I hate my mental illness

I HATE having a mental illness! I hate the pain and confusion that it brings. And people can’t see these wounds and relate them to my, at times, unusual behaviour. I hate that people make judgements about my behaviour and that even I have trouble understanding my actions.s

This is one of those battles that happens for no reason and which I cannot explain, even when such reasoning is warranted or expected.

I hate the fact that the person who caused all this continues to wreak havoc on my life without knowing it. It feels like I am being punished over and over and over again.

Last Memory

I feel I should also mention that the last memory I have of my dad was at his wake. No-one knew for years that I was there.

I’m actually crying whilst I type this because you just have to read the words that I am typing, but after 30yrs thatĀ FINAL memory I have of him, lying peacefully in his coffin, as I stared down at his face, with a cloth over his forehead, hiding the bullet hole I knew was beneath it.

I knew that as a child this would be the last time I ever got to see my daddy. That memory is as fresh in my mind now as it was when it was made all those years ago.

As his murder was sectarian, I always believed that if the other side got hold of me they would kill me. I found out that most of the people there were from the other side. So, at the wake I made a decision to reserve my anger for those who murdered him and not judge or blame a society just because of the actions taken by a minor few who only had murder and hatred in their hearts.