Beneath The Bottle

Tag: mental health

  • The Last Fifty Minutes

    The Last Fifty Minutes

    Today, there’s a momentary pause while I try to find the words to do justice to something important, but also difficult to talk about. It feels as though the walls around me have closed in, suffocating the space, the air stifled by a heaviness. On Tuesday, my current therapy will come to an end. Eighteen months have passed, far from uneventful, but deeply significant. Mixed emotions consume most of my thoughts. The rational part of me always knew an end would come, yet there’s something about therapy that creates an illusion of timelessness. A space that feels almost TARDIS like, where time bends quietly in the background.

    Compiling these last eighteen months would be impossible; so much has transpired. But now, I need to write my gratitude, because my avoidant nature makes expressing it directly feel far scarier than setting it down in words. Sitting in that therapy room for my final session will be harder than any before. Harder, even, than the work itself.

    Most of all, I want to express my gratitude. Over the last twenty years, I’ve engaged in numerous stints of therapy with different therapists. Each has been wonderful in their own way, but this time has been the most enlightening and thorough of all. My therapist is, without question, gifted in her work. She has worked me harder than any before, with an attention to detail that reached into places I never thought could be seen. She gave me something rare, a safe space. And to feel safe, for me, is no small thing. It’s a testament to how comfortable she made me feel.

    Trust. Something I’ve struggled with all my life;  began to take shape in that room. For the first time, I could be completely honest about who I am, what I am, and all the pain I carry, knowing it would be met with respect and care. My biggest downfall in previous therapies was my inability to trust fully the well intentioned person sitting opposite me. I’d always withhold the most painful parts, desperate not to appear as destroyed as I felt inside.

    My inner thoughts have always scared me; saying them out loud has never come easily. If she had let me sit in silence for fifty minutes, I would have.  Content to let the session slip away without speaking. But she never allowed me to “just sit.” She invited me, gently and persistently, to voice the thoughts that hid in the corners of my silence. Together we unraveled so much unspoken pain and torment that had ruled my mind for so long.

    The end of therapy is making me sad. Is this normal? I’ve never felt such a pull of emotion at an ending before. They say people come into your life for a time, to help unravel and touch your world in ways that stay forever. And now, it must end. She has been a safety net, and from next week that will be gone. I’ll have to rely on the tools she’s helped me build, to hold myself steady through the storms. But I know that the absence of that reassuring, hypothetical hand on my shoulder, the silent reminder that I’m not alone, will be the hardest part.

    This week, the tears have come without warning. Mid walk, mid song, mid thought. It’s the knowing that therapy ends next week; that quiet fear of goodbye creeping in. For so long, those sessions have been my still point; a place where I could fall apart safely, and slowly learn how to put myself back together.

    Now, as the ending draws near, I find myself grieving the space, the rhythm, and the person who sat with me through it all. She’s offered such steady guidance and warmth, and I have a real fondness for her, not only for how she’s helped me heal, but for who she is. A genuinely lovely person who met me exactly where I was, time after time.

    I need to survive the final fifty minute session.

    I need to sit through it without falling apart; to hide the ache that comes with the conclusion of something that has opened so many doors to parts of myself I never knew how to see before.

    I tell myself I need to be dignified in my demise. To hold the emotion quietly, even as my chest tightens and my eyes betray me. Because how do you say goodbye to someone who helped you find your voice, when all you want to do is stay silent and stay a little longer.

  • When The Music Speaks

    When The Music Speaks

    Music… it makes my world go round.

    Silence scares me, and music fills that silence with something warm and poignant.

    It quiets the world just enough for me to breathe.

    Songs are powerful. They can unravel a person’s deepest thoughts in mere minutes. One of my favourite things is to ask someone what their favourite song is and just listen. You can learn so much from what you hear. The progression of a song tells a story, as though you’re walking beside them for a few minutes, sharing something deeply human.

    Music has always found me in the places words couldn’t reach. It soothes the noise inside my head or amplifies it until I finally hear what I’ve been trying to silence. Each song is a mirror, showing me where I am, who I am, and sometimes who I’m too afraid to be.

    It opens a door to a world where we don’t need to be alone. Through shared songs, we can communicate without barriers.

    Tonight I’ve been reflecting on the last few months. Next week, my eighteen month therapy comes to an end. I’ll write about that in more detail soon, but for now, I want to reflect through music. On the many places it has taken me. Because sometimes, when words fail, sound carries the message better than anything I could ever write.

    Music knows what to say when I can’t. Like this blog, it finds the spaces between my thoughts, the quiet, the ache, the pulse beneath what I never say out loud. It soothes, but it also stirs. Sometimes it feels like the only thing that truly understands the language of my emotions.

    During therapy, my playlist told my story before I could. It held up a mirror that didn’t lie. It echoed what I felt before I could name it. That’s why one song can make you cry and another can steady you. Some lyrics felt written for me, because in that moment, they were me.

    Therapy was never a straight line. Some days I climbed out of darkness; other days, I slid back down. But through every rise and fall, there was music. Always music. It reflected every phase of how I felt, the numbness, the anger, the heartbreak, the faint pulse of hope.

    From hundreds of songs, these are the ones that stayed. They became more than background noise; they became signposts of where I was when words couldn’t come. Some were loud and chaotic, others soft and steady. Healing doesn’t always roar. Sometimes it whispers, waiting for you to listen again.

    Uncomfortably Numb – Pink Floyd

    It began with numbness.

    The kind that feels heavy, as if your body is too much to carry. Therapy had started, but I was far from ready to feel. There’s a strange comfort in not feeling, it protects you, but it also isolates you. This song captured that perfectly. Existing but not living, breathing but detached. It wasn’t peace, it was absence. I was uncomfortable in stillness, desperate for something to move inside me, yet terrified of what it would mean when it did.

    Same Drugs – Chance The Rapper

    There’s a sadness that comes with watching everyone move forward while you stay frozen.

    It wasn’t about substances; it was about distance. People growing, healing, changing and me, still trying to catch up.

    I heard it and felt the ache of being left behind, of time passing without me. It’s a gentle song, but quietly devastating, like realising the world didn’t wait. It made me feel trapped in my own body, wishing someone could see me. A loss not just of others, but of the version of myself I hadn’t yet found.

    Glass House – MGK (feat. Naomi Wild)

    This one burned.

    It forced me to face the parts of myself I’d tried hardest to hide. The anger, guilt, and resentment I turned inward. I’ve never known how to be angry at anyone else; the rage always lands on me.

    Glass House shattered that mirror. It was messy, uncomfortable, but freeing. Sometimes anger isn’t destruction, it’s recognition.

    Sad Forever – Lauren Spencer Smith

    There were days when the sadness was so heavy it felt like breathing underwater.

    Sad Forever gave that feeling a voice. The trembling vocals, the raw honesty, it mirrored the exhaustion of never knowing if the pain will lift, or if it ever will.

    It reminded me that sadness isn’t weakness; it’s proof that I can still feel, even when I wish I couldn’t. Beneath the ache was a small flicker of hope. The belief that one day, maybe, it won’t hurt this much. It’s the moment in therapy when the tears come before the words do.

    Die Young – Chappell Roan

    This song hit me in the darkest place.

    For a long time, I believed I wouldn’t make it this far. Die Young reflected that. It’s haunting and beautiful, defiant and broken all at once.

    It was the song I played when I didn’t want to die but didn’t know how to live either. Even now, part of me still feels that pull, the whisper that it might be easier not to keep trying.

    But when I listen closely, I hear something else; the will to stay alive long enough to see what might change.

    Maybe living is rebellion. Maybe hope is hidden in the background of songs like this. Not loud, but waiting.

    When the music fades, I’m left with silence, but it no longer feels empty.

    These songs carried me through therapy. The numbness, the heartbreak, the anger, the exhaustion, and the fragile hope that followed.

    They were there for me when I didn’t know how to be there for myself.

  • 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.