27/4 Monday

Yesterday was a boring day filled mainly with menial chores which we have to do in order to keep up the appearance of a sane and civilised existence. This centres mainly around doing laundry and emptying the bin and wiping down surfaces, etc. You get what I mean.

And during the night Kerry calls and says that she wants to go see a movie and I think, why not, I have fuck all to do anyway. We ended up watching State of Play which must be the most confusing movie known to mankind whilst Kerry feeds me chocolate which she had sneaked in to the cinema. Oh, and we also got student discounts.

Anyway today I am in London and I log on to MSN and see Stupid Flatmate on Xbox because Xbox signs you on automatically and tells the world that you are geeky/rich/sad enough to actually own an Xbox. It also tells everyone what you are doing on the Xbox. And Stupid Flatmate's status says: Xbox 360: FIFA 09 (Stupid Flatmate*) *where Stupid Flatemate would replace his real "gamer name". God I feel so dirty just saying, "gamer name".

I have written a lot about Stupid Flatmate and I suppose that everyone would want to know why he deserves that nickname.

Let's document what he does when he gets home from work.

• At 1830 he'll come in, goes to his room and turns on his computer.
• 1900 he will turn on the oven, then stick in a supermarket-branded pizza. He will buy the cheapest supermarket pizza he can find (no Taste the Difference for him, in fact, he does not even shop at Sainsbury's because he's such a parsimonious miser). To make himself feel better about eating such shit food he will put a couple of olives from a jar onto the pizza, sqeeze some anchovy paste (stolen from me), and then at the same time cook some oven chips. Yes, he eats pizza and chips almost every fucking day. It's amazing he's still managed to stay that thin.
• 1920 he will then sit in front of the TV, turn on his Xbox and choose a selection of "internet videos" to watch. This "internet video" is somewhat like a podcast, but it's very geeky and centres around the lives of geeks using computers and is fictional but the production quality is horrendously amateurish. Sometimes he puts on something decent like the Simpsons and I sit and watch it with him because I like to imagine that we are flatmates and we do what normal flatmates do including banter. Sadly I am deluding myself.
• He eats his oven chips with a curry sauce which costs 4p. I know, because I bought it too out of curiosity (I threw it out because it tastes exactly like it's worth 4p).
• 1945 he finishes his meal but instead of washing up, he'll leave it by the side of the sink despite the fact that we have a dishwasher. He will do the same the next day and the day after for about a week until he decides he has run out of plates or I tell him to clean it. Clearly putting dishes in a dishwasher is too much work for him even though he's not actually cooked anything and it's all ready meals. He will then go back to his room and mess around with his computer.
• 2030 his friend (our mutual friend, but he is closer to Stupid Flatmate) who lives in Block 1 will come over, and together they will play the Xbox, probably FIFA 09 (like they are at this moment I guess). He will also probably offer his friend a can of Stella but he won't offer me one which I think is fucking rude because I offer Stupid Flatmate food/drinks when my friends come over to eat.
• Stupid Flatmate and his friend will play football till late. I like to go to bed by 2200 because Stupid Flatmate has to wake up at 0600 and I need 8 hours sleep whereas Stupid Flatmate doesn't. When I tell Stupid Flatmate that I have to go to bed and if he would mind either turning the volume down or asking his friend to leave, Stupid Flatmate will sulk and not speak to me the next day. He'll also argue and say that 2200 is too early to go to bed. Admittedly it is true, but then I say to him that 0600 is way too early to wake up. *I must explain that the walls are really thin in my flat. I can hear him toss and turn in bed. Stupid Flatmate once even dared to tell me to take sleeping pills so that I can sleep whilst he plays his stupid Xbox.

When I told my friends this, they couldn't believe it. As one friend put it, "He wants you to drug yourself so that he can play his video games!?".

Anyway, we continue:

• So he will keep playing until 0000 unless I really make a scene (and I hate making a scene) and his friend will leave because it is a school night and his friend wakes up at 0800 unlike me. Stupid Flatmate will then go back into his room and then watch another video. I know, because I can hear him laughing to himself quite loudly. He'll carry on till 0200 and fall asleep with the lights on and video still playing.
• At 0600 his alarm will start to beep. He is such a heavy sleeper that sometimes he sleeps through this first alarm, and it goes silent after 1 minute. Naturally this alarm wakes me up from the very first beep.
• At 0610 his second alarm will start beeping. This is when he'll probably turn it off. Then go back to sleep.
• At 0620 his third alarm will go off, and he'll turn it off and go back to bed.
• At 0630 his fourth alarm, this time on his mobile phone, will go off. He gets up for real, goes for a piss (I mentioned that my walls are really thin?) and then comes out letting his room door bang shut.
• So from 0600 till 0700 (which is when he leaves) I am kept awake by him being noisy. Any sane person would have gone crazy by now, and to suggest that I go back to bed at 0700 is just crazy because it is impossible. Anyway I like to wake up at 0700 because it's an appropriate time to start the day.

You might notice that I omitted the part about him having a shower. That's because he doesn't. In the nine months I have lived with him, I don't think I have ever heard him have a shower. I have, however, heard him spray lynx deodorant. He is really smelly and rumour has it that he doesn't shower because of his eczema which I think is totally stupid.

Once a friend came by and she poked her head round his room because I did mention that he stinks and she agreed and said, "His room smells like someone who's not washed for days". Her words, not mine.

He is made extra smelly by his clothes. See, he washes them at 0˚C because he is, again, such a cheapskate that he's not willing to pay for that extra bit of electricity to heat the washer's water up to 30˚C for clean clothes. His clothes smell of stale sweat and damp. When he hangs his clothes out to dry in the living room, the whole flat smells terrible and I frequently feel like retching.

He never does housework either. OK maybe just taking out the rubbish once a week but that's about it. I do all the cleaning and scrubbing and vacuuming and I have asked him if he would help, but I got a very non-committal "OK'.

It feels like I'm living with a 15 year-old teenager whom I have to constantly nag and I hate nagging at Stupid Flatmate to do things because he's a fucking adult (23 years old).

I feel I've devoted too long a post to him. I may continue discussing his disgustingness in a different post, but I feel that this has gone on long enough for today.

Saturday 25/4

Tim came up from Halifax to see my flat because we're thinking of getting a similar one at a different block. See, Tim's my new flatmate and he seems like a decent guy and I met him on Gumtree. I had originally planned to ask Tim to move in with me in my current flat, but because Dandara are pricks they've initially claimed that I wasn't allowed to do that because of the way my contract's been drawn up with them. This means that when Stupid Flatmate moves out, I'll have to move out too. Now Dandara says that they will let me stay at my current flat but they want to increase the rent by £50/month. They can very well stick it up their arses.

So I have asked/begged Stupid Flatmate if he would reconsider and perhaps give me a bit more time (because I have two interviews) and if he could delay his move by one month. All he could say was, "No, because it would be inconvenient for me". Fine then. I shall remember that. I'm like an elephant, I never forget anyone who crosses me especially if done on purpose.

After many agonising hours of pouring over our options, we finally settled upon a flat in the same development as I am living at currently, but it's a slightly smaller flat. I'm paying £312, and obviously for someone unemployed it is a lot of money plus the deposit is a killer.

Tim and I had to go speak to the Lady Boss of this estate company. Barbara (that's because she strikes me as someone who would have the name Barbara, but I don't know her name really) is your typical rich snooty old lady who smiles at you because she wants your money but exudes an almost intangible aura of superiority. If ever I was to become an old lady, I want to be like Barbara.

This is what we know about Barbara:

• She has a house in France
• She hates the French
• She does not usually work on Saturdays and made sure we were aware of this just in case we decide to be ungrateful for the hard work she's putting in for us despite us paying her to do so.

Barbara said, "It will be £150 for securing the flat and £150 for our agent's fee". Knowing that agents do fuck all, I said, "Jamie (my estate agent) said you're doing a special promotion, where it's now £100 for the agent's fee". She looked at me incredulously. "£100 eh? Well that will have to come out of his commission".

I win.

Because of all the stress and now I'm even more worried that I don't have enough money to pay for an advance (1 month's rent) and that I have two interviews coming up, I forgot to take my Cipralex, omeprazole, and propranolol hydrochloride (beta blockers) and as a result I have become a nervous wreck today.

Then during the night I met up with Graeme and we go play at Dukes and I have 1 Corona and 1 Peroni and he has 2 Coronas. For this I wear my Fred Perry t-shirt which sadly has faded slightly due to my over-use.

Graeme has just returned from an epic 2-week trip to Thailand and he regaled colourful tales of debauchery and visits to brothels though he swore that he did not have sex with any prostitutes. I believe him. This got me thinking, perhaps I ought to sell myself for sex. I have a problem paying for sex because I think it's wrong and if you can get it for free, why buy it? But obviously I am unemployed and perhaps it will be a good way of making some money because:

• Zero capital
• Instant gratification
• No taxes
• I may even enjoy it

What's not to like about it then?

Thursday 23/4

Let's analyse a few items which arrived in the post for me the day before.

The first was a card from Sam's parents. They've written, "We hope that life is looking a little brighter for you". I cried a bit when I read that, because they've been like parents to me in place of my real ones, and I've not got a card from my real parents. Mind, my real parents do support me financially, but I guess it's nice once in a while to actually get a card from them.

Next is a present from Sam himself. Sam's one of my bestest friends, although I've not come out to him because he's a Christian, and Christians hate people like me. Anyway, he gave me two tickets to the Hallé which is brilliant. This particular concert features Howard Shelley and I think I might have heard of him which is always a good sign. Sam's also spent quite a lot of money on these tickets because the value was printed on the tickets—like I've mentioned, he's one of my bestest friends!

Then I got a surprise gift from Andrew from Twitter. Now I must add that I've not even met Andrew, yet he's willing to spend money on me and send me a gift (which I've listed on my Amazon gift list and linked it to Twitter. I've linked it as a joke and hadn't really expected anyone to fulfill my wants on my list!). I am genuinely touch, so thank you, Andrew.

In this gift, which is a book called "How to make {almost} everything", there is a section titled "how to break through your own glass ceiling" and I think this section is very apt for me and I shall read it very carefully.

And on this day which is also St George's Day (the significance is not lost on me as I live at St George's Island) and also Shakespeare's birthday and deathday I decided to try and complete a job application. Obviously it did not go well or I would have written about it here. This endeavour, however, was interrupted by a call from my grandmother and she wished me happy birthday and I miss her a lot. My mum came on the phone after that and just said, "happy birthday" and hung up without saying anything else. I felt like crying.

Anyway I forget all this and had flat viewings. This is where it got interesting because the estate agent was a really fit blond guy and I definitely felt some sort of tension between us. He "accidentally" brushed and held my hand whilst reading a brochure which I was holding at that time. I had visions of me pushing him onto the bed and shagging him in those flats, but I restrained myself and decided to be a good boy for once.

Then it was time for the gym where I did triceps. I like doing triceps because you can get away with using just one machine for it, and on this occasion, the machine of choice is the cable machine.

And at night a couple of good friends and I went for dinner at Carluccio's, a decent Italian restaurant.

• I had Risotto pollo con limone
• Sherv and Jess had Pasta with Aubergine and Mozzarella
• Kerry and Tim had Pasta with Sausage Meat Sauce
• Monica had Lasagna
• Liv had the Penne Giardiniera
• I forgot what Michael had, but I suppose it doesn't matter

The eight of us had a jolly old time, and I had a birthday cake (chocolate, I ate 1/8th) and I was given a packet of Thornton's chocolates (bye bye abs), a block of duck fois gras (yay) and a bottle of M&S 2006 Lurton La Chapelle. Though the wine was from M&S and seems very middle class, I shall not fault them because I suppose it was given with the best of intentions and not everyone knows how to shop at Nicolas for good French wines.

And when I returned I made a mental note not to give the Stupid Flatmate birthday presents next year because I did give him a bottle of 2005 Bordeaux and bought him a nice birthday card which cost me £2 but he's not even wished me a happy birthday.

Tired from the day's adventures, I take 2 sleeping pills and fall into a nice long sleep.

Wednesday 22/04

I had my second doctor's appointment today at 1050, so I thought I would try and be good and get some gym time done before that. I had a sleepless night, but nonetheless had to wake up at 0600 because of Stupid Flatmate again. I ended up in the gym at 0900.

And at the gym I did just biceps because I like to work my muscles till they are sore. This routine involved:

• Preacher curls (15kg each)
• Dumbbell curls (16kg each)
• Cable curls (40kg)
• Reverse cable curls (35kg)
• 21s (20kg)

Fearing I'd be late I left the gym at 1020 and made it in time for the doctors.

At the doctors, I saw this cute guy, but obviously so troubled because he looked worried. Perhaps he caught an STD whilst shagging this chick the night before. But I'd still do him, he was fit.

Anyway the doctor was quite chirpy and—this is controversial—slightly patronising. “How are we doing today?”, she chirped. “Not so well”, I replied.

That's true, I'm not feeling that upbeat. It's my birthday tomorrow, and I'm getting depressed that I've still not got a job. I've just spotted someone wearing a suit as I'm typing this, and we all know how that makes me feel. I want to wear a suit. I want to be in a job where you'd have to wear suits. I want to earn some money whilst wearing a suit. Perhaps a suit, to me, is like a shell, a shell of respectability and I want to command that respect. But at the moment I am nothing.

As a result of that visit I am now taking 5mg Cipralex [escitalopram] (instead of 10mg previously because of side-effects), 20mg omeprazole (for the side-effects), and Phenergan [promethazine] 20mg (for my insomnia).

When I got home from the day's adventures which consisted of the usual gym and the doctor's appointment and also viewing some flats and seeing an old mate for some volunteer work, I found a birthday card from Sam's parents, Sam's present (2 tickets to see the Hallé), and a note from the concierge saying that there's a package waiting for me. Curious, I went and got it and opened it and to my utter amazement, it was from @tappmeister, a friend from Twitter (if you're reading this, many thanks! You made my little heart happy there).

Then I start to prepare dinner, but my flatmate comes back and I lose my appetite and leave the chicken sitting on the kitchen top. Is it happy there? Who the fuck knows.

Hopefully I can sleep tonight.

18/4 Good Day

Yesterday was a Good Day, where I managed to stay asleep for more than 6 hours, spent 3 hours at the gym, and went clubbing on Canal Street (more on this later).

And for the gym, I decided to try out something which I had never dared wear: a vest. Only fit people wear vests at gyms, and as I was previously a fat kid, I had never adjusted to the fact that I am no longer fat, and showing off some hard muscles might be an acceptable thing for me to do.

And with this vest I wore: a navy blue nike shorts, white socks, and a pair of Fred Perry trainers. I looked frickin ace and decided to do my shoulders, triceps, and abs.

There was this guy there who, for the lack of a proper term, shall be described as a Greek god. He is so well-proportioned, short blond hair, and amazingly well-muscled body. He plays rugby too. He is, however, not Greek but Irish, but I love his accent anyway. I thought I would just like to mention him because it’s likely that he will get mentioned again as I am obsessed with him.

And in the evening, I went over to Piccadilly Gardens to meet a friend which I’ve not seen in over a year. He wanted to see me to talk things over—he’s both a pharmacist and has experienced depression in the past—and thought I could do with conversation. But because Cipralex is so effective, I was feeling jovial and care-free and decided we should go for drinks of the alcoholic variety, and he got his boyfriend to come along. Obviously we went over to Canal Street (the gay epicentre of Manchester) and ended up in a bar called Company where it is mainly populated by fat older men (called bears, apparently) and there was a sign which I liked very much. And this sign said: Do not feed the bears.

For once I enjoyed being the hottest guy in the room, and it’s not often that I get to feel that. They played really good music and I danced and danced without a care in the world, whilst being mentally undressed by the unyielding stares of those bears around me.

Later we moved on to a few different clubs, but nothing special happened, except that I saw a fit muscular guy, but I did not make a move because I'm shy like that.

17/04

Today I woke up at 0610 because the flatmate has his alarm set to this time and this is frustrating because he sleeps through it and it goes off again in about 10 minutes.

I had a sleepless night—despite being tired and having taken sleeping pills—because I had stomach cramps and I kept waking up dreaming I had emails arriving through the night (in fact, I did, and it was my phone's email alerts that kept waking me up).

Then at 1100 I had my appointment with a psychologist near Manchester University. It’s ironic that just two years ago, as I walked past this psychology building with my then-flatmate, he pointed to the building and laughed and said, “That place is for psychos” and I am ashamed to admit that I laughed along. We know who’s really laughing now. No one.

I told the psychologist that a good day to die would be on my birthday. And this event comes up on 23rd April. I am determined not to celebrate it. Incidentally, it was also Shakespeare's birthday and deathday, and I enjoy telling people that he died on his birthday, and if there was a good day to die, this would be a Very Good Day indeed.

Feeling tired after my appointment, I headed back into town and got myself a carefully-chosen Mexican Chicken sandwich (because it has one of the lowest calories amongst sandwiches on display) but then decided to reward myself with an original glazed Krispy Kreme (£1.20—daylight robbery by any other name) and the fat cow behind the counter tried to tempt me to spend more money and to put on more weight by telling me that I get a free scratchcard if I buy 2 doughnuts instead. What utter shit.

Now it is the afternoon and I have done nothing useful the entire day. I have so much to do:

1. Get a new flatmate
2. Get a new flat
3. Beg parents to let me stay
4. Get a fucking job

But as it is with my condition, these four things are causing me so much anxiety and angst and I am avoiding them because it will just make me worse.

Typing about my problems and being open about my experience has indeed helped me, but has also helped open a can of worms. I have had a couple of people and friends coming up to me and disclosing that they too suffer from some form of depression/anxiety and are taking anti-depressants. I suppose my honesty about it has encouraged them to be open about it too, but it has destroyed whatever innocence we've had between us. It's almost like having sex with a friend: you'll never be able to go back to that same level of friendship once you've slept with a friend. Nonetheless, I'm glad that I'm not the only one who's going through this and I am not weird because lots of people go through the same things too.

Anyway I should be off to the gym despite feeling really sleepy (must be that Krispy Kreme-induced insulin spike). Today is chest day. I want a chest like his:

My ideal chest workout (I say ideal because I get really tired and sore after doing 80% of the workouts) is:

• Bench press
• Dumbbell flat presses and flys
• Incline dumbbell presses and flys
• Decline dumbbell presses and flys
• Cable flys

And here's mine. You can see I've got a long way to go.

That is all.

Oh, and this song:

And now that I have been prescribed Cipralex, I can look forward to a massive accumulation of seratonin in my brain. Today has been much better after the horror of the past two days, but being depressed is hard work indeed. I am knackered, and am ready for bed.

At 1644 I texted my pharmacist friend, M, and the text said, “Cipralex 10mg. Any good?”. I did not get a reply. Perhaps she’s depressed that I managed to get Cipralex and she can’t despite working as a pharmacist.

Today at the gym I did back and biceps, and I felt good doing this because most people neglect doing their backs. That’s the secret to a nice V-shaped torso and big shoulders. As expected, the post-5pm crowd is hogging the weights and machines, but seeing a couple of fitties made it worth it.

The exercises I did: wide-grip pull-up, chin up, reverse flys (56kg), single arm rows (50kg), barbell curls (28kg), reverse grip bicep curls (20kg), bicep curls (16kg), and after that I couldn’t be bothered to fight for the weights so I ran for 30 minutes whilst watching the Simpsons.

I must admit that seeing people in sharp suits made me depressed again. I am a fan of crisp white shirts with a soft silk tie and a tailored dark suit—if only I had somewhere to wear it!

Anyway, back to the gym. There’s this guy who was in the lockers and he was without a shirt. I could tell he was very fit because:

1. He was bending over to put on some socks, and if one has fat around the stomach area, you’d see it all bunch up. He had none.
2. His triceps were amazing. They bulged even when putting on a sock.
3. He had the most amazing chest.

Sadly I’m not allowed to take photographs or the gym might throw me out, risking agitating the troublesome condition which I have that is depression.

I’ve been told I need some photos of myself. Here’s my right bicep (apologies for the poor angle and quality—it was taken on my iPhone).

Whispy

I mentioned my depression is like a black cloud. Have I also mentioned that it is also whispy like a cloud—it comes and goes.

I ran for 1 mile and was on the cross-trainer for another. I felt good.

Now I’m on the bench and I see another fit bloke and that’s put me back into black cloud territory because I will never be as fit as he is.

I am being inspired by this music video. Skip the introduction.

Paris is Burning

I have attempted to rectify all that is wrong with my life. Here they are:

1. Saw the Crisis Support at the Manchester Royal Infirmary, and they are brilliant because they are going to speak to my doctor and get me anti-depressants.
2. Spoke to Sam at the _________ and he’s trying to get me a job and hopefully somewhere to stay
3. Spoke to Dandara Lettings (my lettings agent) and, well here’s the bad news: Once my flatmate moves out, I will have to move out. This is because of the way my contract’s been arranged. It’s a total setback, and has destroyed whatever optimism I had since speaking to Crisis Support this morning. I have 1 month to find a new flat and new flatmates.
4. I have also reached a new low in my life: I have gone back to Tesco to ask for a job. I worked for Tesco in my first year at uni and hated it so much that I’ve vowed never to go back, but things are so desperate that I have spoken to them and I hate myself so much now.
5. I found vacancies at a bank (hah!) but I have to get out of this cloud of depression before I can bring myself to do anything useful. Churchill called it his ‘black dog’. I call it my Black Cloud. It’s this cloud that surrounds me, blocks out all light, and sucks out the joy in me.

I hope I can get through today. It has been a long day, much longer than yesterday.

Pas Mange

I have not eaten for over 24 hours.

I feel weak. My stomach hurts a little but the pain in my head hurts more.

I cannot bear to put food in my mouth.

I Fucking Hate My Life

I had a complete breakdown yesterday. I felt like running away from everything—from family, from friends, from responsibilities—in short, from life itself.

I spoke to my flatmate about it late last night because, as I see it, he is partly the cause of what I was experiencing. I told him I wasn’t expecting a reaction but I secretly was. I was hoping that he would at least express some form of regret or even a glimmer of recognition that his actions has caused me such grief.

But all I got from him was a pursing of the lips, a hardening of the eyes, and a stony expression. I have seen this reaction before: he does it when I tell him that playing video games at 1am is unacceptable and that I need to sleep; he does it when I ask him for help cleaning the flat; and he does it when I ask if he could do me a favour and take me grocery shopping.

I suppose him leaving is a good thing, but his leaving is breaking up a lot of structures which I had so carefully put in place. It’s a bit like removing structural support from a building before it is completed. My building would be my career, I am building support to achieve that dream of landing a graduate job, but with him leaving, I will have to either move in with a stranger (which is causing me great anxiety) or move into a flat on my own (which I cannot afford). He has only left me 5 days to find someone to move in with me, and at the moment the search is not going well. I have asked if he could change his mind and extend his stay for another month to give me more time, and he’s said “no” simply because it is inconvenient for him. I should not expect anything less from him, really, because throughout our stay together in the flat, he has been nothing short of an inconsiderate and selfish little prick.

To make matters worse, I cannot get even a temporary job because I apparently “lack experience”.

So I decided to call my parents because I felt I needed to talk to someone. I did not get the support I expected—instead I was told to pack it all and return to Malaysia. I felt that that was the final nail on the coffin in which my dreams lie. I heard the pall of the bells of doom, and then something in my brain just snapped. I hung up, cried a little, bought a print cartridge from staples, and wondered around town aimlessly with red eyes. I finally made it back to my flat, but now the flat just reminds me of the flatmate and everything that is happening to me. I began sobbing, wishing it would all end, wishing that I did not have to struggle with depression and anxiety, and came to the realisation that I have no more strength—both mentally and physically—to cope with this. I cried for 2 hours.

Then I turned on the Simpsons but did not find it funny. The flatmate came back in the midst of it but there were no pleasantries exchanged (this was before we had that conversation above). I felt I couldn’t remain the flat any longer, and decided to take a long walk. That calmed me down a bit, and I saw a very good friend who talked me into not killing myself.

Yes I hate my life so much that I want to end it. This depression and anxiety is gnawing at my soul, corrupting it of innocence and removing any ounce of happiness. I don’t find happiness in Spring, in the sun, in the gentle breeze or even in the sound of children laughing. I look at children forlornly and can only gaze enviously at the life I will never have, wishing I was a child again and was able to choose a different path in life, one which will not eventually lead to self-loathing and self-destruction.