baddeborah-blog

[baddeborah-blog]

Poor Me!

Our Debs is really kicking me in at the arse this week. When I say this week, I mean this year; and when I say arse, I mean crotch, repetitively and with a crow bar. Deborah of course is the cute name given to the voice in my head. The one inside my skin that tells me I'm not good enough. The snake like, seductive temptress that wants me to bite the apple of self loathing. The apple is comfortable. I've bitten through the tough skin time and time again, now I'm cosy in the rotten decay within. But back to the apple it's warm, comfortable why would I want to leave? I know that's a wanky analogy. But, let's be fair, depression is comfortable. Why would you want to get off the sofa when Netflix and self sabotage are there to keep you safe? What if you fell down the stairs and died, just because your grand thoughts got you out of bed?!

Look how gross you are, sat on the sofa eating like a pig. Have you even showered this week? This is why no one likes you.

I can't win can I Deb? Cunt.

Deborah has been in the driving seat during this delightful lockdown period. By the way Deb is very pleased to meet you, and simultaneously tells me I'm a dick for bothering to write this. Poor me!

I'd like to say she's had time off, buts she's so committed to her job, I doubt she's slept! Poor thing. Instilling doubt seems to be her favourite part of the day at the moment, before kicking back with her favourite film 'Every mistake you've ever made, ever.' When I say ever, I mean that in the most whole hearted, grotesque way possible. Every single interaction, played simultaneously. Then she throws on her favourite album, 'Every fuck up you've made' probably the disco extended edition she got from limewire. Yes, she is that girl.

I remember you random costa coffee lady with the warm smile... Or was it warm says Deborah, are you sure it wasn't sympathetic because you looked like shit? You usually look like shit actually, remember that time you looked like shit at that job interview? 'That's why you didn't get it, and why you'll never get another job ever again' she shouts over her disco megamix. She has an awful voice, but she just loves the sound of it. I think I do too.

Deborah, that woman smiled because I said her hair was lovely! But why would she want a compliment from you? Remember you're very awkward in public, she probably cringed when you complimented her. Off she goes, laughing manically but still maintaining her flawless appearance. I'm glad she's gone. But as always she leaved chaos in her wake.

Deb is a bitch. God she hates being called Deb.

Deb.

A cold hearted, want to take everything from you, bitch. She's also stunningly beautiful. So beautiful that she has this knack of quelling any beauty I feel about myself. She also has her friends Annie Anxiety, Leaving you Leona, Try harder Terrance etc etc etc, but let us not get into Debs multiple personalities, she doesn't like me doing that. I'm not sure that's particularly healthy for your other personality to have multiple personalities either...

For ease, we'll label them all under the umbrella of Dick head Debs from HR. Let's pretend she's that twat in the office who has perfect hair and somehow always smells divine. How does she have her life so together?!

Debbie and her personalities belong to me really, but some how separating them from myself makes this easier. After all, how else would you justify letting someone else tell you you're a dick all day every day for 15 years and not tell them to bugger off? So, this is me, shouting bugger off Deborah!

At least, starting to whisper it.

Poor me!

Poor depressed me, typing this sat in my house, with my heating on. Poor me, with my family around me, or at least at the end of the phone. Poor me, with a full fridge and money in the bank. But is that Deborah's voice I hear? Sometimes I'm not sure which one of us it is.

Yes, I am fortunate, but I'm also having a shit time. Poor me isn't wallowing, it's about accepting. My mind is tired and poorly and needs attention. It's been ignored and patched up with faddy meditation and medication for years. If I had a broken bone, I wouldn't keep using it and expecting perfect performance. So, why do I expect that from my mind?

This is day one, day one of real painful self care. Fuck bubble baths and face masks, this is facing the harsh reality, telling that dick head Debbie from HR to bugger off.