The concept of Des as displayed in my comic is, of course, nonsense and would be genuinely terrifying if it were actually true. But for anyone who has suffered with depression, anxiety or similar symptoms, your own personal black cloud of despair is very much a real thing, even if you can't see him or make him cups of tea in order to make him go away. (Some people may argue that last point, but I don't really drink tea.)

Thinking about it, though, "Des", or "The Black Cloud of Despair" to give him his full name, has been with me pretty much for as long as I remember, right from a young age. In this post, I'm going to explore my relationship with "him" and perhaps work some things out as a result. This probably isn't going to be easy to write (or read) but it's cathartic or something. So here we go.

Des sometimes came with me to primary school. I had disproportionately-large ears when I was a kid, or at least a haircut which made them appear that way, and I was relentlessly bullied throughout most of primary school for them, even by people who were (sometimes) my friends. I recall spending many lunchtimes at school either in tears, getting beaten up by the school bullies or getting absolutely furious at one of the dinner ladies. I can't even remember why I got so angry with her now, but I have vivid memories of kicking a bin over on more than one occasion. Looking back on it, all these things that were happening just attracted Des to me like flies to shit. The relentless teasing and bullying made me feel bad about myself, and I felt wronged, that life was somehow unfair, even at that early age. Des whispered in my ear that I was never going to be one of the "cool" kids, that I'd never be part of the "élite cliques", and I believed him. I stopped trying to be "cool" and settled for the (ultimately more useful) choice of "doing well".

So a questionable start there.

Des joined me at secondary school, too. On my first day at secondary school, the small group of us who had been together in the same class for all of primary school were now scattered around different tutor groups with a bunch of strangers. Strangers whom we were obviously expected to interact with.

Des whispered in my ear again. "You don't know what to do, do you?" he said, a mocking tone in his voice. "You really have no idea."

I didn't. I actually turned to my friend sitting behind me and said "I can't remember how to make friends!" and he just laughed me off. But I genuinely couldn't. And to this day, it's never a conscious process. It just sort of happens, with some people more than others. Those people that I instantly "click" with? Those are the people I know are going to be true friends, the ones who will never disappear from my life, even if distance or time separates us.

The bullying wasn't quite so bad throughout secondary school, and I at least had a group of friends that were less fond of turning their backs on me at regular intervals, so I was able to stand my ground a bit more. But Des was still there, and I totally lacked the confidence to do any normal teenage things like ask girls out because he'd always be there, muttering that there's no way they'd ever want me. I went out with two girls throughout my high school life: one of them cheated on me in front of me at the school prom (classy, but she's now married to the guy so fair play to them, I guess) and the other got together with me on a school trip to a local recording of Songs of Praise (I know, right), promptly disappeared for a week and then decided that it wasn't working. Well, great.

Sixth form was better. In fact, I'd go so far as to say that sixth form was my favourite time to be alive. Des left me alone throughout this time, and I got on with my life. I did the things I enjoyed to the best of my ability and have some of the fondest memories with my friends of all time during that period. It seemed like things were finally taking a change for the better, and as the time to go to university drew nearer, it seemed like my whole life was ahead of me and that I could finally look forward to what was to come instead of resenting the past.

And sure enough, university was pretty great. Barring one small incident at the very start of my time there where I met someone whom I was absolutely sure within a matter of minutes was the "right person" for me who then got together with someone else because I was too hesitant to speak up (that and she liked him more, I guess), Des mostly left me alone throughout university, and I again enjoyed good times with great people.

Since then, though, he's been back. Occasionally he goes away for a while, but he always comes back. During my work in teaching, he was ever-present, enveloping me, telling me over and over that I couldn't do it, that I was going to get found out, that I was useless, that the abuse and insults the kids threw around were personal, that the fact I couldn't control a class was symptomatic of my failure as a human being.

I jacked it in after suffering what amounted to a complete emotional breakdown in the middle of one day. I had to leave early that day, and I never returned, having been signed off sick.

I wanted to hide, and I did. I felt like I hadn't had any real friends at that job, and the few people who did show some concern I pushed away, partly on the advice of a professional body and partly because I couldn't face them. Through this time, my wife stood by me, even though she was also going through difficult times at work and trying to figure out what she wanted to do with her life, too. I appreciated that. If I'd been through that time by myself I'm not entirely sure I'd be here writing this right now. Codependence isn't helpful in the long run, but it is certainly a means of surviving a situation while it's happening. The other person can see when Des is moving in, and can swat him away. But you have to learn to swat him away yourself sometime.

I eventually moved back to Southampton when I got what appeared to be my dream job. It was a retail job, but not. I was getting to use my teaching and communication skills on a daily basis, play with gadgets and enthuse about them—and above all, I was damn good at it. When I was selling stuff, I frequently topped the "charts" for the day, and held the record for "most shit sold in a day" for the longest time—possibly still do. When I was teaching people how to use their computers, customers frequently requested me specifically because they thought I was good at what I did.

For a long time, it seemed as if Des was gone for good. But things changed, as they tend to. A shifting focus in our working environment left some of us feeling a little uncomfortable that we weren't performing quite the same roles we'd been hired to do. Although many of us were technically salesmen, the thing we'd loved about the job was that it wasn't a "high-pressure, hard sell" task. We just talked to people enthusiastically about the products, and this genuine enthusiasm helped people come to their conclusions far more than any amount of rabbiting on about warranties and membership programmes.

No longer, though. Des started to creep in, though in this case, he actually offered some good advice. "This isn't right," he said. "You shouldn't be doing this. This isn't what you're here for."

I voiced my concerns reasonably—something that had always been part of the culture of the workplace in question—and found myself on the receiving end of what can only be described as out-and-out bullying. This eventually left me with no option but to resign from the job I once loved so much. Not only that, but the circumstances of my departure clearly stymied my chances at later returning to the company in a different region. I had thought I had left bullying behind a long time ago, but it wasn't to be. I still have a copy of my lengthy resignation letter, which plenty of other people agreed with wholeheartedly.

I moved back into teaching—a move which I talked about a few days ago—and regretted it. Des stopped being helpful and started telling me that I was no good again, a feeling that was further backed up by OfSTED inspectors with clipboards telling me that I was no good.

So I left. Shortly afterwards, I found myself with no job, no money, no wife and no-one but Des for company on many days. On those days, there wasn't much I could do. Des would surround me, bombard me with thoughts and feelings of what might have been, what could have been, regrets and the like. He frequently laid me low, unable to function for the vast majority of a day. He made me shout and scream to no-one, to break things, to lash out at empty space and myself because there was no-one else to lash out to. He made me question whether it was even worth carrying on trying, because I felt like I'd been "trying" for so hard and never getting there.

And when I had to leave that place I'd called home, he came with me, taunting me, pointing at what had happened as somehow a failure on my part.

And perhaps I have failed at certain things in the past. But failing at something is a sign to do one of two things: do better, or do something else instead. And that's what I've been doing since then. It hasn't yet found me a full-time job, it hasn't yet got me any money, it hasn't yet got me back into my own place.

But it has helped to define me, to understand myself and my limits. Des has made me into the person I am today and put me in the situation I am currently in. When a concept or a feeling is with you for so long, it can't help being part of who you are. It's how you deal with it that makes the difference. Instead of listening to Des's taunts and just nodding along, believing every one, I should punch him in the face, tell him to stop being such an asshole and then prove him wrong.

In short, I should see him as my personal trainer, not the school bully. It's difficult to redefine the way you look at something. But I don't really have an option any more.

Here's to the hard work ahead, and it hopefully paying off.