1270: Black Cloud

Been struggling a bit with depression again recently. It is my own fault for not proactively doing anything about it, but once it sets in there’s really not a lot you can do about it save for just riding it out and hoping it passes.

Some people describe their experiences with depression as being strangely comforting; those negative feelings acting as a sort of blanket that surrounds them and cuts them off from the outside world. I can sort of empathise with that, but at the same time it’s frustrating.

Here’s what dealing with depression is like for me.

I’ll wake up in the morning, usually after a semi-to-very vivid dream that leaves itself half-finished. At this point I have a choice; go back to sleep and finish the dream, or get up and start the day. If I choose the former option, I’ll find it very hard to get up for several hours, regardless of how many alarms I set. If I choose the latter option — which is often quite difficult to do — I’ll generally start the day in a more positive manner.

The day will then proceed as normal, so long as I keep myself occupied with something or other that stimulates my brain — whether that’s work, watching something on TV or playing a game. If I stop doing things, I’ll find myself staring into space, and that same feeling I have when I’m trying to get up sets in; I just don’t want to move. I feel myself being tugged in different directions: the depression wants me to just stare into space and feel sorry for myself, dwelling on all the things that I don’t want to dwell on, or that are completely unnecessary to dwell on; the rational part of my brain tells me that I’d feel better if I just reached over and grabbed the PS3 controller, or stood up and got a glass of juice, or put my shoes on and went outside for a bit. Sometimes the depression wins; sometimes the rational part of my brain wins. The rational part usually wins the war, as I am still able to function and do the things I need to do each day, but depression often scores a few victories in skirmishes along the way.

By the end of the day, I’m often left feeling mentally exhausted from having to keep the depression at bay. Sometimes, despite feeling tired, I don’t feel I can go to bed until an ungodly hour because I know I’ll just spend hours unable to sleep, my mind awhirl with conflicting emotions and anxieties. Sometimes, I’ll try and exhaust myself before collapsing into bed; other times, I’ll just pray for the best, lie down and hope that sleep claims me before too long.

Being depressed is frustrating, because there is often no particular cause for it. “What’s wrong?” people will ask. “Nothing in particular,” I’ll reply, because it’s true; there is nothing wrong, but that just feeds into the whole cycle. I start to feel guilty about feeling down about, well, nothing at all, and then I feel bad about feeling guilty; if you’ve been there, you know what it’s like.

I’ll get over it. I always do. Just needed to vent a little today.

1113: Thin Skin

You know one of the people I admire the most on the whole Internet? Jim Sterling. While I may not always agree with his opinions and the way he argues them, that’s not why I admire him. No, the reason I admire him is how he can say something which may end up being controversial in some way (either due to subject matter or by going against popular opinion) and then not let the subsequent barrage of vitriol flying his way bother him. Or, if he does, he manages to hide it exceedingly well and simply brush it off as part of the job. (I have a sneaking suspicion that if it really did bother him, he wouldn’t still be in this business.)

I last wrote about this topic back on day 795 of this blog, and the things both I and Sterling said back then still ring true. I’m envious of Sterling because of the way in which he can rise above the abuse and not let negative comments get to him, because I am the exact opposite.

Let me explain to you what it’s like to browse a comments section when you suffer from anxiety and depression in various forms. First of all, you find yourself hoping that there are comments there at all. It’s nice to know that something you wrote has resonated enough with someone to compel them to respond. It’s even nicer if said someone comes along and agrees with you. Everyone likes to be agreed with and made to feel like they’re “right”, even in topics where there is no clear “right” or “wrong” answer. It’s particularly pleasing to know you’ve made a connection with someone who is often a complete stranger, and that you’ve been able to bond over the words that came out of your head and onto the page.

Now let’s say there’s a dissenting comment in there, too. It doesn’t have to be a vitriolic or abusive one, just one which disagrees with you in some way. Immediately, all the good work done by the positive comment is undone. Immediately, you feel a knot in your stomach as you start to read the dissenting opinions, and immediately you start to feel like a failure as a human being because your thoughts didn’t coincide with someone else’s. Should you have written that article at all? Should you continue writing at all? Or should you just pack it in altogether, because every time a dissenting opinion comes along, you end up feeling sick to your stomach?

There is, of course, a specific example I’m thinking of in this case. As you may be aware, I write a regular column about visual novels every week for Games Are Evil. I don’t claim to be an expert on the subject, just someone with a strong interest in the medium and an urge to tell others about the great experiences I’ve had with them. This week, I decided to write about the treatment of sex in visual novels, which often tend to be very explicit on the erotic content front. The first comment I got was from a regular commenter on the column, and fell into the first category I described above. A subsequent one fell into the second category, telling me that I’d chosen bad examples to back up my points and accusing me of not knowing my subject matter. The comment itself was relatively respectful in tone, now that I’ve had a few hours to stew on it, but I came away from initially reading it feeling pretty shitty about myself. I’d worked hard on that piece and had put myself out there by sharing my opinions, and to have them shot down in that manner and accused of not knowing my stuff was actually quite upsetting.

I am aware that I broke one of the cardinal rules of the Internet by looking at the comments section at all, I am also aware that it’s highly possible that I will never see or hear from that commenter again, and I am also aware that everyone is entitled to their opinion and no-one is obliged to agree with me — but that simple failure to connect made me rather upset and has left me feeling quite glum all evening. It’s a total overreaction, I know, and I should learn from Sterling’s example and grow a thicker skin — or argue my corner better — but, well, that’s the experience of living with anxiety and depression. It only takes a few poorly-chosen words to make someone like me feel like crap, and it’s mostly our fault for being that way and not doing anything about it.

You should, of course, be able to freely express your opinions just as much as me, but just think about the way you’re saying the things you want to say before you hit that “post” button, please?

1105: Braindead

It’s coming up on 1am and I’m struggling of things to write here. But write I must.

Well, let’s review how things are going. That’s usually a good way to fill a day’s post, as nothing especially interesting has happened today. Unless you count letting our pet rats out for a run around in the hallway and going to Yo! Sushi (not at the same time) as being somehow “interesting”. I guess both of those are sort of interesting — I mean, I enjoyed them both — but really, you sort of had to be there in both instances.

It’s coming up on the end of the first month of 2013, and we’re still in that weird sort of limbo where it doesn’t quite feel right to talk about the year being 2013. I mean, I’m not sure what I’m really expecting to “feel” different, after all, but a new year is always a symbolic sort of thing, after all.

This year has already started somewhat differently, though, because I’m in a nice flat in the city I wanted to (and indeed used to) live in. I’m close to my friends (geographically speaking, obviously) and have even had them over to visit more times in the last month than I did in the year and a half I lived in Chippenham, which is good and makes me happy. I feel like I’m in a relatively comfortable situation — I enjoy my job, particularly as I get to work from home; I have an awesome girlfriend who puts up with my idiosyncracies and shows an interest in the things I’m passionate about; I have two surprisingly entertaining pet rats to whom I probably attribute far too much in the way of perceived personality; I’m relatively comfortably off money-wise, having cleared a bunch of longstanding debts last year (though student loan is still outstanding and probably always will be, gah); and, to cut a long, tedious and fairly directionless list short, I’m feeling fairly positive about the future.

As anyone who has suffered with one of the various forms of depression and/or anxiety will attest, though, it’s not always that easy to keep feeling positive, even though things are generally seemingly going sort of all right. It’s easy to lapse into negative feelings or self-doubt, and wonder if the things you’re doing are really the right things. It’s easy to want to make big, grand gestures to define yourself and feel like your life is moving in the right direction, but at the same time it’s difficult to either carry those things through — or even to know if they’re the right thing to do in the first place.

I’m content for now, though, occasional lapses in mood aside. It’s a pleasant feeling. I know I still have some way to go before feeling “better” — if it’s ever truly possible to feel “better” from these sorts of issues — but I at least feel like I’m heading in the right direction. When I look back at some of the posts I made over a thousand days ago, I see someone who was desperately unhappy and struggling to make it through the day for much of his time. It’s hard to let memories of bad times like that go, but I’d be lying if I said things weren’t massively better than they were way back then.

Onwards and upwards, then. The end of January will see us take ownership of a new sofa that will hopefully fit up the stairs into our flat, have our Internet properly connected and subsequently feel like we’re “properly” settled in.

Bring it on 2013, I’m a-ready for ya.

#oneaday Day 898: Contemplating the Darkness

I’d like to share a couple of posts with you. First of all, this piece by Jeff Green, published today. (If you don’t know who Jeff Green is, he’s currently PopCap’s director of editorial and social media and used to work on U.S. games magazine Computer Gaming World, later Games for Windows Magazine.) Many people expressed surprise at Jeff posting this, because, to quote several commenters, “you wouldn’t know he had depression.” I’ve only met Jeff maybe once or twice, but it’s true; he “hides it well,” as it were. That doesn’t diminish his suffering in any way, of course — it simply means that he’s found ways (and help) to deal with it in a way that doesn’t affect his public persona.

Second of all, and related, this post from January of last year by me. I shan’t talk about that post too specifically right now since you can just go and read it, but I did want to contemplate the subject a little further today, as reading Jeff’s post shortly after he published it (and undoubtedly went back and forth on whether or not he should share it with the world) got me thinking.

I am a lot better than I was. I hit my lowest ebb just over two years ago when my wife and I decided to split. I won’t go into the specific details of that right now, but suffice to say that it was a mutual decision by the pair of us that was partly a consequence of, ironically, my own depression. I had left a job I hated, gone to PAX East for the first time (and had an amazing time) and then came back home to no job, no prospects and a thoroughly bleak outlook for the future. Depression at my situation (which was at least partially self-inflicted, I will freely admit — I could have stuck at the job I left, but it probably wouldn’t have been good for me at all) sapped my motivation and just made me want to curl up into my own private little world and not talk to anyone. It wasn’t the first time it had happened to me. It was a recurring pattern. And, realistically, there are times when it will likely happen again in the future.

The one thing that people don’t seem to mention about depression is that it can be addictive. Sometimes, when given the choice between 1) getting up to do something positive that you know will make yourself feel better and 2) slumping on the sofa staring at an interesting spot on the wall for several hours, all your brain wants to do is 2). It gets into the habit of doing 2) and it becomes a natural, conditioned response to anything that upsets you or frustrates you. Over time, it gets harder and harder to not do 2) even though there’s usually at least a small rational part of your brain saying “STOP IT! STOP IT! STOP IT!” That rational part gets drowned out by the bit going “staring at the wall is comforting, safe, and you won’t have to talk to any people.”

Getting over that stage is the difficult part. Fighting against the desire to do nothing and wallow in your own self-pity is one of the hardest things anyone suffering from depression has to do. Only then can you figure out exactly what to do when you pull yourself up off the floor/bed/sofa and make a conscious decision to do… something. Whether that’s simply trying to “get on with your life” or actively seeking help to if not “cure” your condition then at least improve it.

Sometimes even the most straightforward tasks can be made to feel like insurmountable obstacles to those suffering a depressive episode. That in itself can cause people to feel ashamed of their condition and not want to talk about it. Thankfully, I’ve seen a heartening trend recently: people overcoming the stigma attached to talking about mental health issues and publicly baring their souls about these important topics. Jeff Green’s post is just the latest example of people with higher profiles than me publicly “coming out”, as it were, and talking about this aspect of themselves that, however unpleasant it may be, helps define the person that they are.

Feeling able to write about it publicly and talk about it face-to-face are two very different things, however. I know that personally speaking, I still find it difficult to talk about depression with anyone except my very closest friends, but I’ll happily (perhaps the wrong word, there) post things like this to an (admittedly small) audience the world over.

The important thing to remember if you have ever suffered from depression, though, is that you most certainly are not alone and that there is nothing to be ashamed of. You may hate the condition and what it does to you, but that doesn’t mean you should hate yourself or feel you should lock yourself away in isolation. On the contrary, you should seek out people you feel able to talk about it with and then get some things off your chest. And you should seek help if you need it.

#oneaday Day 877: Far Away

It’s not been a great week to be in my mind. You can’t control how or when or for what reason depression will hit you, but it’s been getting me down somewhat recently for a variety of reasons. The events I outlined yesterday are one contributing factor, but as I said there, they aren’t directly affecting me and thus I have to think that the exaggerated feelings of disappointment and upset I have been feeling may be caused by, rather than be the cause of, depression. Or perhaps there’s a whole mess of contributing factors.

I don’t know. And thinking about it inevitably doesn’t help.

One thing that is getting me down a bit at the moment is how far away I am feeling from all my friends. I live in the middle of nowhere a long way away from pretty much everyone I know, and thousands of miles away from the people I talk to literally every day — friends, coworkers, confidantes. I have Andie in my life, a fact which I am incredibly thankful for every day, but that unfortunately doesn’t stop the occasional feelings of loneliness and disconnection.

It’s partly my fault in some cases, of course. When you have disparate, unconnected friendship groups scattered around the globe, it’s difficult to keep up with all of them. (Hell, it’s difficult to keep up with disparate, unconnected friendship groups in the same city sometimes.) Some necessarily fall by the wayside as a sort of natural atrophy. In many cases, this gradual contraction of your worldwide friendship network is a sign that one or all of you have evolved and changed from the people you were when you first knew each other, and you’re just going in directions too different to stay together. In others, yes, it can simply be laziness, but mental states play a role in all this, too, particularly if you struggle with social anxiety as I do — sometimes even the prospect of hanging out with a longtime friend can be terrifying if you haven’t seen them for ages. What if you have nothing to talk about?

Mostly, though, my daily life, my work and my hobbies have led me to the position I am in now, where the vast majority (though not all) of the people that I would consider my closest friends live many thousands of miles away across the Atlantic Ocean, and in some cases even further afield than that. It’s great that I can talk to these people every day thanks to various forms of social media and other online happy funtimes, but sometimes all you want to do is get some people together in the same room, play some couch co-op (or couch competition games like the rather wonderful Hidden in Plain Sight), play some board games, eat some pizza/curry/Chinese/other takeaway goodness and simply, you know chill out together. It happens all too rarely these days.

Ah well. Not a lot I can do about it right now at 1am in the dark in Chippenham, is there? Someday I’ll buy you all a drink. Just probably not all at the same time.

#oneaday Day 825: Bull, Horns, That Sort of Thing

The Black Dog of depression has been rearing its ugly head a bit again recently for various reasons, and I’m sick of it. While there’s not necessarily much I can do about it showing up and being a pain in the arse, I can at least try and work on some things to make me feel a bit better about myself.

For starters, getting upset at one’s own reflection isn’t particularly great news, and it’s something that I can at least attempt to do something about. I have been fitness-ing off and on for some time now, but I figure it’s Time To Get Serious. That means I’m going to hit the gym every morning before I start my working day rather than leaving it until last thing in the evening when it’s easy to go “nah, fuck it”. (Of course, it’s easy to stay in bed and say “nah, fuck it” also, but I’m going to attempt to get out of this habit before it starts.) I won’t necessarily be doing everything every day, but I’m going to attempt to get at least an hour of cardio stuff in per day at the very least. This will likely mostly be done on the exercise bikes, where I can sit back and play Final Fantasy VI on my fancy-pants tablet while I’m sweating. At other times, I’ll use the crosstrainers and whack on a podcast — the Exploding Barrel Podcast from my good buddies Mike and AJ Minotti is always a favourite — or some inspirational music of some description.

As motivation and progress tracking, I’m going to be using Fitocracy, which I’ve posted about before here. I also considered resurrecting my Jedi Health Kick Tumblr from a while back, but given that Fitocracy provides the ability to post lengthy, blog-like status updates and has its own built-in community features, I’m going to stick with that. As well as tracking my workouts, I’m going to write a short post each day detailing how it went, how I’m feeling and what I’m aiming for. I’m also going to use Fitocracy’s excellent Quests feature to take on some challenges that I might not have otherwise thought of — this will help prevent complacency if I’m making a “game” out of it all.

I’d also like to eat better. I think I eat when I get depressed, and I get depressed a fair bit, which doesn’t help matters. I’d rather kick that particular habit in the face if possible — or at the very least change it so I munch on, say, carrot sticks instead of ALL THE BISCUITS, but that’s the sort of thing that will take plenty of teeth-clenching willpower to resolve. I have faith in my own ability to do this, however — if there’s one thing I’m good at it’s clenching my teeth and stubbornly resisting things. Sainsbury’s cream cakes are my most formidable adversary to date, however, so it remains to be seen whether I’ll be able to defeat them using the power of my clenched teeth (and/or buttocks) alone.

So that’s the plan. We’ll see how long I’m able to stick with it. I’m saying this publicly so I have a bit more pressure to follow through on it. If anyone would care to join me and work out alongside me or just offer some words of encouragement, come cheer me on over on Fitocracy — it’s free to sign up and there’s a nifty companion iPhone app too.

#oneaday Day 803: Why Teaching Sucks Redux

I’ve been trawling through my blog’s top search terms recently and besides this post, which has been a permanent fixture on that list for somewhere around two years now, one of the most consistent things that people find me through is the simple, clear phrase “teaching sucks”.

I have touched on this subject before — hence the presence of the search term — but perhaps haven’t described the extent to which I suffered in particularly great detail. This was for several reasons, chief among which was the fact that I wasn’t sure if I ever wanted to go back into that particular career path. I spent a year of my life earning a professional qualification to prove that I’m allowed to stand up in front of children and tell them things, after all, so I didn’t want to rule it out entirely.

Having found myself doing things that I actually enjoy now, however, I’m pretty certain that I won’t ever be jumping back on that train. So here, then, are just some of the many reasons Why Teaching Sucks.

My first teaching position was at a comprehensive secondary school somewhere near the Surrey/Hampshire border. I was hired as a music teacher, though had also agreed to take on some additional responsibilities because I’d been advised that making yourself out to be somewhat flexible was The Thing to Do. Specifically, I’d said that I’d also be happy to take on some English and ICT teaching as appropriate, though with the proviso that I’d not been specifically trained in those subject areas.

I was offered the job, and it was something of a relief as it was getting rather late to be applying for positions. I had been feeling a growing sense of unease — was I doing something terribly wrong at interview? Was I not cut out for this career? Was I a bad person? Some of these thoughts were unreasonable and irrational, of course, but it’s the way my brain works. So when the headteacher offered me the position, his only criticism of my interview and observed lesson being the fact that my tie was a little bit creased, I accepted with haste. (As a matter of fact, in most cases you don’t have any option but to accept with haste when being interviewed for a position at a school — most seem to expect you to give an answer there and then.)

The time came to start. My heart was in my mouth as the fateful day in September approached, though I was pleased there were a few days to plan and prepare before the kids actually showed up. I took the time to get to know my colleague in the Music department, and also discovered that I’d been signed up to teach “Key Skills” lessons. The exact nature of these lessons wasn’t entirely clear, but I was promised that all lesson plans and relevant material would be prepared for me.

By the time the kids arrived, I was starting to feel reasonably positive. I could do this. I was trying desperately to ignore the things some of my new colleagues had said about the local squaddies’ families having semi-regular violent altercations with local traveller families, and felt pretty much prepared for what faced me.

Things got underway, and to cut a long story short, it wasn’t exactly plain sailing. Year 7 classes were mostly manageable, as the kids were generally fairly bright-eyed and fresh from primary school. Above that, though, and things got difficult. There was the kid whose mum said he didn’t have to attend detentions, making all punishments effectively worthless. There was the kid who liked to climb bookshelves. There was the kid who threatened to knife me when I politely asked him to be quiet.

It wasn’t all bad times, of course. My GCSE Music class were a joy to spend time with, and while some of them weren’t the most gifted musicians in the world, they were fun to hang out with and always tried their best because they liked what they were doing, and they liked me. There were other students who brought a bit of light into the darkness, too, some of whom I’ve discussed on this very blog. And the school production of Seven Brides for Seven Brothers is a particular highlight that I doubt I’ll ever forget — even if it meant me staying up until 3 in the morning arranging music on several occasions. And my colleagues were consistently super-awesome — what I discovered in that school was that people tend to stick together in adversity to support and help each other. I made some good friends, and without them I probably wouldn’t have made it as far as I did.

It wasn’t to last. The previous headteacher retired and a new head came in — oddly enough, he was an ex-teacher of my housemate at the time, though that’s somewhat beside the point. The new head had been brought in to “fix” things — the school was about half a million in the red, behaviour was awful and clearly Things Needed To Be Done. So he did — he immediately expelled a selection of the worst kids in the school (and expelling kids is not an easy process these days), which made him look like he meant business. And he then set about tackling the budgetary problems.

Unfortunately, this meant redundancies. And it became abundantly apparent that the Music department was going to be on the chopping block. As I was the last in, I was also highly likely to be the first out, and sure enough, I was informed that my job would likely no longer be there after the end of the year.

Although I regularly went home cursing the names of the students I taught for the stress they caused me, I sort of enjoyed the job, and very much enjoyed the financial security of having regular income. I didn’t want that to go away, and broke down in tears in the Music department staffroom one lunchtime. It was not a pleasant feeling, though it was somewhat cathartic to let out the pent-up emotions while surrounded by sympathetic ears. It didn’t help that I was then invited to effectively go and plead for my job to the board of governors, a soul-destroyingly humiliating experience which I hope I never have to go through again.

By the time the end of term came, however, I’d secured a new position at a nearby school and was feeling a little more positive about things. My first impression of the new school had been a positive one, and I felt better about the whole “security” thing. I even managed to give a memorable leaving speech, during which I was able to slip in a saucy joke at the deputy headmistress’ expense, offer some earnest thanks to the colleagues who had made my time at that school bearable, and wish them luck for the undoubtedly tough times ahead.

The summer holidays came and went, and I found myself at the new school. This was in a more affluent area, but it was still “the shit school” in the town in question. Once again I went in, got to know my colleagues and prepared for the coming storm.

And once again, all was well to begin with. In most schools, new teachers can enjoy a few weeks of relative calm as the students acclimatise to the new regime, occasionally push the boundaries but mostly seem to want to get on with things. As time passed, however, things declined somewhat. It became more and more difficult to control the classes as the children became more and more confident — overconfident, some might say. I had several pieces of expensive equipment stolen from my (locked) classroom, I was verbally abused on a regular basis, the equipment in the department hadn’t been refreshed for a good ten years and there was no money to buy any more, and I was starting to feel the “cracks” from stress.

In the case of this school, there was no sense of camaraderie — at least, I didn’t encounter any. No-one talked to me in the staffroom. Even my own departmental colleague preferred to hang out with her friend from Maths than talk to me. I found myself feeling unsupported, unliked and unappreciated. When things went well, I felt like I didn’t receive recognition for them. And when things went badly, I felt like I didn’t get the help I so desperately needed. I ended up taking quite a few days off sick when I felt I couldn’t cope or face the day ahead — and still had to send in work for my classes to complete when that happened.

One particular day I was teaching a class, and had just set them off on an activity to compose some music. I had divided them into groups, I had set clear expectations as to what I wanted them to do and when I expected it to be done by, and I had the equipment set up ready to record their work at the end of the session. In short, there wasn’t much else I could have done in order to make that lesson run any smoother.

Unfortunately, it was that day that several groups of students decided to kick off. No-one was concentrating on the task, despite my going around and helping them. Group members were arguing, disagreeing and in some cases threatening to get violent with one another. And they would not respond to me at all.

I could feel the pressure building in my brain like a pot slowly coming to the boil. I knew that something was going to give. I felt it happen as I was standing out in the main hall trying to convince the children who were using the piano to get on with their work rather than thump each other with percussion instruments. Nothing was happening. Nothing was working. I couldn’t cope. I wanted out. I couldn’t escape, and right at that point, there was nothing I wanted more than to be somewhere else.

I ran off and broke down in tears, thankfully out of sight of the students. It’s a blur as to what exactly happened — I think I hid in the equipment cupboard. Somehow someone found me — either my departmental colleague or the Drama teacher — and gently escorted me into our office, away from prying eyes.

I was sobbing uncontrollably by this point. “I can’t do this,” I remember saying. “This isn’t me. This isn’t me.” Over and over. At the back of my mind the mostly-dominated rational part of my brain was thinking “so this is what a nervous breakdown feels like”, and my body was certainly providing an apt demonstration. It took a long time for me to calm down, by which time someone had gone and placated my class, or removed them to somewhere else — I didn’t know. I didn’t care by this point, either.

I escaped the premises as soon as I could, went home and cried again. I had got myself into this situation, and I didn’t know how to get out. I was scared. I was sad. I was angry. I didn’t know what to do — but I knew what I didn’t want to do.

I made an appointment with my doctor. The time came to see her and, voice shaking, I explained how terrible I was feeling and how I had suffered my embarrassing emotional breakdown. I was terrified that the doctor would judge me, tell me I was being stupid, refuse to do anything and force me back into that hell. But she didn’t. She gave me a sympathetic look and asked me what I wanted her to do for me.

“I can’t go back there,” I said. “I just can’t.”

She nodded, clearly understanding, and wrote me a sick note signing me off for “work-related stress”. I couldn’t face handing it to someone in person, so the next day, I wrote a brief letter to the headteacher apologising for my absence, attached the sick note and took it into the school one afternoon when I knew all the staff would be in a meeting. I left it there, swearing I would never set foot in that place again.

The next day, the headteacher’s personal assistant phoned me, saying that the head was concerned about me and wanted to come over to my house and talk later that week. Panicking and not knowing what to do, I said that would be all right and immediately regretted it the moment after I put the phone down. I took to a teachers’ forum I frequented and picked the brains of the community — was this normal, I wanted to know? Was it something I should be allowing?

It was recommended that I contact my union representative, and I did so. They told me that it would probably be a bad idea to have that meeting, so, not being able to face any more phone calls — telephobia, remember — I sent an email to the head’s assistant saying that I was sorry, but I didn’t think the meeting would be a good idea. I then closed my email program and promptly became terrified and paranoid about what the response would be. I was too afraid to look at it for most of the rest of the day, but when I did, I found that I had actually received a rather understanding response. I realised that in my mind, I was building up a feeling that everyone was out to get me, that I wasn’t safe, that I couldn’t escape. But it transpired that people were just worried about me.

This story has already gone on a long time — longer than I perhaps intended — so I’ll just say at this point that I, unsurprisingly, resigned from my post while I was signed off sick. I sent a lengthy letter explaining exactly why I was resigning, taking the opportunity to share a number of concerns that both my colleagues and I had. I received a response from the head thanking me for the time I had served at the school, and noting that my concerns were valid, warranted and shared by many other members of staff, including him. That made me feel a bit better.

Since that time, I haven’t really looked back. I spent a short time working in a primary school as an experiment to see if working with younger kids was any easier, but no — all the same stressors were still there. Behaviour, threats of violence, government interference, endless bureaucracy and the constant feeling that you’re doing a Bad Job even when you’re not. It didn’t help, of course, that I was working at a school that was failing so hard it was in “Special Measures”, meaning that government interference was even higher than it usually was. But that’s a story for another time — in fact, the way that particular sorry episode made me feel is chronicled extensively at the start of my “oneaday” entries.

Fortunately, in that case, I was on a temporary contract rather than a full-time permanent position. As such, I was free to walk away — even though at the time I didn’t have anything to go to. To date, I sometimes wonder if I made the right decision, as it proved to be the catalyst for a fairly cataclysmic Heroic BSOD in my own personal story.

But looking at where I am now… I’m in a better place. (No, not dead. Though it’s not an exaggeration to say that was, at a number of points during the story above, a very real concern.) I’m doing a job I enjoy, living with a person I love and leading a life which may not be perfect, but it’s certainly pretty good. Had I stayed in teaching, I’m not sure I’d be able to say the same thing.

If you read all that, thanks for listening.

TL;DR: Don’t go into teaching. It’ll fry your brain.

#oneaday Day 770: February Blues

It’s a long-held tradition in my family that the month of February is the best time to get really depressed and despondent about nothing in particular. I say “tradition”. It just seems to sort of happen sometimes, and as someone who struggles with depression at the best of times, I’m certainly not exempt from the February Blues.

I thought this year that I’d got away with it. It is, after all, almost the end of February and here I am having been feeling reasonably positive about things recently. I’m working, I’m enjoying it, I’m living in a place I like with a person I love and generally, things are pretty hunky-dory, whatever that means.

The last couple of days have seen a marked downturn in my mood, however. I’m not sure if it’s the weather, the fact it’s still getting dark quite early, the fact I’m tired, the fact I’m not sure if I’m ill or just have a bit more flatulence than usual — basically, though, something’s got my goat and is jiggling it around furiously, refusing to let go. (Note: “goat” in this instance is not being used to refer to my penis. The grabbing of that, refusing to let go and jiggling around is normally quite pleasurable, but that’s a topic best saved for another blog altogether.)

This is the frustrating thing about depression, particularly seasonally-affected depression, which is what I assume the “February Blues” are all about. There isn’t always a reason for it. Sometimes you just wake up of a morning, consider getting out of bed and realise that no, there’s not really anything exciting out there and it’s actually quite warm under the duvet and wouldn’t it be nice if you just closed your eyes again for a couple of minutes and relaxed and shit it’s midday and so on.

The above-described is also laziness, lethargy or whatever you want to call it, but it can be brought on by an irrational black mood. Sometimes the world is just inherently unsatisfying, leaving you wondering if there’s something better you could be doing, some greater purpose to your life.

Inevitably, the answer to those questions is “no”, so after a while you settle back into a nice comfortable routine of doing what you do and finding the whole thing perfectly satisfactory.

Sometimes asking those questions spurs you on to do other things, though. It’s from feeling bleak and wanting a convenient outlet that I started posting these daily blog entries after all, and now I feel they’re a big part of “me”. It’s just habit now, but when I casually mention to someone that I’ve written a blog post of varying quality every day for the last 770 days, they usually seem quite impressed. Most of them, too, are kind enough not to mention that if I hadn’t been wasting my time writing nonsense like this every day, I could have probably churned out a ton of novels by now. (I know this. Shush.)

Similarly, it’s from feelings of bleakness and blackness that I have started on exercise journeys several times — though at the times of the bleakest blackness it’s sometimes difficult to motivate oneself to proceed. (This is where a structured, scheduled programme like Couch to 5K comes into its own, as you then have feelings of guilt to contend with if you miss a session. Guilt is a powerful motivational factor, particularly if it doesn’t hurt anyone but yourself.)

Will these feelings spur me on to do anything this time around? I don’t know. I have a few irons that are not-quite-in-the-fire-but-at-least-somewhere-near-the-fire right now that I might give a poke from tomorrow. As previously mentioned, I’m running through Couch to 5K again. I’m still blogging. And I’m making sure to take the time to talk to friends both online and off.

February’s nearly over. And when it departs, may the colour come back to the lives of any of those of you who have been afflicted with a surfeit of blue.

#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.

#oneaday Day 599: Black Dog

The fragility of my own emotions infuriates me sometimes. I know it’s partly just who I am — I’ve always been on the sensitive side — and partly to do with our old friend Des, the Black Dog, whatever you want to call it. But it doesn’t stop it being any less irritating when what was a perfectly good day can be spoiled by something as simple as an unkind word from a stranger.

Such as it was today. I’m not going to go into too specific detail because there’s really no need to. Suffice to say, I got up feeling reasonably positive, did my EA Sports Active workout an appropriate amount of time after breakfast (OatSoSimple, aka oatmeal, aka porridge) and despite knackering my whole body (yet never creeping into the “zone 5” on the heart rate graph which either means “you’re working super-crazy pro athlete hard” or “you’re about to die”) I came out of the experience feeling refreshed, positive and ready to tackle the day.

And the day went pretty well, too. I decided to experiment with the nice EA lady’s suggestion of 5-6 small “meals” per day (basically an invitation to snack every couple of hours, albeit on healthy foods) and see how that worked. That seemed to go well too — when I got to lunchtime I didn’t feel the need to stuff myself on crisps and whatnot as well as my sammich because I’d already had some fruit a couple of hours previously. I see how this works.

The day continued to go reasonably well until our old friend, the Internet, dredges up its favourite way of flooring those who lack self-confidence — trolling from strangers. I know it’s really not worth getting wound up over the opinions of people I will possibly never meet, ever. But I can’t help it. As I outlined above, it’s the kind of person I am. I need to develop a thicker skin against this sort of thing — but old habits die hard and all that.

It infuriates me how a few simple hurtful comments can turn an otherwise positive day into one which reminds me that the Black Dog is still very much at my gate, ready to sneak in at any opportunity. He can usually be dispatched with a good rant at someone or an hour or two on Xenoblade Chronicles, but he’ll be back. He always is.

One day he might leave me be, but sadly that day is not today.