"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 ...