As my loyal reader will know, I have not been cured of my depression. With the support of my family, friends, my latest therapist and industrial quantities of medication, I’m fighting as hard as I can, as hard as I have ever fought, to achieve a semblance of normality. I’ve taken what is for me a major step in what I can loosely call my recovery by accepting the opportunity of a weekend away playing golf.
Now this might not seem much, but since my breakdown around 18 months ago I have pared back my public engagements (as a minor royal might say) pretty well to the bone. I have barely been out, other than with family and close friends, I have avoided anything more than small groups. I have stopped going to the football, I gave up a job with the British Red Cross which I absolutely loved because of some of the very unpleasant people who worked/work there. Socially, I became something of an exiled, a hermit.
In the absence of mental health treatment – it took over a year with the NHS to finally get professional help – I took the axe to social networks, ruthlessly cutting out what I saw as the hate, even though some of the people were and are friends. I had come to a point where something had to give. It was my way of self-medicating. In a way, it worked, albeit with some collateral damage to friendships along the way. There’s nothing I can do about the collateral damage. I regret unfriending some people, as well as blocking and muting others. Some of it was desperation on my part. It’s done now.
Going away to play golf is a big thing for me. Having played regularly and almost obsessively for a few years, my illness took away my confidence and belief. What was a perfect hobby, playing a sport with great friends and getting some exercise at the same time became something I couldn’t face. The crazy world of depression and anxiety overwhelmed me. I have played twice since October 2017. The time has passed in a blur. Now the time has come to get back on the course. Back to life, back to the fairway, or, more likely, the rough by the side of the fairway.
My constant referencing to the British Red Cross confirms that I am still not over what happened and how some people there bullied and abused me. I still have anxiety dreams and near panic attacks when I recall some of the incidents. Once or twice, I even felt like taking out a form of revenge against the individuals involved. In the end, I concluded it would serve no purpose. Something that might hurt the people who hurt me would almost certainly make me feel even worse. It would be better to try and rise above them. Whilst I still can’t sleep properly at night, I wonder if they can, and if so, how?
Retreating into my comfort zone, behind drawn curtains and locked doors, was the only thing I could do at the time. I have tried to rebuild my professional life, I am refocusing my writing with a number of prospective projects in the air. It’s a constant battle with my mind when, as happens from time to time, my mood slips, I feel tearful, a hopeless gibbering wreck of a failure. If you haven’t been there, you might think what a pathetic person I am. Pull yourself together, look how much you have in your life compared to others, stop the self pity. Well, that doesn’t work. It’s none of these things. Actually, to quote Gaz Coombes, I’m the world’s strongest man.
I’m concentrating on the things I’m good at, once I find out what they are, and I am going to set to one side the many things I am not good at, where possible. I’m going to do the things I want to do, with due regard with those who surround me, and I am not going to do the things I don’t want to do. If there are places where I feel uncomfortable, I won’t visit them. Simples.
There’s no cure for this depression. It’s about managing it. And it’s the hardest fight of my life. I’m not sure I’ll win, but it won’t be for want of trying.
