Breaking Brad

A different kind of struggle

Bradley. Brad. Braddles. Bradikins. Barry. Hanks. Hanky.

All names that I’ve been given by friends and peers over the years. Different things to different people, depending on who you ask. Some enjoy my company just as I am sure some do not. But who can really say? What I can say, though, is that there are some things that no-one knows about me. Do they belong in the public domain? Probably not. Do I care? Not really. I don’t care about much these days, anyway. But why don’t I care? Well, let’s start here:

I’m depressed.

Yep, I suppose I did just admit that. It’s not something that suddenly happened, though. It’s been on and off for a good few years. More off than on I would say. Lately it’s been a lot more “on”. It started when my pops died of course. I mean, who wouldn’t be affected by their father’s death? You learn to live with such things and over time the pain of loss begins to dull, even the loss of a parent. At least you have memories. Unfortunately, though, at the time of my father’s death, I made my first boo-boo.

I caused a rift in my family.

And it hasn’t been the same since. I don’t know why I did this, and believe me, it wasn’t intentional. It was one of those things I needed to get off my chest at the time, but in hindsight it would have been better kept to myself. You don’t need to know what “it” is but nevertheless, the two factions of my family I love the most never speak to one another as a result. I wish there was something I could do to bridge the divide, but I’m too scared too try.

That’s not so bad, though? Perhaps not in the bigger scheme of things, but it certainly has become a heavier burden to carry as the years stretch on. Well, what else?

Friends.

I guess you could say that I have many “good” friends that I could probably go to for anything and they’d happily oblige. They’re the type of friends, who, without having contact with them in yonks, would happily carry on where we left off. The type of friends that last a lifetime and who a lot of people, I’m quite sure, would love to have. I’ve made many friends. Friends I’ve grown up with, friends I’ve made throughout my career, friends of friends I’ve befriended. You name it.

But why am I bringing up friends? Well, it’s complicated. In the last year or two I’ve cooped myself up more and more. I don’t go out. I don’t go to birthdays. I try to socialise as little as possible. A side effect of being temporarily depressed I suppose. I don’t really know why I decline offers for socialism (is that a thing?), but I do. Perhaps I don’t enjoy being social as much as I did before. Perhaps it’s because my interests have changed and I don’t fit in anymore. Perhaps it’s because I always feel like the outcast. It’s not that I don’t want to spend time with them, when we do have moments together, in a group or otherwise, it’s still fun. Then I retreat back into myself.

There are friends who I still hold most dear, even though they don’t quite know it. Memories of times less complicated. I have a friend who’s father is dying of cancer, one of my oldest friends who I care deeply for, and I can’t even pick up the phone to ask him how he’s doing or if he’d like to go for a coffee. Why can’t I? Would he even care if I did? Perhaps it’s because I lost my own dad and I know nothing I could say or any sympathy I could offer would make any kind of difference. I’ve been so disconnected for so long that it feels normal not to try. Talking about disconnected.

I had an affair with a married woman.

A disconnect from my morals, if you were. Something I never thought I would do and something that goes against all my integrity as a human being, happened. It happened, and it’s the one thing I regret most in my life up until this point. In August last year, I went from a steep upward climb straight back down to zero. The judgement I unleashed upon myself was immense. I hated myself for doing it and I still do. It was not even the act that I regret the most, it was the decent man that I hurt in the process. A slap in the face to all the married and engaged friends I love and cherish. “Fucking idiot” doesn’t even begin to describe the adjectives that crossed my mind. The consequences of that one action still resonate with me today, almost a year later. I’ve locked myself away for so long and picked up 27 kilograms as a result. Good, I deserved it. I still hope to get over it and move on, though, but it’s incredibly difficult. As if that wasn’t bad enough, this happened:

The music died.

After the aforementioned actions took place, I couldn’t listen to music for months. I hated it. Music that I once loved just didn’t illicit any kind of emotional response. I felt dead inside. Perhaps I was. Words can’t describe how alien and scary “not liking music” is. Which brings me back to the first paragraph— I didn’t care. When you’re disconnected and your emotions feel jaded, you don’t care about much. Not family, not friends, not yourself. Oh, you do the daily routine, alright. Wake up, work, come home, sleep. Repeat. You just don’t do it with substance. With oomph. There’s no passion. You want to care, you want to feel, but it just doesn’t matter. You’re on autopilot and you’re going to crash.

I’m not sure if you can self-diagnose depression, but these few things certainly feel what it might be like. An unending burden that slowly crushes the life out of you. I have, however, decided to change it and there is one thing I’ve started to become sure of.

The music is starting to sound colourful again.