You have to watch this depression malarkey very closely. Just last week, I confidently – over-confidently – believed I had turned a corner. For the first time in a year, I felt in control. When my mood was darkening, I was able to look on the bright side of life. Yesterday, I took my eye off the ball, did something very stupid and I wasn’t able to stop slip-sliding back into darkness. I was so upset and, mainly, angry with myself. I, of all people, should know that the Black Dog is just around the corner, just waiting for that chance to cast another shadow.
Now, everything seems difficult again. I have a shed load of things to do today, so many I haven’t done any of them yet. Some which are very simple – or, as I call it, massively complex, like setting up a new mobile phone – and others require limited amounts of concentration and effort. So far, I’m overwhelmed with inertia. My legs are like lead, my eyes are looking through a grey fog. This, dear friends, is clinical depression.
The guilt I feel is enormous because everyone has been so nice and so supportive. I know how lucky I am in so many vital areas of life and I feel massive pangs of guilt for not being feeling lucky. And worst of all, it feels like I am wallowing in a pool of self-pity. I am not.
Yesterday, was a harsh and wholly unexpected reminder that I am far from over my ghastly experience at – yes, you guessed it – at the British Red Cross, a dysfunctional worldwide humanitarian charity that caused me to have a mental breakdown. In the absence of any treatment in the foreseeable future – Theresa May is a lying old cow for pretending she was committed to improving mental health provision – I’m the physician trying to heal myself. I’m avoiding situations that might affect my mood in a negative way, I am staying in my safety zone, I am having an enormous cull in social networks to eliminate some of the hate (twitter is unquestionably the worst place for hate and Schadenfreude) and I am trying to get by until the day comes when the overstretched NHS can come to my rescue.
The last thing I want is pity, or urging me to “stay strong”. I’m just telling it like it is. I want people to think about their own mental health and if they think they might be suffering, then they should seek medical opinion. And if they are wealthy enough, to seek private treatment. Believe me, if I and the resources, I’d be up there in the posh clinics of Clifton, seeking a cure, or just a bit of respite.
You won’t see how shit I feel because usually I am a very good actor and I always saying “fine” or “good” when someone asks how I am. That’s the only time in my life I will lie about something. I’m not the only one who does that. But I am a little bit ill, certainly more ill than I thought I was. Once again, please no “stay strong” stuff. I’m probably stronger than I think because I am still here. And that is really something.
