Beneath The Bottle

Tag: beneath the bottle

  • When The Words Wont Come

    When The Words Wont Come

    Where do you go when you can’t pick up the phone?

    When asking for help feels impossible, when it’s easier to curl up in a ball, crying and begging some unseen force to save you from a pain that no one can see or measure.

    How do you move past the deep unworthiness that sits inside, that lack of self-regard? Even if reaching out for help were possible, those professionals can’t fix me or cure me. That has to come from within.

    But even when every part of me wants to feel human, to live as others manage, to do the simple everyday things that are taken for granted, the pain swells through my body. The darkness creeps in, and before I know it, my whole being feels tormented. Tortured by fear, pain, loss, and a longing to belong somewhere in a world full of people.

    My favourite one-liners are “I’m ok” and “I’m fine.” I hide behind them as though they’re twenty-foot walls made of reinforced steel. The hurt hides behind my smile, the pain sinks beneath the laughter with friends. I throw myself into supporting others, being the shoulder to cry on, the hand to hold, the comfort in someone else’s despair. It’s easier to show up for others than to admit how drained I feel inside.

    Because the truth is, the life within me feels like it has been quietly draining away. That all too familiar feeling of severe depression looms again, ready to steal what little hope I have left.

    Tears come easily these days.

    Today, I went to see a potential home for my daughter, a supported-living place that on the surface seemed ideal. But the area held too many painful memories for me. And the thought of her moving away, of leaving the only family she’s ever known, broke me. The decisions I have to make rest so heavily on my shoulders.

    For context, my daughter is twenty-three. She has severe learning disabilities and autism. She cannot read or write, she needs one-to-one support all the time, has no awareness of danger, and needs to be kept safe. She lives at home with me and her brothers, but her attachment to me is so intense that she struggles to let anyone else close. She doesn’t tolerate her brothers being near me. They can’t sit on my chair, touch my phone or computer, or hug me. We live in a constant state of anxiety, fear, and stress. A move is urgently needed, but she’s my daughter. It has to be as positive as possible, and the transition will be so hard.

    Tonight, I sit here trying to find the words, but they feel out of reach. My creativity feels distant, like a friend who’s stopped answering the door. I’m left questioning myself again, wondering whether I still have something worth saying.

    Music has been my thin blanket tonight, fragile but comforting all the same. I’ve been listening to All I Ever Am by The Cure. Their music evokes so much emotion; it always seems to mirror exactly what I’m feeling, the struggle to find a sense of self. There’s a song for everything, every mood, every emotion. I speak to people through music. The power it holds is immense. Without it, I don’t think I’d survive. It’s the only thing that can lift me from a depth of no return.

    So tonight, I sat alone. Music playing, tears flowing. Somewhere deep inside, I wished the pain spreading through me would stop before it consumed everything. The thought of going on brought fresh tears, fresh pain.

    Another day.

    But we only ever have one day, today.

    Yesterday has already gone. Tomorrow hasn’t yet happened.

    Today is the beginning, not the end.

    And so, I write. Even through the doubts, even when the words feel small. I write in the hope that reflection might offer a little light. A flicker of something that still believes that maybe, just maybe, I can keep going.

    If you’re reading this and any of it feels familiar, please know you’re not alone. There is always someone willing to listen, even when it feels impossible to reach out.

    In the UK, you can call Samaritans on 116 123 (free, 24 hours a day), or text “SHOUT” to 85258 to message with someone who will listen quietly, without judgment.

    Sometimes the smallest act, a message, a word, a song, can keep the light alive a little longer.

  • A Quiet Win

    A Quiet Win

    Tonight I found a small moment of gratitude in one of the places I least expected it; mid-game.

    Gaming has always been my escape. When I’m sitting at my PC, headphones on, everything else fades out. The noise in my head quiets for a while, and I can just be. I get competitive, I lose myself, and sometimes I even surprise myself with what I can do.

    Tonight, a random player; someone who doesn’t know me, my story, or anything about my life, called me a really good player. It’s not the first time that’s happened, but for some reason, this one stuck. It was just a few words spoken over the microphone, but it felt genuine. Real.

    In real life, when someone I know gives me a compliment, I usually find a way to twist it in my head. I convince myself they’re just being kind, or saying what they think I need to hear. But when it’s from a stranger, someone who has no reason to lie or soften the truth, it lands differently. It feels honest. It feels earned.

    It’s strange, isn’t it? How validation from someone who doesn’t know us can sometimes carry more weight than from those who do. Maybe because it’s unfiltered, free from history, expectation, or obligation. Just one person acknowledging another.

    So tonight, I’m grateful. For a game that lets me lose myself. For a stranger’s words that reminded me I might actually be good at something. And for that small, quiet feeling that maybe, just maybe, I don’t have to question every bit of kindness that comes my way.

  • Growing Beneath The Bottle

    Growing Beneath The Bottle

    Some seeds grow in silence. Through connection and reflection, they begin to rise; slowly, softly, quietly until one day you realise how far you’ve come.

    There’s a saying I’d never really thought about until now: when you plant a seed, it doesn’t bear fruit the same day.

    Only recently have I begun to see how many seeds have been planted, both by me and for me, and how quietly they’ve been growing beneath the surface of my life.

    In these past months, words from others have lingered like rain, softening the soil around me. Small moments. Conversations , glances, shared truths have helped me act and reflect in ways I once never could. I’ve realised that without connection, our capacity to plant anything meaningful is limited. Isolation keeps us trapped in our own thoughts, rooted in stillness, repeating the same stories.

    But through connection, something shifts. Growth becomes possible, not all at once, but gently, like light spreading over still water at dawn.

    One seed that took root was the realisation that I had used alcohol for decades to numb my pain. I believed it could fix what was broken, but it only buried it deeper, covering cracks with temporary calm. Earlier this year, I reached out for help; a step that led to a medical detox. It wasn’t smooth or easy; growth never is. Life doesn’t move in straight lines. But slowly, I began to see that even in the hardest moments, new shoots can appear.

    Acceptance was another seed – the understanding that relapse doesn’t mean failure, it means learning. Now, sober, for today, I can look back and see the quiet influence of others. The gentle reminders, the shared stories, the encouragement that took root when I wasn’t even aware.

    Those small seeds have bloomed into something unexpected, fruit that nourishes me with knowledge, compassion, and patience. I’m harvesting lessons I didn’t know were growing.

    What I’ve also come to see is how one seed can start a chain reaction, a quiet domino effect of growth. A single moment of honesty, a small act of reaching out, can set something in motion we might never see fully. One seed takes root, then another, and soon what began as a single act of connection becomes a field of change. The words someone once shared with me became my turning point,and now, in sharing my own, maybe another seed begins to stir somewhere else.

    Maybe you’ve planted seeds too. Quiet moments of change that haven’t yet shown their bloom. Stay with them. They’re growing, even if you can’t see them yet.

    And if you’re in that quiet stage; where nothing seems to grow, you’re not alone. The roots are there, waiting. Together, we’ll keep watering them, one sunrise at a time. Beneath the bottle, there’s always room for roots to take hold.