"There was a time, when I found myself funny. But today, you have proven me wrong." 

Things really kicked in when I was in my mid thirties. My depression, which had been a tolerable weight, became something more. Three things combined to bring matters to a head. I was in a totally unsuitable, high-stress job that everyone thought I was good at. A serious relationship ended. My best friend died, lost at sea. All within weeks. After a few months everything stopped. I was a rabbit in headlights. I would be panicked by everyday things. Skulk out to the shop at 9.45, just before they shut, to avoid people. Sometimes I wouldn't do that, I wouldn't eat instead. Brown envelopes were piling up on the sideboard. Bills, threatening letters. Winking at me. Living in squalor. Interestingly, I would still manage to iron a work shirt.


Up until then I had been part of a tight knit group of friends. A clique you could see people bouncing off. I've always been a musician so I was often missing from social occasions. Consequently, my 'disappearance' from the pub and stuff didn't cause much concern at first. I didn't tell anybody what was going on with me. I quietly slipped away. I would get home from putting on a good show at my day job, shut the door and sit or sleep until I had to do it all over again the next day. My split and the death of our friend provided the perfect cover at work. Increasingly poor time keeping was being noticed, but tolerated. For a little while. 


I wasn't getting better though. I was geting worse. I reached a point where just waking up was painful.


You can probably tell that any shame I felt about the state of my mental health has long evaporated. I'm not sure 'shame' is the right word though. 'Confusion' and 'fright' better describe it. I didn't have the wherewithal to understand what was happening, let alone see a doctor or take people in to my confidence. I'd grown used to feeling weak, stupid, a disappointment, but oh, the constant exhaustion, that was new. It turns out I'm more of a bloke than I ever thought I was. Textbook, infact. Trying to hide the way things were became a job in itself. 


I was still me on the outside.


That soon changed. One night, at my parents house, I had a complete breakdown. Shouting, tears, swearing, a broken chair. I went Tonto. The only way I can think to describe it now is like experiencing every emotion you've ever felt all at once. In the white-out something broke. It wasn't the chair I wanted to smash up. It was me.


I insisted on going home that night. I remember my father driving me, he was white as a sheet. They had had no clue. It was dramatic. 


At the core of it, in the eye of it, I recall a sense of euphoria. I can't account for that, but that was what I felt. The eerie calm after a car crash. Also the realisation that this couldn't go on. I couldn't go to work so would have to see the doctor. I managed to get an appointment that day. I told him everything that had happened in the preceding few months. He was reassuring: "Perfectly normal in the circumstances", "I see a lot of people in your line of work" etc etc. He prescribed anti-depressants and signed me off for a couple of weeks. I went home, locked the door and stared at the tablets. I didn't take them. Not one would pass my lips. 


And here I am, typing in the sunshine. There's a lot more to tell, but I've just re-read this and will leave it for a day or two I think. Besides wondering if it's getting into too much information territory, I'm also wondering why I'm telling people all this stuff. Well, just like I thought, it's helping me to see just how far I've come. More than that, I hope that anybody reading this who feels like I felt will at least see a little of themselves and maybe be comforted or encouraged.


At the same time, I'm wondering if there will be ramifications of some sort. If by revealing things I'll be judged or found wanting. Worse yet, that I may appear self-pitying, or god forbid, self-regarding. I am better now. Honest ...

The shallow end

Saturday morning. It's early and I'm at the swimming pool. My son's lesson. 


I haven't slept properly for a few days, I've got a cold and the babble of enthusiatic parents and over-excited kids is combining with the fug of the cafe to make me feel queasy and on edge. All these people look fresh and sound keen. They look like they're straight out of the shower. No stubble. Unlike me.


They all seem to know one another.


I'm sat between three breakfasting families, nursing an over-frothed, tepid latte. Doing my best to look up so I can acknowledge my boy's frequent waves and proud smiles. He's doing well. Despite appearances to the contrary, so am I. I'm quietly pleased to be here at this time of day. Without this responsibility I'd be in bed. 


He's really swimming now. So is his dad.

"A man sooner or later discovers that he is the master-gardener of his soul, the director of his life." ...

So, a blog. Why? Well, I've been told it can help. Marshalling thoughts and that. I'm going to try being honest with and about myself. By extension that means I am being honest with whoever may happen along and read this. That has to be good, right? Maybe it will help just getting stuff out. Who knows? Maybe it'll just be a fleeting fancy, something else that I don't maintain. That's alright. Maybe it'll just be fun. That's cool, fun is never wasted. Maybe it'll be depressing and narcisistic. That's ok too. It's mine. Maybe it will be all those things in turn. Like I say, it's mine and I can be all those things, often at the same time. In real life (and given half a chance) I also know I can be funny and engaging. Lets see if it works with just words ... 

As I'm typing I'm asking myself all sorts of things. I have no plan, no grand idea, just a blank document that I've decided to try to fill. I need to get something done. So, question to myself: What do I hope this 'blog' thing will help me with?

That's easy. Depression. I've had it all my adult life. Always present, whispering in my ear, it started boiling over into episodes in my mid thirties. 

I'm not an obvious casualty. Far from it (though it's surprising how people who are on their own journey with it tend to recognise one another). Suffice to say, I've done and achieved some pretty cool things despite and sometimes because of it.

Always, there to spoil the party, to remind me of my inadequacies and lack of deserving, has been the black dog. The cliche from hell. Who knew dog's could speak english? Black ones can and they're incredibly loyal. I've tried not feeding him, leaving the door open, hoping he'll just bugger off, but no. He's a plucky little fella who always seems to manage and patently doesn't want to live somewhere else. He has a warm kennel in my head, chewy toys and three square meals a day. I've been looking after him better than I look after my plants. On the bright side, he may have found a foster home. The sod has left some bones buried, mark you. I'm hoping part of this writing will help me dig those up.

What the hell, I'll go for another clumsy and over extended metaphor. Depression and I have been in an abusive relationship. We all know people who are or have been tied to a partner who is clearly doing them no good. Tales of unhappy relationships abound. Once bright, independent and intelligent individuals sunk into neurotic misery. In these relationships the incremental change from charmer to control freak is subtle and not easily recognised. How could it be when you're in the middle of a shit storm of self doubt? In those circumstances "why don't you just leave?" is one of the cruellest questions imaginable. To the questioned it's also one of the deepest. Anyway, often it's unaskable. It's up there with the always well meant, yet crushing: "but you've got everything going for you". I've had a whole load of stuff going for me, I still do, it means nothing. 

Right, let's tease this metaphor until it breaks. Part of my depression's shift from charmer to control freak manifested itself as deepening cynicism. Often dressed up as jokes. It may get the laughs, but it's acid and corrosive. It eats you, not the target of your 'jokes'. Like the bullying partner it is, my depression was ignoring my real needs and taking charge. 

And it is MY depression. I spent many hours in counselling and on my own, trying to identify triggers, trying to find a root cause. For a long time I tried to find external factors to blame, looking everywhere but at me. I've come to realise that a kind of arrogance goes with that, along with a paradoxical neediness that I find unattractive. As an aside, it meant I was never a gracious recipient of praise. If someone told me I'd done something well, I would respond with what was wrong  and how it could have been better. Learning to just say thanks has been a hard but worthwhile exercise.

The most worthwhile exercise of all has been acceptance. A simple word ... Maybe I'll write some more about that. No, not maybe. Reticence has been part of this. I WILL write more about that ...