Regrets? I’ve had a few, but then again, too few to mention. What a line that is. I might be able to use it sometime. One thing I don’t regret, not one tiny little bit, is coming out as a clinical depressive. It was no big deal. When the likes of Stephen Fry, Alastair Campbell and Ruby Wax can go public about their own demons, it should be nothing to put my head up above the parapet. And it was nothing. It was quite easy, actually. No one has said, at least not to my face (!), that I was a pathetic, weak individual or that I should pull myself together. I’ve been received quite warmly, actually.
I know lots of other mental people too, some I knew had issues, others had kept them hidden, and I never suspected a thing. And I’ve talked with them about it; in person, on the phone or via messages on social networks. Whilst everyone’s black dog differs from everyone else’s, the effects are usually consistent. It kills you. One friend has just emerged from a terrible bout, where he could barely get out of bed for a week. As the Eagles would have put it, his legs grew heavy and his sight grew dim. He had to stop for the night. And I recognise that. It’s like walking through treacle whilst looking through a fog. My friend’s illness had all but completely passed when I saw him last week, which was good to learn. “How are you?” he asked.
How am I is a slightly more complex question. When someone asks me how I am, I always say something bland and reassuring like, “Fine thanks”, even if it’s not true. Let’s face it. When you ask someone how they are, the last thing you want to hear is their complete medical history. My friends and acquaintances would not be impressed if I was to say, “Well, to be honest, I feel shit. It is a struggle to get up in the morning, I feel like I am walking through treacle, I’m peering through a thick fog and I hate myself.” No. A quick “Fine thanks” will do. How I am, for the benefit of those of you who do suffer from the lurgy, is various degrees of depressed. Not hopelessly wiped out, all of the time, but my black dog is always there. So if you think yours is too, then don’t fret.
“If you have this illness all the time, then how do you cope?” There’s a question and the answer is I just do. I know my black dog very well, to the extent that I know when it’s about to visit and I know when it’s about to depart. As I have said before – and I know this sounds mad – the black dog gives me a degree of comfort because at least I know who I am and where I am. The idea of having a different mindset and – perish the thought – dispensing with medication sends my anxiety levels into the stratosphere.
No one has ever said to me that I should stop writing this stuff and/or that it’s self-pitying nonsense. The first part is that no one has to read it but the second part is more worthy of examination. I am reasonably sure, as sure as sure can be, that I feel no self-pity for being ill. But when you feel dreadful, or have felt dreadful, and have then written about it, I can see why someone might think that.
I am certainly getting to sound like a broken record going on about mental health through my own eyes, but I don’t care. I am far more thick-skinned than I used to be and can deal with just about any criticism about it. I have not had to delete any abuse on this website for a few months now but even when I was getting it, I was able to reason that this bile and anger was more a reflection on others than it was of me. Coming out, being honest is not a bad place to be.
I have now come to the view that public opinion on the subject of mental health is now way ahead of the politicians. I would say that whilst there is still a significant stigma, the public now understand the illness and want something done about it. Latterly, the government has reacted. After year on year deep cuts to mental health spending, even the prime minister has realised that taking away mental health treatments is not a positive move for improving mental health and so some of the cuts to budgets have been restored. Not enough by many stretch of the imagination, but it’s a start.
There are many, many people worse off than me but I can only write from the position of being me. Do we really want more ruined lives and more prematurely ended lives, or do we want to help people get better? I know the answer to that and we’re winning the argument.
I’m not feeling great at the moment, but I am getting by to the extent that you might never notice. I am fighting my own battle and I am not losing ground. You have read all this stuff from me before, so don’t worry about me because I am one of the lucky ones. If you, or anyone you know, suffer in silence, then please do something about it. Things can be better and they need not be worse. For most of us, the fact that things are not getting worse is the victory. Let it be yours, too.
