Those of you who read my bio know I’m depressive. You probably don’t know I was bullied for a long time, nothing grave, just children being innocent, and thus assholes. I entered psychological therapy to deal with my anger issues and general misery when I was thirteen. It was then, though I didn’t know, that I met the person I trust the most in my life, my psychologist.

Funny that, at the beginning I only went because of patient confidentiality, I had trust issues, I still do. But I’ve come a long way, I may be slightly unsociable, I may like solitude a bit more than is healthy, but I am a much happier and healthier man.

When I was fifteen I had nearly dealt with my anger, and I was no longer bothered by the actions that previously had hurt me so much. As I said before, there had been no malice in the bullying. It was a great year, both mentally and in matters of school, my best academic year in fact. I even had a solid ten out of ten in Literature. But my issues had just started.

Next year I fell in depression. It is my theory, and my psychologist says it is possible, that my anger had displaced my depression and when I dealt with anger, it was depression’s turn. Depression is curious, at least the one I went through. I was less sad and more apathetic, too apathetic to actually suffer much in fact, but it still was no way to live. My psychologist sent me to the psychiatrist and I began to medicate. One of the medications had, how to say it, growing pains and gave me the worst month of my life. Everything I had ever worried about came back with a bang I couldn’t stand silence because it would make me think, and suffer.

But I persevered, I kept taking my medications and I recovered. For the past five years I have worked hard to rebuild my life, to learn to trust again, to enjoy life, to be loved. And I’m still working on my self-steem issues and lack of socialising.

Writing was both good and bad. Bad because it brought me stress, good because for the first time in a decade it felt like I was doing something productive, something to share with others. But seven, nearly eight, years of hard work to repair my flaws is tiring. By June I was feeling exhausted, tired of living, of working. I felt frustrated with my perceived lack of progress in the past year. Just going through life was becoming painful, much less writing.

I broke down crying, twice. I cried in front of my parents because I knew they loved me but I didn’t feel like it, because I didn’t trust them. I felt like they had failed me in those years, for not having gotten me help earlier. Then my father told me of how he cried in front of my tutor for half an hour, of how I was the one he had cried for the most in his life. And I felt loved, for the first time in over ten years. Then I broke crying in front of my brother, for the same reasons, but he spoke of how he had worried about me. Of how he had asked if I had been bullied, at the time I still felt I had to deal with my issues alone so I had hidden it. So well nobody knew, I’m a very good actor.

And they all told me that my standards were too high, that I wished to be too perfect. And I’ll admit I’m a perfectionist and they were right. I expect more of myself than of everyone else, to the point that it is impossible for humans to be that good. I’m working of that unreasonable expectations.

So my psychologist told me one thing for the summer. To rest, to let go of all responsibilities, duties, and desires. To just spend my days as I wished. And I’ll tell you that she knows what she’s doing. It worked, by September I was rested and ready to deal with life again.

But a problem arose. I had rested yes, but I hadn’t told you guys that fact. So for who knows how long you were disappointed at the lack of updates. And I could have remedied that with a few minutes off writing, but I never bothered. So I was ashamed, that I had let down those who had followed me. For good reasons, but still.

So I have procrastinated for the past ten days, worrying both about you and the quality of my story. Which I doubt is very good now that I look back beyond my previous writing streak. I wrote more in two months than others in years and it shows.

So what made me break out of this and begin writing this. An hour ago I received news that a friend from school had had a heart attack and died, and it got me thinking. I just felt I needed to deal with you guys, I didn’t want to have regrets. A few minutes ago my father realised that he had made a mistake, it wasn’t my friend but his brother. But that didn’t matter, the feelings I had when I received the news of the death of a friend were real, as were my tears. And I do not feel that they were wasted either, everyone deserves for someone to cry for them. Even if I didn’t know him.

So that is it. I’ve explained everything that happened these past few months. I can’t guarantee when I will return to writing, or what I will do when I do so. Whether to rewrite, to keep on, or to temporarily move onto other stories and return once my skills have improved... I don’t yet know.

But I can guarantee one thing. I will keep writing, and this story will always have a special place in my heart. I will one day finish it.

So I thank you for your support, ask for forgiveness, and hope you lived fulfilled lives. My best regards, a Reluctant Writer who is not so reluctant anymore.