I want you all to know that I am not better. I have not, magically, recovered from decades of mental ill health and I am not, suddenly, firing on all cylinders. I have not turned a corner because there are no corners and I have not put behind me something that has always been there and always will be.
Don’t worry: I am not in a (very) bad place at the moment. I’m not in a good one, either, but I saw the dip coming many weeks ago and I am dealing with it. I don’t need to change my drug dosage, I don’t need to change the way I live my life and I don’t need sympathy. Especially the last bit, I really do not need sympathy. I have heard stories this week, stories of misery and despair, life-changing and life-destroying stories, that make my issues on the lowest of low scales in the grand scheme of things.
As with my politics, my mental well-being can be affected by events, usually unexpected events. But events are not central, not causal. Contributory in terms of depth, but never the reasons why (and why not).
I would not trumpet the quality of my writing but the first thing that suffers during a dip is my creative power, such as it is. I go from prolific to seeing an empty word document, in a near heartbeat, something I start I cannot always finish. That has been happening all week.
People keep me alive. Loved ones, friends, acquaintances who bring something thoughtful to the table, good people you meet along the way. As my mood turned black this week, there were those who, unknowing to them, gave me light again, by their words, by their love, by their presence; sometimes even through social networks where the best people can let their love shine through.
The mental man – me – fears the guilt trip, has experienced the guilt trip. No one needs to tell you, but when others suffer unimaginable pain and grief, a part of you thinks, “Why on earth am I worried when people are losing their lives around me?” What is a depressive episode compared to genuine loss and terminal illness? Believe me, the mental man who, like me, is not too far gone feels every physical tragedy as much as anyone else but with added guilt.
You do notice these things. Today, with my feet like lead, my head thick with fog, I saw people who could not see, people who could not walk, people who looked so ill I feared they might die in front of my eyes. And I knew that, barring a catastrophic overnight physical calamity, I would see tomorrow in much the same place as I saw it today. But you would not, I swear, see in me the way I feel because I won’t let the demons win. They can be there when I wake at 3.00am and they can make my body feel heavy when I want to be creative but I am fighting better than I used to.
The fact that I am happy to not be chasing the dollar, day in and day out, is a Brucie bonus to me. My remaining years are the creative ones, all to make up for the wasted non creative days when I was working full time for someone else.
I am not better, but neither am I worse. This is a long, long road and I aim to make it longer, so long as its worth it. And next week, I could be better than I am tonight. For me, that is light through the gloom.
