people I trusted about this, that’s saying a lot. So aye…here it is, rock fuckin bottom.

Fuck…

Folk assume when you say you’re at “rock bottom” its to do with going off the rails. Hitting the drink, drugs, or a combination of both with a dash of bleach added in, as hard as you possibly can, and getting chucked oot a pub for pishing on somedys Granda, mistaking him for a urinal cause of the beautiful ceramic shine aff his baldy dome, but thats not what it is. A lot of the time such antics are characteristics of other folk reaching their own personal bottom, but everyone has a different point where they realise “fuck…disnae get lower than this”. This is mine. Today is mine. This is my nightmare. I’m back where I never wanted to be, and it’s fuckin terrfying. I call it the darkness, cause that’s what it is. Its almost like theres a wee camera up in my brain and I can check in every now and then and see how it is. Right now all the doors are shut, blinds are drawn and its up there on its own. Nae creativity. Nae drive. Nothing but anxiety, sadness, emotional instability, and bad memories exist. The only other thing that exists outwith that are these words. They’re the only things connecting me in my current state to anything. At the present moment anyway. The other thing that connects me to humanity in this state is a fuckin ridiculously OTT, stupid form of entertainment, that we all should have grown out of a long time ago. ITS FAKE. Have ye not heard? Its all pre determined, and the chairs they hit each other with are spray painted sheets of candy floss. You’ve been HAD.

The thing I’m on about is of course professional wrestling.

With one belt shot to the head on Saturday, Mark Coffey took away the numbness. As Doug Williams lay across Marks stricken brother Joe for the 1,2,3…for a 5-10 minute spell I felt it like I did when I was wee. Even though I’ve been crying out for The Coffeys to feud for ages, Mark broke his brothers heart. Mark tore his family apart in the name of Polo. Mark is Fredo. You broke his heart. HOW COULD YE!

Feeling that in the way that it was intended to be felt reminded me I was still in there. The numbness and darkness came back, but for a wee spell I was awake. It was rerr. It was wrestling. It done its fuckin job. That night was probably as low as I’ve ever been. That was rock bottom. Lying flat on my back. Staring at a ceiling like like a dirty big cliche. The worst thoughts came back. The ones about no being here anymore. I’m not suicidal btw. Before alarm bells go aff in anyone. Thats not what this is. I’ve only ever seriously thought about that one a few occasions. Theres a difference between planning your own death, and being able to think about dying without fearing it. Being able to think about it as a sort of release.

Those are the kind of thoughts I used to have a lot. And they’re back. The recurring thought is stepping off the edge of…something. I dont know if its a building or what. It’s just a surface, but I step off and just fall. Endlessly fall. Into fuck all. A white sheet of nothingness. Its liberating and scary all at once. My brain prefers that fantasy to the reality of life, and it prefers it at a time where things are awrite. I’m on a course I don’t hate, and the writing is going about as well as it could be. Yet here we are. Thinking about fucking…death. Weirdly the usual fantasy has been accompanied by a different one lately. One that makes me fuckin laugh, cause it shines a wee light on this wrestling obsession. The new one is the same scenario as the old one, but instead of falling into nothing, its tables. I jump off the edge like i’m gonnae cannonball into a pool, but instead its tables. Going through them at a rapid rate. Table after table. Its become a counting sheep type of thing I do to fall asleep, and it makes me fuckin smile for some demented reason, so I actually dont mind that one. More for its ridiculousness than anything else.

Then Sunday rolled round, and for various reasons the thought of going to ICW in Birmingham was not something I looked forward to. There are only two folk in the world I would have gone with, and thankfully the one that throws a different body part at Paul London every time she sees him for “A BYOOTIFUL SOUVENIR!” wis there wae me. So off we went. It was fine. Highs and lows and that. The usual boredom travelling, but it was awrite. I dipped between numb and antagonistic for most of it before the show. Then the show came and completely drew me in. Damo vs Dave Mastiff was as special an atmosphere as I’ve been a part of and it was another one of those moments where our wee pocket of regulars felt like the the away fans. Crowd at fever pitch for their local-ish boy, with a small band of Scottish folk screaming for a large hairy Irishman. It was rare and for a while fuck all else mattered.

When I’m like this I tend to avoid things like eye contact, or making any sort of effort with fuckin anyone. Folk spoke to me on Saturday and Sunday, and I have nae recollection of any of it. Folk I consider pals. Fellow fans of the thing I love. But its like my brain is a bouncer, and unless yer one of the few folk I trust, it will lift ye up by the armpits and usher ye out the side door. Sometimes I can slap a fake smile on and get through it, but other times I just want the conversation over as quick as possible. Its not an excuse for ignorance. But its true. Thats why apart fae the chief antagonist in my life (both mentally and physically) Davie is probably the only true friend I had until a year and a half ago. Now I have UPWARDS OF 4. So that’s improvement. That shows something got better to open that door and that shouldnt be understated or forgotten. Remembering all these wee improvements and remembering how I felt when they were happening is another way of keeping my heid above water while this is at its worst. Folk might wonder how I’m able to even go to any shows if its so bad. I’ve still been doing everything. I’ve missed a few days of my course, but I’ve been keeping up to the best of my ability. Dunno why im justifying this here like, but it doesent take the same physical toll as it did, and as long as I dont feel on the brink of a panic attack, and I can get out and do what I’d usually do. The only reason for not doing so, is not being able to deal with feeling numb when doing things that usually make you feel EVERYTHING. So the Mark Coffey betrayal and Damo vs Mastiff were almost therapeutic in a way. The real me chapping on a windae and giving the current tube a wee wave.

Weirdly it was something I seen on British Bootcamp that brought this feeling full circle and convinced me to write about it. A beautifully heartfelt ‘audition’ from Viper, speaking of being “broken” and how people see her as damaged because of what she’s been through in life, but being “broken” is far from a bad thing. Pain is good. Pain teaches a lot more than pleasure does. Pain isn’t selfish. Pain is willing to share itself with anyone who shows it weakness. Pain is the best and worst thing anyone will ever experience. Some people romanticise it and turn it into a positive as a defence mechanism and those people are know to the rest of us as “stand-up comedians” . I’m more of a sit doon comedian personally, but I understand why folk roll out that cliche. That good standup comedians are all deeply troubled. I always find some of the funniest shite I can dream up happens when I’m low. Not low tae this extent right enough, just even a wee bit off colour. So that makes sense. Those who romanticise pain also gravitate to pro wrestling, as as Viper so eloquently put. For a lot of us, pro wrestling is everything. Its given us friends, family and a reason. Its given us night after night of entertainment, and for me personally, this weekend, it made me feel human again.

 

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One thought on “Wrestling and Depression Part 3 (ROCK BOTTOM…ROCK BOTTOM…BAH GAWD KING HE’S BROKEN IN HALF)

  1. really strong and inspirng piece.

    no blowing smoke up yer arse to sound like a wanky philosophical book agent. Just genuinely impressed with the strength it took to write pieces round about depression and out it out there. Hardest thing people tell you is “its good to talk, you should talk to people about it” and inside you feel like “aye nae bother thats coz its no YOU going thru this”. So genuinely heartfelt admiration for the strength and the grip that you have on the world ma man.

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