#oneaday Day 684: The Great... You Know

I am depressed. That much is probably self-evident to those of you who have been following me for a while. Writing about it is often a cathartic experience, though talking about it in person is somewhat more difficult. That's why if you have ever met me face to face, you might not think anything was wrong. But there is, has been for a long time and probably will continue to be for a considerable period to come.

I shan't get into the specifics of this particular bout, as some of them are personal to me and I have no desire to share them or make them public — the whole "losing my job" thing is a contributing factor, but there are other things, too. What I did want to talk about was the effect of a visit from "Des", my own personal black cloud of despair, personified as, well, a big black cloud in the comics I did on this blog a while back (and will be returning to in the New Year).

Depression is different for everyone, and everyone copes with it differently. Some cope with it better than others. Others turn to self-destructive coping mechanisms which cause a spiral of upset both for themselves and — often unwittingly — the people around them. I'm not quite sure where I fall. My behaviour when I get depressed isn't conducive to feeling particularly better, but I don't abuse my body in any way — the closest I come to indulging in any kind of vice is going out and getting a coffee and a cake because I feel like I "deserve" one. That's probably not particularly helpful in and of itself, but it's a different kind of coping mechanism to drink, drugs or self-harm.

"Coping mechanism" is a bit of a misnomer, because very often, it doesn't involve much in the way of actual "coping". For me, when depression hits, it hits hard. I feel like a darkness has descended on me and all I want to do is lie down, close my eyes and let it engulf me. And it does. And once I'm in there, it's very difficult to get out again. Even if I open my eyes to eliminate the physical side of the "darkness", once it's wormed its way into my mind, it's very difficult to summon up the motivation to do anything — even move, at times. It takes an enormous strength of will to break out of that cycle — it sounds ridiculous, I know, but ten minutes before writing this post I was lying on my sofa simply staring into the middle distance, the occasional thought of "I should move" or "I should do something rather than just lying here" being quickly swatted away by a general feeling of complete and total apathy towards everything. The feeling of wanting to cry came and went several times, as did the sense of frustration at the fact that there wasn't one concrete "cause" of the way I was feeling to do something about, or lash out at. Eventually I succeeded in my Will check and managed to lift myself up and muster the strength to sit down and write this.

I'm not sure if writing this is actually helping matters or hindering them. I'm not sure if sharing this sort of thing is a good idea. But getting these difficult thoughts out of my head is my main "coping mechanism", and the way in which I can do that most ably is through writing. Talking is good, too, but that carries with it its own particular set of unique anxieties, too, whereas while I'm writing, it's just me and the blank page in front of me, the words falling into place and explaining the feelings I'm experiencing.

I have never been to the doctor about depression. Actually, that's not quite true. Towards the end of my first stint teaching in UK classrooms (music, secondary) I eventually reached "breaking point" one day. Behaviour of the class was just so appalling that I had to walk out of the room and immediately burst into tears. I was swiftly escorted into the nearby Arts office in the drama department and plied with soothing words. They didn't help. I needed to get out. I left that school that day and didn't come back, getting signed off by my doctor at the time for "work-related stress", which is exactly what it was. Had I not taken that step to say "whoa there, this is too much to handle", I'm not sure I'd be writing this now.

Since then, I haven't returned to the doctors — for anything, in fact, let alone depression. The problem is, I don't know if it would help, were I to show up and say "I think I'm depressed". I don't particularly want to go on medication as that carries with it its whole own set of considerations, and the prospect of counselling makes me concerned about money — particularly as I'm now out of a job. And beyond that, the suggestions are always the same — eat well, get exercise. I know all that, and most of the time I am doing all that.

Depression is an uphill struggle, and every time you reach what looks like the summit you get a period of respite. But before long you're climbing again, scrabbling frantically for a foothold. The goal is always the same: to lift yourself into the clear blue skies above the cloud layer, free from all the darkness below. Some people manage it. Others aren't so lucky.

As for me, I'm a fighter. I'll keep going. I'll get through this shitty period, just like I've got through every previous shitty period in my life. And doubtless there will be more in the future. I just wish I was one of those people who can laugh off adversity and see every annoyance as a new challenge to overcome, rather than a spike trap smacking you repeatedly in the face, sort of like this:

Unfortunately, I very much fall into the latter camp.