I’m not sure the drugs work anymore. The industrial amounts of anti-depressants I swallow every day have either stopped working, or I’m as lot more ill than I thought I was. I have literally no idea which one it is. The more I think about it, the less I know.
My total meltdown in the early spring of 2017, caused, need I remind you, directly by employees of the British Red Cross, changed everything in my life. From being an obsessive golfer, I all but stopped playing. I would go to watch Bristol Rovers, mainly for the social side because I had all but lost the emotional attachment. In the summer of 2018, I gave that up too, as well as giving up writing for the programme, which was one of the loves of my life. I stopped watching my village football and cricket teams. I rarely, if ever, ventured out except to places with which I felt safe and secure. My increasingly hermit like existence was, I felt, the only way I could get by. I’m wondering if things will ever be like they used to be.
I had a golf lesson this week because the last few times I have played my game had all but unravelled. It took everything I had to turn up and then concentrate hard on what the professional was telling me to do. I did not want to be there. Afterwards, I was glad I had gone, I learned a bit about how bad I had become and why and corrective steps commenced. I even bought some new golf shoes, my previous ones having fallen apart some months ago. I felt that if I spent a lot of money on a decent pair, I might be more inclined to play again. I’m not inclined to at the moment. That will be the next step.
Socially, I do as little as possibly. I plan hard to stay in my comfort zone, to the extent that I chose my routes in the car and on foot to avoid surprises, including surprise meetings. I’m not quite as bad now, but it’s only an improvement and not a cure. I could not face a school reunion last week (why would I want to see people I had not kept in touch with since 1973 or 74?) and I am having cold feet about a work reunion next week.
Little things, tiny little things, knock me off course. That’s why I stay in my comfort zone and rarely stray from it. Something happened earlier this week which rocked me badly, resulting in two successive disastrous nights’ sleep. Exhaustion is never the friend of the depressive. There is nothing I can do, no one I can see in terms of treatment, short of seeing my GP and seeking additional medication. And then, when that stops working, further medication. And then, and then.
In the case of my depression, the road goes on forever. I’m still up for the fight to the extent that I don’t want to give up. I’m not up for the fight for a cure because that will never happen.
I’m eternally grateful to my family and friends who have put up with me for all my life. I’m grateful to my brilliant managers in the DWP who, particularly in my final ten years, looked after me and guided me to make a success of my job. Very few people wilfully stood in my way, but those that did – and they know who they are – I will never forgive.
I am still haunted by what the British Red Cross did to me, particularly when the CEO Mike Adamson, salary £173,000 per annum, failed to even acknowledge the bullying and abuse that drove me to a breakdown. They made me more ill than I had been for a decade or more, as low as I had ever been and even today I have no closure.
I’m still standing, weaker than I ever did. But standing is better than the alternative. I’m looking at making big changes to my life when I’m well enough. The sun hasn’t set on this boy yet.
