I am not, nor have I ever been, a party-goer, except for a brief time in my twenties when I often seemed to be trawling the length of the land to attend house parties. Since then, not so much, but last Saturday represented an exception: a wonderful house party attended by some of the nicest people I have been privileged to meet. I even enjoyed myself, which is definitely not my default position when in the presence of more than a handful of people. Anyway, I got chatting to an old pal who had one significant thing in common with me: he has ongoing, seemingly never-ending mental health issues. Then, he asked an innocent question: “What’s your depression like?” I was completely thrown.
I stalled, waffled; eventually coming up with a word salad of gobbledegook. I said something like this: “It’s a sense of hopelessness, a feeling of failure, a desire to hide myself away in my man cave and not come out of it again, my sight growing heavy and my sight growing dim, endless low mood … ” and so I waffled on and on. I knew I was speaking nonsense eventually I ground to a halt. My old pal said that he understood, which was very kind of him. Perhaps, I thought later, that my words were rather like a John Prescott speech: the words might be in the wrong order or might even be the wrong words, but you always knew what he meant. If I had given the Google AI reply, things would have been so much easier: “Depression is a mental health condition that involves persistent low mood, a loss of interest in enjoyable activities, and a range of other physical, emotional, and behavioural symptoms that affect daily life.” Yes, that’s it. I must memorise the whole thing for the next time someone asks me what my depression is like, although I would substitute the word “condition” with “illness”.
Given that this poor mental health malarkey has been going on in my life since 1969 – yes, I know: my loyal reader was likely not even born then – you’d think I’d have a ready made explanation for what makes my life so difficult, but when push came to shove, I didn’t. I was embarrassed. I felt like a con artist. I’ve had this clinical depression for so long I can’t even remember what it’s like. Then comes the guilt.
As soon as I started waffling, I was conscious how it sounded, or how I felt it sounded. Self-pitying, woe is me, I feel so sorry for myself. It was almost though I had a voice in my head telling me to pull myself together and snap out of it. It’s only being a bit sad and we all feel that way sometimes. Think of the people I have lost this year, some from “real” illnesses. But when my old pal told me his story, I knew his mental health struggles were oh so real. I could almost touch my feelings of guilt. I often do when I compare a mental illness with a physical illness, even when I am banging on about the gross inequality when it comes to mental and physical healthcare. Poor mental health is a serious illness, except when it comes to me.
My old pal’s life has been ravaged by poor mental health, more anxiety- based than my depression-based version – and when it was time to go we wished each other well for the future, a bleak future where things would continue to play out in the same way as they do today.
Afterwards, I realised that I had spent much of the time as an ersatz therapist rather than a patient. Aside from my clunking description of what my depression was like, I had barely touched on its debilitating effects. Instead, I listened to and encouraged my old pal who I felt was almost heroic in the way he was facing his demons. I knew in my heart I had long submitted to the demons and, to mix my metaphors, to accept that the shadow of the black dog would always be hanging over me. By now, one could add weakness to guilt. I was weak and I felt even more guilty about it.
I’m in the midst of my annual health check, which is taking place for the second time in six months (I don’t know why this is but who am I to argue?), and as per usual there are no questions about my mental health. Not even a Holly Willoughby: “Firstly, are you okay?” Can I see an NHS therapist, please? No, there aren’t any. Can I have some extra medication for my depression and my recently diagnosed ADHD? No and no again. Can I be assessed to establish whether I am on The Spectrum? Fuck off, you’re old, it doesn’t matter so just get on with your life (or words to that effect). And there are the voices of the past telling me to stop feeling sorry for myself because there are so many people worse off than I am, which I know there are.
It’s the circle of life, or ‘laaf’ as Elton John sings it and I have been around it more times than I care to remember. I’ll try to memorise the AI description of depression (see above) and use it next time someone asks me because it’s so much better than the nonsense I came out with. I am so mad I don’t even know what I am mad with. What’s your depression like? I’m too mad to tell you, that’s what it’s like. And it’s never going away, is it?
