My clinical depression is probably not going to be cured. That’s the assessment of not just my current mental health therapist, but of pretty well all the ones who preceded her. To be honest, I’ve always known this to be the case. There are only two solutions. One is to better manage my depression and anxiety. The other, once and for all, is to give up. This is not as easy a choice as it sounds. It depends on my mood at the time. And anyway, can I actually control something that has, for decades, controlled me?
Part of me is pleased that the Black Dog will remain a permanent fixture in my life. No really. Whilst I would not wish him (he is bound to be a him) on anyone else, there is, in a bizarre, almost unexplainable way, an element of security in knowing he is there. There are few surprises; I know where I stand with the Black Dog. It is not always a nice place to be, but at least I usually have an explanation for when things are going downhill and roughly what’s going to happen. I know how terrible I felt in my early teenage years when I was terrorised by night terrors and panic attacks, not knowing when they would appear, not having the first clue how to deal with them. Three awful years that helped destroy my secondary education and dramatically altered, in a bad way, my future prospects, preparing the way for a lifetime of mental ill health.
The choices I have made to date in trying to change my life since my breakdown of 2017 have generally been good ones. I have junked the things (and people) who were taking me down. If I don’t want to do something or go somewhere, I won’t do that something or go somewhere I don’t want to. If something has been adding to my illness, like fretting about a football club, I’ve walked away. I’ve stayed at home instead of going out, I’ve chosen to be alone. I changed a job I loved because of the bullies and abusers that made me ill. The list, believe it or not, goes on. However, I’ve said enough.
I know what I want to do and I am going to try and do as much as I can of it. I am on the brink of starting to write the follow up to 2016’s Corfu, not a scorcher. I want to write for a part time living. The latter will be slightly trickier to achieve since no one pays anyone for writing these days. I can but try, I can but fail. At least when I fail (yet again) no one can say I didn’t try. And if they do say I didn’t try, or wasn’t any good, I can honestly say I don’t care. My skin is a lot thicker than it used to be and my back more broad. You can hurt me with sticks and stones, for example, although other implements are available. With words, try someone else. The pen is mightier than the sword, unless we start fencing in which case I could be in bother.
Yesterday was a failure, today wasn’t a great deal better. But maybe, just maybe, tomorrow belongs me.
