‘I have this horrible ‘running out of time’ feeling.'

‘I have this horrible ‘running out of time’ feeling.’

‘In what way?’

‘Like I'm running out of time to achieve things in life.’

‘What kinds of things?’

‘I don’t know. Anything.’

‘Name some.’

‘To write a book, to be an actor, to meet someone, to leave home, to get a job, to be a writer, to own a business.’

‘I feel it in my throat. Like someone's gripping my throat closed, and I can't breathe.’

‘That must be hard.’

‘But I don't know how I can be running out of time or what to focus on first or how to catch up - if that's even a thing. I just feel so breathless and like there's a weight on me.’

‘Have you tried mindfulness?’

‘Oh, not that flipping mindfulness nonsense again. Every one of you always suggests mindfulness to me whenever I talk about literally anything. But I often wonder if any of you actually do it yourself. Like have you done mindfulness? Do you practice it? Or did you just read about its “positive effects” on people like me and then start dropping it into conversations?’

‘Have you tried mindfulness?’

‘On and off over the years. I’ll get a streak going. You know, on those mental health apps that keep a tally of how many days in a row you’ve used their app. Suck you in with those things.’

‘And how far would you get?’

‘I don’t know. I’d usually stumble around day 5…6…4.’

‘And what do you think it is that stops you?’

‘It’s so damn hard, that’s what.’

‘What is?’

‘Waking up.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘I mean, waking up each morning knowing you have the same brain with the same diseases. The same body with the same wonky parts. And then pushing through that as if you’re just as well as the next unbroken person and go through your day, just trying to survive. Not just exist.’

‘Do you feel like you have to pretend that you’re like everyone else?’

‘Ha! I have no choice.’

‘Why would you say that?’

‘This world. The jobplace. The day-to-day workings of life. They aren’t built for people like me. And once you’ve spent enough time fighting and failing to try and get help to adapt your surroundings just to enable yourself to - the nerve of me - try and live like everyone else, you realise you’ve just got to numb your mind and simply try to get through each day.’

‘Trying to add mindfulness on top of that is like asking someone to file their taxes whilst giving birth.’

‘That’s quite the picture.’

‘Exactly. It makes no sense. It’s ridiculous. I’m already in agony, and now you’re asking me to add something else to it.’

‘Is mindfulness not a bit more relaxing than taxes, though?’

‘Fair. But it’s still unpleasant. And you can’t work it out all in one go. You have to work at it over time. Gradually collect receipts or whatever and add them all in. I don’t know, I’ve never made enough money to file my own taxes anyway. But you know what I mean. It’s just yet another thing to do. And it doesn’t really take effect until you’ve done it every day for like three months or something. People with my brain do not have the space to do that every day.’

‘So, what’s an average day like for you then? If there were such a thing as an average day.’

‘It’s pain. Not painful or unpleasant or difficult. Just pain.’

‘Can you elaborate?’

‘Every morning I wake up, and I have no idea how I will feel mentally or physically. I could have slept for fourteen hours the night before and wake up like a sack of potatoes is on top of me, and every limb weighs three tonnes. If that’s the case, then I sleep longer, eat nothing more than an apple or crisps if I’m lucky enough to reach the downstairs, and then I spend my day staring at a screen full of people living their lives, in fictional or non-fictional worlds, just waiting for my day to end.’

‘And mentally?’

‘Well, that’s a whole ‘nother beast entirely.’

‘In what way?’

‘Say it’s a Tuesday, and in the evening, I start thinking about tomorrow and what I’m going to get done. I want to write five hundred words, sit outside with the dog, maybe make myself some lunch, look for work. Whatever it is, I make a list. On my phone because my hands are too weak to write. Ironically. Then I go to bed all pumped, already picturing myself in the next day, typing away on my laptop, hanging out with the dog, whipping myself up a tasty lunch and maybe applying for a job. Then I fall asleep.’

‘And then?’

‘Well, then I wake up in a well.’

‘A well?’

‘All day, every day, it just feels like I'm falling down a well and the light keeps getting further away. As soon as I wake up, the falling starts again, and I can't stop falling. I keep hoping that someone will give me a foothold or something so I can stop falling for a second and breathe - and then hopefully climb back up again, but the longer things keep taking the more I keep falling, and the further away the opening keeps getting.’

‘I keep begging God to help, but I feel like He just doesn't want to do anything to help. And I want to try and help myself by filling my days with anything. Even if it's just crafts and stuff and not anything work-related. But as soon as I wake up, I just start falling again, and I can't think clearly enough or have any energy left to work out how to do anything else.’

‘Is it like this everyday?’

‘Most days.’

‘And how do you find yourself coping with that?’

‘People talk about doing a little bit every day and progressing/improving gradually. I just don't understand that concept. It doesn't make sense to me how people can be OK with gradually doing a little bit of something each day. I can't get past the idea that if I can't do it in one day, then why bother even starting.’

‘But on the other hand, I can understand how a little bit each day does add up. I just can't wrap my brain around actually doing that little bit each day and being OK with not seeing big progress right away. I feel like there's a big blockage between where I am now and the ability to work on something gradually. It just seems so foreign to me to do a small amount consistently, and wait for the results to show up over time.’

‘It sounds like you’re very aware of the types of steps that someone in your position would take to try and get themselves out of their circumstances. But maybe you’ve lost your way a bit along the journey?’

‘One hundred per cent.’

‘I feel like I just need to start. It doesn't need to be the perfect job or the perfect time or the perfect place, but maybe if I can just start, something will start happening. If I can just learn how to start and get a foothold, then things can start changing.’

‘But, I feel like I'm drowning, and I feel like I've been drowning for so long that I'm scared to see if I can stop. To try and fight the drowning and learn how to swim. It almost seems like too much of a fight, so why bother starting? Or that I've drowned too far and to get back would be impossible.’

‘I can understand why you would feel so torn. And so desperate for change.’

‘I worry people think I'm lazy or that I don't bother trying to help myself. I'm trying. I just don't know how to try anymore.’

‘That sounds like a tough position to be in.’

‘You have no idea. Well, maybe you do. But you know what I mean.’

‘I do.’

‘They say that the definition of insanity is doing the same thing over and over again and expecting things to change. Then why, after every day that is so beyond hard, do we go to bed and tell ourselves that tomorrow will be different? That tomorrow will be better.’

‘Because that's what hope is.’

‘Hope is looking at the pain you just went through for the 700th day in a row, begging God on your knees to save you from this horror and going to bed with the balm that tomorrow is new. Tomorrow is different. Tomorrow can be better.’

‘But what if it’s not? What if tomorrow is just like today?’

‘Then there's always another tomorrow.’