The Importance Of Accountability


This will be the last thing I put on the internet for a while. At least in article form. I hope it’s informative at least. It will not make you like me and in fact if you went in to this liking me you might not after. But that’s cool.

From the ages 13-24ish I was suicidal. In deep denial about it but suicidal. I did not give a shit about living for myself. Only thing that kept me alive between 18-24 was the dog. Before that I really didn’t know suicide was a proper option. As weird as that sounds. I thought that option belonged to an upper echelon of sadness that I wasn’t qualified to reach. Anyway. That is not hugely important it’s just a scene setter I guess. 

I’m not going to drone on about bipolar but I do have it and have had it since I was around 17-18. I’ve known since I was 23-24 and went from a very depressed and unproductive man to someone using the self esteem fuel from a good twitter response to my early articles to fuckin…write 45 articles a day. It felt like that anyway. It just would not stop. Yet I never chased a diagnosis for years nor did I ever tell any therapist of manic spells or any of that. Treat me for depression and fix it so I can be normal please.

No matter what I done I was still very lonely. Every person who’s ever got close to me I’m convinced they are deluded and will one day see what a prick I truly am. The good twitter feedback gave me an attachment to the place I still can’t get rid of. It gave me my best friend and so many others who are vital in my life. It gave me my partner of nearly 6 years. It gave me too much for me to know when to leave it alone.

I have to write about this a bit. Accountability is important. I emotionally abused that partner during this manic cycle. I was callous and hurtful. I refused to listen and continued being an absolute pest of a person. Still am. As much as I don’t identify with my behaviour as a stable person I am well aware it was all me. This is not an attempt at gaining sympathy or forgiveness. It’s an attempt at owning it without excuses. 

The mental health shit was horrible but she was trying to fucking hard to get me the help I needed and I done nothing but resist that help and betray her. I regret it and will always love her but I am fully aware of why that will never be reciprocated again and I can do nothing but respect that. Now. I was so deluded for so long I assumed it would all be fine and continued to fuck up in an attempt to make it fine when in reality. It never really could be again. I just needed to shut the fuck up. Section me and remove all stimulus so I don’t wreck the gaff. By gaff I mean life.

It was realising I wanted to die again when I was so settled in that relationship that really sent me into overdrive. Why? Not now please. I have so many reasons to live. Nothing really entered my mind when I was destroying it all so any attempt to excuse it or come up with reasons has been cowardly. A way of finding rhyme or reason for actions that didn’t have any. They were designed to hurt. 

I done the same to my wee mum. The only one who has always tried to help. The only one who saw the depression probably before even I did. I said horrible heinous things to her. There is no excuse for that either. I left a pile of victims and proceeded to blame them for everything while I wandered about Bearsden asking for sympathy cause I was homeless due to my own actions. My mother would never see me in that situation unless I’d really tore her to shreds and by god did I do that. I am so ashamed of it but I done it and it was no ones fault but mine.

That’s what accountability is but. I’ve been playing at it man. Admitting my shit and padding it out with reasons. Reasons in this context are still excuses. I was still doing that shit as recently as yesterday after my latest fuck up which hurt more folk. This is why but. This person said a bad thing first. Arsehole behaviour.

This won’t be an easy bit to write and again not an excuse. Over this period of madness a deeply buried memory resurfaced. It’s my story to tell. My pain to own. Too often I’ve taken the pain of others and decided to shoulder it. It’s wrong and not helpful. So is divulging that information to anyone else. I done all that bad shit. Taking my hurt out on people who done fuck all but try to help me. 

I was sexually assaulted when I was 8 years of age. It has also happened twice as an adult but neither of those times could be a root cause about me being weird about being touched since I was wee. None of it explains why I immediately piled weight on and isolated myself even back then. It happened and it’s okay. I am trusting the process right now and waiting patiently for counselling. I am also considering going back on medication because my moods and actions are still not in control at all. I like how creative being off everything makes me but loathe every other aspect of it. 

This is where I hope this is informative I guess. You can stop all this. There were stages where I could have halted it. I should have been sectioned and should have gone willingly. It would have fast tracked a lot of the stuff I’m waiting on right now such as proper counselling. Please listen if the people closest to you see you falling apart and are so concerned they feel you need serious help. I was so delusional I felt invincible for a while yet at the same time was convinced I’d die any day. It was scary as fuck. Admitting I’m truly scared has always been an issue for me though. It gets buried deep and out comes a huge arsehole. 

For so much of my life I have been nothing like the guy I wrote about above. Yet it was still somehow all me. For most of it I have been a very caring, kind and loving person. Supportive to a fault. Not bigging myself up too much because I feel anything but that guy right now but it is true. I am a good person at the core and someone who has the ability to be a positive influence on peoples lives. Basically I’m heavy nice right. Good to others. Yet still I done all this bad shit and blamed it on the fuckin pandemic or whatever. I won’t be that type of arsehole anymore. I’m not hiding from it.

Writing has always been the outlet but like with everything else in my life, I cared about it too much. It hasn’t been fun in so long because I put massive amounts of pressure on myself and care so much about what people think it colours every piece l do. This is the least I’ve cared about how something is received in a long time. It’s the truth and as honestly as I’ve written in a long time. There’s a bit of peace in that.

Guess that’s what I’m looking for. Peace. Mental clarity. A day where I don’t have a panic attack. All that shit stopped during the Bearsden spell and that’s because reality didn’t exist. I was in survival mode and living off adrenaline,

Nicotine and biscuits. On reflection I’d now call that period the worst of my life and without two of my dearest pals I would not have survived it. Every day I wanted to die but pretended I didn’t. They pulled me back from the brink constantly without even noticing. I didn’t deserve it but their loyalty and support kept me on this earth.

Right now I do not want to die. I am also an uncle again to the two lights of my life. Angels who will never see hardship if I have anything to do with it. Those two changed my whole outlook on life. I needed to be better for them so they have me forever. I needed to grow up and have a house of my own where I could babysit them. Be a real difference and not an occasional visitor. Be their uncle. 

I’m a brother again as well. That’s not something i thought would happen either and it’s all early days but my family are there for me again. They always were. I was just too off my fuckin rocker to see it. Somehow I’m accepted as a son again too but I see and understand the hurt my parents still carry.

It’s going to be really hard moving on. Necessary but so hard. I didn’t mean any of it and wish so much that I could go back and change it all but I can’t. I was a horrible partner for a small period of a long relationship but ANY period of doing what I done is too long. Years of soundness only matters if you keep that shit up. I was a horrible ungrateful son. Venom ridden. A terrible brother. An absent uncle. A lying shit of a friend. A bad bastard basically.

I’m not now. It is over. The mania is gone. Reality is here. It is time to leave it all in the past but I felt writing this was necessary. None of the other articles I’ve wrote about this have been anything like the truth. I’ve danced around it so much my feet are fucked. It was time to step in the shit. 

I’m getting the help I need to prevent this happening again but all of it is part of me now and denying that is not healthy. I’m here to own it. I’m sorry. 

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