The idiots guide to avoiding death at the hands of a depressive

Never sell a positive you can’t guarantee, never reassure someone when there is no hope to repair a situation

Idiot: It’ll get better, you’ll meet someone one day

Depressive: I’ve been single for double digit years and that’s the third person to reject me this month

Idiot: Plenty more fish in the sea

Depressive: I’m going to die alone

Idiot: Never give up hope, there’s someone for everyone

Depressive: (lifting heavy object)

Idiot: (no longer conscience and now bleeding from a head wound)

Selling false hope to a depressive is the equivalent of telling a terminally ill patient they will have a long and healthy life, que the lack of a positive response and some heavy sighs from the nearest intelligent person!

Don’t offer pointless and useless help, advise or assistances

Idiot: Here; have this cuddle, and you know you can tell me anything

Depressive: Don’t touch me, or I’ll hurt you

Idiot: Don’t be like that, I am here to help you and listen

Depressive: I don’t want to talk to you, go away

Idiot: I want to help you with my love and caring attitude

Depressive: Ok; so I offended a co-worker because they were a whiny bitch, lost my job and the boss told me I was ‘too morbid’ and should ‘care more about others’ like the person who couldn’t take a little joke about suicide that wasn’t even that bad and just because I was holding a knife to my wrist I am a ‘risk to the business’….. (etc etc)

Idiot: (Endless screaming as the mental health nurse sedates them)

Pointless and useless help is not useful, blindly damning and is it bound to cause aggravation and stress; yes!

The new definition of pain you feel as either 1; they take you up on your offer but you are wholly not prepared for the fire storm of crazy, or 2; they are using you as an emotional punching bag to release all that pent up crazy

So ask yourself if you really thought it was a good idea, as the mental health nurses reassure you that you might recover the ability to sleep without nightmares one day

Don’t mollycoddle

Depressive: I don’t need your sympathy

Idiot: You going to be ok, do you feel ok

Depressive: Do you have eyes, I just showed you where I was cutting myself

Idiot: I think you need a hug, lets have a hug and make it all feel better

Depressive: If you do I’ll…

Idiot: You really need a hug don’t you, tell me what’s wrong and get over here

Depressive: No, but you are going to need a medic

Idiot: (flying across the room as a fist hits their face)

Depressive: Well that actually helped

Idiot: Why are there two of you, I can’t hug two of you and the cartoon monkey is telling me…

Depressive: I BROKE ANOTHER ONE; SORRY

In the art of dealing with depression you don’t crowd, placate or offer hollow sympathy (unless the last time a depressive punched you it really did damage!) but accept that distance is the best part of wisdom

A beverage, some space and distracting humour are by far wiser strategies

Untitled and Condemned

A line of blood on her perfect face, such crafted violence in the slight cut across her cheek
He draws back a fist with slow motion emotion, each rush of crazy a fire streak in his veins
She crafts with words a barbed deflect of something akin to hellish fire, slow injection delivery
The rush of macho instinct conflicts with chivalry and respectful screaming, his fist held back
She projects with force a range of objects, the sharpness and breakability mere secondary concerns
He rushes her with hands to strangle wrists as close to her face he stands, breathe from both like fire on each other’s skin

Loves fire storm meeting in the stormy space between two sets of eyes, glowing as suns in the dark

Love a drug of epic proportions, in every warzone conversation with emotional casualties left strewn

Two willing victims signed up to their passion feeding cause, till death will they stand together

Even if standing together is akin to petrol and flame, explosive purity of feelings a fix they crave

It isn’t over

Lines in sand to end a decline
To end a sight of past pain
Rewrite the warnings and plant a new sign
Ignore the whole storm as you walk in the centre of the eye
Havoc wreaked as all around turns to ash with time
Death losing leverage as six-foot ditches become common sight
Wise folk run to avoid the ripping edge of the storm’s arching reach
You see not the fear but feel the will to fight
All fails in the blink of a lightning bolt from the blackened sky
You stand amongst electric grave stones and bathe in the dark
Others running but you laugh in tune with the swinging of deaths scythe
Till you see in the mirror what really makes the storm swirl
Ands its all that has become second nature to the excuse you call been alive
Not even a shiver of fear as it tells you clear in the midst of a swan like dive
Just what kind of a creature you have become
The rhythmic chaos with which every fibre of your words rhyme
That pain of knowing that despite sweet lies it isn’t over
As looking back you see an endless path marked by lines in the sand