Hello, It''s Me (I'm the Problem, It's Me)

 Hello.

My name is Evi. 

I am 36 (and a half) years old. 

I currently live and work in London but I'm originally from the Republic of Cyprus. 

I had to distinguish the Republic, as people don't often know - or realise - that my country is one of the few countries on the planet, that are actually split in half. But that's a story for a later post. 

I have started this blog because...well, because I have nowhere to speak really. 

I have been living in the UK permanetly for the past 7 years (nearly) and I've managed to gain all but one true friend. A Portuguese woman, who, I don't call as often as I'd like. 

But there's a reason for that...

Depression. 

In the seven years I've been living here, six of those I've been on antidepressants. I was diagnosed with severe depression and suicidal thoughts and tendencies in early 2017 and with PTSD in late 2019. 

In these seven years, I have also been diagnosed with Diabetes Type 2 - which I'm doing everything in my power to avoid and trigger it every way I can. 

I'm a high functioning person with anxiety. 

I work full time from home and my living environment is severly toxic. 

My partner, who's 19 years my senior, is an active drug abuser (Class A), and he usually uses in my presence twice a week. 

I have strained relationships with my family back home - remember the PTSD bit I mentioned above?  - so my living circumstances, in some respect, are better here in the UK, being as far away from them as I possibly can. 

I was brought up in a verbally and physically abusive household: my dad was verbally abuse towards me because of my weight and my brother was physically violent towards me until I was 28 years old. 

My relationship with my dad and mom has suffered severely in the last few years, but we're all actively trying to repair it. 

I am no longer in contact with my brother however, as the last time I saw him in one of my rare visits back home, he became verbally abusive towards me in front of my partner, his wife and my mom. 

I guess...I'm a mess. 

And I have the need to write and speak my story. My truth. I have been extremely lonely and isolating a lot in the past years. People either irritate me or drain me to my very core. But somehow, when I'm around them I can be described as the epitome of gayness in social environments. 

I've also developed a severe case of hoarding - books mostly - but this is proving to be a severe issue, as I live in a one bedroom flat in Zone 2, with hardly any space for the - nearly - 2,000 books I've managed to somehow accumulate. 

I'm also a big foodie - or as people in Overeaters Anonymous like to call themselves, food addict - which often leads me to either binging on unhealthy foods or starvation. 

Once again...the word 'mess' comes to mind when I think about my situation. 

Thirty six years on this planet. 

And I have nothing to show for, for myself. 

Nothing but an abundance of pain and hurt, misery and self-loathing. 

All I know, is that I've always wanted to write. 

So here I am. 

I will try to write, as often as my depression will let me. 

It often consumes me to my marrow, gripping me so tight, it's asphyxiating. And I often find myself drowning in it's blackness. 

But for what is worth, I am here. Now. 

And I've started. 

Somehow.