The trouble with social networks – well, one of the troubles – is that you normally have to say nice things about yourself.
Your weekend must be awesome, if possible. Average is probably against the law and ravaged by the Black Dog is not to be encouraged. Imagine it: ‘Had a clinically depressed weekend but thanks to the medication it was awesome!’
My weekend was pretty good thank you very much. I’ve felt pretty rubbish through most of it, as a mild plunge into the depths of minor despair kept me in my place, but I’ve managed to cope and laugh at the right moments.
I suppose I am riding on the back of all that media depression coverage following the death of Robin Williams. I came out as a basket case some time ago but each time there is a media event, and I don’t mean that disrespectfully, it seems safe to write about my demons.
I know when I am going down because my dreams end up in hideously dark places, usually in my past when I should have been doing things I didn’t. Just a few days, I was avoiding visiting my grandparents who died decades ago, but it was in the hear and now. Thank goodness for the 5.00 am bladder weakening event that stopped it. I still laid in bed after, trying to work out if it was real.
And then there was the trying to get somewhere fast but getting there slow, usually with no luggage and often half naked, sometimes totally naked. Why does no one notice?
My heart is usually beating far too quickly by then, jolted by an nightmare bolt out of the blue. Put the radio on and nod off.
Everyone asks how you are and I always say, ‘Good, thanks!’ because it’s much harder to say, ‘Well, not so good thanks. I have four different types of anxiety, clinical depression and I feel like shit but you’d never guess from the smile, would you?’ The lovely lady at the local co-op wouldn’t understand. And why should she?
So I lie: I’m good thanks.
Next week, I am going to be better. I am going to drink less, eat better, take more exercise and keep applying for jobs. Like I was going to do this week and the week before.
Look, I am not in a terrible place, just a slightly shitty one. If I wake up in the middle of the night, I want to be able to NOT think about something, instead of lying there thinking about everything. I never wake up thinking about nice things, like being on holiday. It’s a spinning, whirring mess. But it’s always like that.
The Black Dog isn’t barking tonight, he’s kind of whimpering. He’s bugging me, not crushing me. I’m finding it easier to stand up and walk about, not so easy to talk to anyone, be sociable. I don’t want to make big decisions, or even small ones, but I am functioning. Maybe the bastard will leave me one day, if hell freezes over.
How are you? I’m good thanks. Keep asking because I’ll get really paranoid if you don’t.
