Craig Chats: Taking Responsibility

Taking Responsibility 

I don’t recall the exact moment I decided to start taking responsibility for my own mental health, but I do know that 2019 has become the first chapter (or, the first chapter to get to the point) of a journey that will probably last a lifetime.

For as long as I can remember, I have wanted to be an author. There hasn’t been anything else; no other dream job that I craved, or passion that I wanted to follow. I am a writer. I am a creative. I am an author. I truly believe that’s what I’m supposed to be doing with my life (as well as worshiping the dark lord and single handedly keeping KFC afloat) but, unfortunately, I am also the sufferer of mental health issues. 

These two things, as common as they are to find sitting next to one another, do not mix well…especially if you don’t put the effort in to keep them from fighting.

As of the time of this post I haven’t released a book in an entire year. I’ve not only let down the people who once called themselves my fans, but I’ve let down my partner, the friends I’ve cancelled on because I’ve been too worried about my income to do anything, and, perhaps most importantly, I’ve let down myself. 

For the longest time I have been caught in a vicious cycle of doubting myself, seeking comfort, getting a fleeting high off the kind words/reassurance that people give me, then not making any progress in the time before the process repeats. I blamed this on everything but myself; I treated my mental state as some uncontrollable force that I cannot change (or attempt to better) and I let myself become a victim to my own thoughts—and, admittedly, somewhat enjoyed relinquishing myself of all responsibility in the process.

And, frankly, I’m sick of myself. 

I’m sick of my own excuses. I’m sick of seeing myself post “hey everyone! Little delay because of X/Y/Z” and I’m sick of continually letting down every single person that ever put an ounce of faith in me because the truth is, I’ve had every opportunity to go and get mental health help and I have chosen to sit on my ass and do nothing for years.

I have become co-dependent on my partner, isolated myself and ignored every hand that reached out my way when it came to bettering myself. I have told doctors that I’ll “check in next week” only to cancel the appointment the day of, and I’ve lied about it to both my partner and my friends. I’ve done this for years, and while my anxiety and depression are things that I may never fully have under my control, they ARE things I should be attempting to control. 

I wouldn’t willingly lie in the middle of a road and let a car run over me. Why the fuck have I been letting the mental equivalent happen every damn day when all I had to do was head over to the sidewalk? 

You know, I’ve spoken about my addictive tendencies before, and if I’m going to be brutally honest with myself, I think I’ve been addicted to the rush that my anxiety gives me. I think I’ve been reveling in the chaos of my own mind and that I’ve secretly enjoyed the panic attacks, stress, and drama that I’ve created for myself within my head. I think that, in some sick, twisted way, I’ve found comfort in being an emotional wreck because it takes away the responsibilities of adulthood. I have something to blame for my mistakes, and I have excuses not to do things. 

And that’s not right. Or fair. Or justified. Not when I have every resource available to me to at least attempt to change. Not when other people are out there fighting for their lives against this stuff.

So, that’s what I’m doing this year. Seeking help where I need it, doing the shit that needs to be done, and forcing myself onto those goddamn train rides to go to my goddamn appointments because I know I can fucking do it when it needs to be done.

No. More. Excuses.

Craig Chats: Adventures With Anxiety

Adventures With Anxiety

Going into this article I was faced with two choices—

1.      Write a silly, fluff piece on why my dog is the lord of the cosmos

2.      Reach into the blackness of my soul, through my ass, past the many travelers that got lost while pounding my beef wellington (there’s an entire resort up there now) and write something from the heart.

I’m doing the second.

This doesn’t really have anything to do with the MM genre, or the community in general—but it’s a recent (and lifelong) experience I’ve had, and I think writing about it may bring me some semblance of catharsis. So, without further ado, welcome to my adventures with anxiety.

For those of you who follow me on Facebook (https://www.facebook.com/craigbarkerauthor) you might’ve seen that I went to visit a psychiatrist for the very first time this past week. This is because my HIV doctor spotted the crazy leaking out of me during my bi-yearly visit and asked me if she could forward me to the mental health clinic in the same building. I said yes. She set it up. Blah blah blah.

Now, the journey to the clinic in the city from my small town (which sits midway up a hill) was enough to induce a panic attack. But before we get into that mess, I want to explain exactly what I mean when I say I have anxiety.

When I was 11, I wanted to be an actor. I joined a young acting group and spent 3 years there outside of school. I made friends, and in the entire time I was there I participated in around 4 plays—with several showings for each one. However, even then I could feel the physical shakes coming on just before the curtain lifted. I could feel myself beginning to tremble, but put it down to adrenaline and stage-nerves—nothing too out of the ordinary.

Little did I know that 10+ years later, this would happen every day.

Now, at 25 years old, I can’t exchange money in a shop without shaking. I can’t leave my house without thinking of every possible scenario that may play out. I live in constant state of fight or flight, and even a few seconds of thought given to the act of public speaking renders me a mumbling mess.

Anxiety has ruled my life since I was a teenager. It’s stopped me from pursuing other options in my career. (I’ve had panic attacks in every job interview I’ve ever been to) And it’s prevented me from taking trips with friends.

To put it in the words of my psychiatrist (but meaning no disrespect to those who have worse things to deal with on a daily basis) “It’s disabling.”

Now, if you do follow me and my posts (and live videos) you may wonder where this comes from. After all, I don’t come across as anxious (I don’t think) on the internet—and I want to clarify that it’s not an act. The way I behave on FB and the way I interact with people is how I would behave and interact in real life—but the fact I’ve built up years of connections and bonds with a lot of you is WHY I’m able to go live on FB and do silly things. It’s WHY I cherish this community so much—this place is my safe space where anxiety is a fleeting memory. But when I step outside that front door to go to the shop, none of that matters. My heart races, my palms sweat, and my hands shake.

Sometimes getting a carton of milk feels like the end of the world. And that’s a shame, cos I fucking love milk.

I’ll segue here for a second for those that were wondering what visiting a psychiatrist entails (at least, in the experience I’ve had)—

1.      I told her my life story starting from the age of 9

2.      I told her the first time I felt anxiety, and about those in my family that I’ve noticed have it too

3.      She spoke a lot about breathing techniques, which in all honesty I find useless

4.      She told me to tell myself that it doesn’t matter if I shake while I’m shaking, which again, I find useless.

5.      She wants to put me on beta blockers to calm me down, which may be helpful if I can find the right combination that works with my HIV medication

6.      Overall, talking to her was a huge help, but a lot of the information she gave me wasn’t anything I hadn’t researched myself over the last 10 years. The medication is the only real (practical) benefit I can see coming out of this.

When I told my psychiatrist, out loud, that I have only left my home in wales without Pete twice in the last two years, she gave me a look of both astonishment and pity. I could see in her eyes that she felt sorry for me, and she was quick to tell me I should’ve sought out help much, much sooner. Which I know—of course I know I should have. But anxiety prevented me from making that hour-long trip so many times. And even though I’ve done it now, I know the struggle won’t be much easier when I go again in September. You see, my little town only has ONE hourly bus that goes MIDWAY toward the city, then I have to change (and the wait between changes is around 30 minutes) before I can get to the clinic. Overall, it’s a 2-hour trip for what is about a 40-minute drive away. And doing that alone, monthly, for the foreseeable future…it’s almost enough to give me a panic attack just thinking about it.

So, what’s the point of all this? Well, there isn’t one—not really. These are just the ramblings of someone going through something that he doesn’t want to go through anymore. Anxiety has been the man behind the curtain, pulling the strings, for as long as I can remember. It’s stopped me from doing so much with my life, and I’m hoping that talking about it with a professional (and getting pumped full of drugs) will eventually rid me of this plague, or at least stop the shaking that comes about every time I speak with someone who isn’t a close friend.

Once again, I’d like to thank the community for all the support I receive on a daily basis. Whether it’s joking about bukkakes on my timeline, or posting pictures of food all over my newsfeed—being a part of this place means the world to me, and it’s pretty beneficial to my mental health. Words can’t express how much that means to me.

PS. If you have any experience with psychiatrists and/or dealing with anxiety (and don’t mind sharing) please comment below. Your experience may help someone going through something similar. I’ll see you in two weeks <3