Imagine being exhausted at the end of a one day week? That’s me, tonight. Struggling through an “episode” (of depression, dear reader, not Broadchurch), I found myself going back to work because it was, in my mind, the right thing to do. I’d feel better if I got back in the swing of things. After all, I’d been to see Ricky Gervais in Cardiff on Tuesday. You’d never have thought I was in the shadow of the black dog as I spent a couple of hours aching with laughter at one of the cleverest and funniest stand-ups on the planet. But how many more times do I have to say: I am the happy depressive. If I am laughing it doesn’t mean I am not depressed.
It’s the sheer exhaustion depression brings. My legs seem to way a ton, my brain is a papier mache mess, my temples feel like they are being squeezed tight. And today was a better day than some recent ones.
I am not going to pretend that this isn’t a dire piece of writing. I’m only posting it because I feel I have to. Not for you, dear reader, but for me. It could be small time OCD, but I cannot let a day go by without writing something. When you are both depressed and tired, inspiration is running very dry.
Don’t worry – as if! – because I am sure I will come through this. I usually do. Tomorrow, because I will have slept at least a little bit, if I don’t wake up at 4.00 am with my brain racing with all sorts of issues, I’ll be marginally more fresh. I might even write something interesting. Always a first time.
