Tag: depression

#oneaday Day 147: Where Are We?

So, let’s take stock of a few things. It’s now over a year since my life broke, and it’s still not back together again. Some days that eventual goal of getting “back on track” feels a million miles away, over a range of insurmountable obstacles and, after all that, hanging tantalisingly just out of reach over a pit of spikes with scorpions on the ends of them. (Pretty redundant, I know, but hey, I didn’t design the nightmare. Oh wait, I did.)

Things are a bit better than they were this time last year, of course. I don’t wake up at 5pm and want to spend the day either crying or breaking things. I still get sad, sure — who doesn’t? Though some get more sad than others. And I don’t feel angry — at least, not in the same way I did this time last year. I sometimes get angry at the situation I’m still in — upset, resentful, frustrated that life sometimes feels to be going nowhere and that I feel like an incompetent 12 year old rather than a 30 year old with one hell of a lot to offer the world. But then I’ve always had something of a sense of self-doubt and an inferiority complex. I’m not sure that’s even the right description — I know I’m good at stuff. I just sometimes feel that I’m not as good at them as other people — whether it’s simple, stupid things like holding a conversation, or complex, specialised things like playing the piano or writing stuff.

“Believe in yourself,” is the thing to think in that situation. “You can do it. You are awesome.” And it works for a while, until something comes along to kick you in the balls and set you back to square one. To be fair, said kicks in the balls haven’t happened for quite some time and hopefully I’ve seen the last of them. But, as I say, this time last year, I found myself kicked in the balls by life, repeatedly, and it still smarts now.

“Other people have it far worse,” is the thing to think in that situation. But you know what? I don’t care. Other people do have it worse. But right now, I couldn’t give a toss. You can be too altruistic, too much of a nice person, focus on the wellbeing of others and neglect yourself. Good things have started to happen for me, but I want more. I’ve put up with shit for too long. It’s okay to be selfish.

So with that in mind, I strongly hope that today represents a stride forward on the road to recovery. The job interview I mentioned yesterday was an enjoyable, pleasant experience that I feel went well. I feel quietly confident that it was a positive thing that happened today, and should I find myself offered the position in question I will happily take it without a second thought, grabbing life by the horns and bending it to my will rather than feeling sorry for myself.

Because, frankly, I’ve had enough of crap. Crap can go take a running jump off a very tall cliff with a physically-improbable spiky rock arrangement at the bottom. Bring on the awesome.

Please.

#oneaday Day 87: Don’t Worry

Some people are perpetual worriers, concerned about every last detail of every little thing they (and others) do, utterly convinced that if appropriate preparation for every single possible disaster isn’t adhered to then something awful will absolutely, certainly and totally happen.

I’m not one of those people. But then neither am I their antithesis, the laid-back, breezy type who lets crisis after crisis wash over them in a totally infuriating manner, managing to stay calm amidst people’s heads exploding, zombies bursting through the windows and/or their dwindling finances. (Specific crises depend on the person, obviously.)

I’m somewhere in between. There are times when I panic about things. Like proper full-on panic attacks. (They’re not pleasant, if you’ve ever had one.) I haven’t had one for a while, but in the past, they’ve been caused by two things—working in education and money. I have dealt with one of those two issues by kicking it in the balls and telling it never to come back into my life ever again, at least until I get totally desperate, which hopefully I won’t have to. I’m working on the other one.

But then other times I find myself unconcerned with things, thinking them more trivial than they perhaps actually are. This is good for short-term mental well-being, but not great when you put things off until it’s too late and then they end up causing panic. Actually, saying “unconcerned” is perhaps misleading; it’s not that I don’t care. At times, though, things are difficult to contemplate and even harder to talk about, even amongst the people you trust the most. Some things are scary, and so putting them to one side is a way of facing them later, an attitude advocated by Final Fantasy XIII, of all things. It’s a good feeling when you get up the confidence to say something that’s been bothering you for ages and you feel like you can get the help or the support you need—but at the same time, you don’t always have people there to help you or just to listen, so those are the times when being able to compartmentalise your thoughts and set them aside for a little while becomes useful.

It is one of those things, I suspect, that there isn’t an easy answer to. The way I am may sound like something of a “happy medium” but in practice it’s not; it’s the two extremes and nothing in between. Everything negative is either a total disaster that keeps me lying awake at night, or unimportant bollocks that I don’t need to think about right now. If only there was a way of compressing everything in just a little bit so that the disastrous things became simple irritants that I actually felt motivated to deal with and the unimportant bollocks also became mild irritants that, while not exactly pressing, were just niggling enough to make me want to swat them away like flies.

Perhaps this is one of the things people deal with in therapeutic sessions.

#oneaday, Day 34: #whatstigma?

Comedienne Rebecca Front posted the following tweet yesterday, and was somewhat surprised at the level of response it got:

It was a bold move, particularly for a public figure, but in doing so she inspired a veritable plethora of people to “come out of the closet”, as it were, and admit that they had suffered mental health issues, be they depression, anxiety, panic attacks, OCD or any number of others.

Front’s aim with the original tweet was to encourage people to talk openly about the things they felt without feeling a stigma attached to it—hence the hashtag. And it was genuinely touching to see the number of people who latched on to this topic, confessing how they suffered from numerous “hidden” ailments in their mind whilst going about what otherwise seemed to be perfectly “normal” lives.

In fact, Front conjectured that some form of mental illness affected almost everyone. That may appear to be an exaggeration, but the number of people responding to her original tweet, coupled with the fact that #whatstigma became the top non-promoted trending topic in the UK for a good few hours yesterday, made it clear that there were plenty of people out there who do suffer from these things and perhaps haven’t had the opportunity to talk about them, or don’t feel comfortable talking about them.

It’s no surprise, really, that there’s a perceived stigma surrounding mental illness, however. Back in last May, Janet Street-Porter made some ill-advised comments suggesting that depression was being used as a fashion accessory—that people were just saying they were suffering because it was the “in” ailment to have.

There may well be some people who deliberately exaggerate their feelings of “being down” into “depression”—if there are, then they really should find better things to do with their lives. But these people aside, people do genuinely suffer. And it’s not just a case of “snapping out of it”, of “cheering up”, of saying “chin up” enough times. It doesn’t just go away; it sticks around, for years sometimes. Like anything, there are peaks and troughs; the peaks can feel like you’ve escaped it, finally, that you’re in the clear, that you can get on with enjoying your life. But then a trough comes along, plunges you deep into the darkness and the long climb back out begins again.

I’ve felt this way—I still do. And I know many, many other people—some in person, some via the Internet—who also do. I didn’t recognise my depression for what it was until I spent some time with someone who explained it to me at university. I recognised the feelings she described and knew that I’d felt them myself, too. It wasn’t just a case of feeling “a bit sad”. It was a variety of factors piling up in such a way that made it very difficult to deal with life’s trials, whatever they might be.

And I hate it. The feeling of helplessness that comes with it; of having days when you just don’t want to get out of bed; of times when nothing can stop you from feeling regrets, anger, fear, shame; of wondering if it’ll ever end. For some people, it becomes just something about you—something you deal with. For others, it’s an acute condition which can be treated. But for most people, there are underlying causes that need to be dealt with rather than attacked with “quick fixes”.

In my case, these underlying causes are well-documented, and I’m doing what I can to fix them. This makes me feel a little better most of the time—knowing that I’m making the effort to do something about these underlying causes is good motivation to keep doing what I do. But there are still days when I find myself wondering if it’s worth it, if anything is ever going to come of all these efforts that I’m making.

I won’t know unless I keep trying, I guess.

My feelings on this made clear, now, here’s the shameless plugging. In May, I’ll be running the BUPA 10K with a couple of very lovely friends I’ve met via the One A Day Project. All three of us will be running in aid of the mental health charity “Mind”. I’d certainly appreciate it a great deal if you can spare a bit of virtual loose change to fling my way via my fundraising page. Every little bit will help people to get the help they need to overcome these difficulties.

Thanks for reading this; thanks for your help; and thanks for your support.

#oneaday, Day 3: My Life with Des

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.

#oneaday, Day 348: End of the Year Show

So, 2010. Here we are. Your last day with us. You have a lot to answer for.

Actually, let me start.

Fuck you. I remember at the start of 2010 thinking “2009 sucked. 2010 will kick ass.” I can’t even remember why 2009 sucked so much now, such was the order of magnitude that your suckiness dwarfed it by.

Let’s keep score, shall we?

I started the year in a job that I wasn’t sure I wanted to do—an ill-advised return to school teaching on the suggestion of several people who thought I’d be good at primary school teaching, and that it might be less stressful than the horrors of secondary education.

They were wrong.

Given that the school I worked at was in what can politely be termed a “difficult area”, there were plenty of what can politely be termed “challenging pupils”. Most notable among them were a child who decided to spend one early morning Guided Reading session lying face-down on the floor screaming “PLEASE STOP THE PAKISTANI INVASION! PLEASE STOP THE PAKISTANI INVASION!” in a school that was probably made up of a good 60-70% of ethnic minority children, and the kid who liked to tear down wall displays, run out of the classroom and climb trees. It’s amusing now. It was less amusing at the time, and it should be pretty obvious that those kids have no place in mainstream education.

Also at the school, I went through an OfSTED inspection, where the school was judged to be “failing”. This is because it was judged on the same criteria as schools in affluent areas and therefore, unsurprisingly, came up somewhat short. I was referred to as “inadequate” by a person who had spent approximately ten minutes watching me teach, and I knew that I had to get out.

Fortunately, an ideal excuse for getting out came along in the form of PAX East in Boston, MA. I had never been to Boston, and I had never been to a video game convention. This was also going to be an opportunity to meet a huge number of the Squadron of Shame members face-to-face for the first time. I wasn’t about to pass that up, so I bought a ticket even before I’d quit my job.

I quit said job just in time to avoid having to go on a residential trip with the kids I’d come to resent so much and spent a blissful few days amongst my fellow nerds at PAX East and can honestly say that there are few occasions that I’ve ever felt happier than when I was there with my “people”. I wished it could go on forever, but sadly it couldn’t. And things were only going to get worse from hereon.

I worked for a few scattered days doing supply teaching, but wasn’t enjoying it at all, least of all the whole “get up early just in case there’s any work” arrangement, where every day led to the weighing up of emotional wellbeing and financial stability.

In late April, I turned 29. I was not in a good place mentally, so I didn’t feel much like celebrating at the time. I still don’t. Then in early May, everything changed. The one thing I thought I could count on—my home life, my marriage, the love I had—went away. There were many reasons for this and at this point it doesn’t do anyone any good to assign “blame” either way because things on both sides led to this point. I wish they hadn’t, but it seems that some things are supposed to happen, however painful they are.

And painful it was. The experience damn near destroyed me. I had whole days where I was completely unable to function. I had plenty of times when I wished everything would just go away, that I wouldn’t have to face these things any more. I went through all the however-many-stages-of-grief-there-are several times and am still jumping back and forth between them now. I resented everyone who told me that it would “just make me stronger” and put on a brave face for the public (and this blog, which I kept plugging away at even through those dark times) but appreciated those people who showed themselves to be true friends more than they could ever realise.

And all through this I was no closer to finding a job. I interviewed for a job I didn’t want and did well (though didn’t get it) and for a job I really did want and didn’t get that either. Eventually, the money ran out and I found myself having to move back home, an act which however you dress it to me and however necessary it was still feels like a punch in the face every time I wake up of a morning.

The holiday season came, and I spent it in the States with my brother and the rest of my family. This turned out to be a positive move, as I had the opportunity to meet up with a bunch of people and do what is commonly referred to as “professional networking”. I scored some freelance work out of the whole arrangement—freelance work that pays money, even.

Then I came home to discover a huge bill from the taxman thanks to some uncompleted self-assessment forms which I had no idea I was supposed to do and a podcast to edit whose audio files were ruined beyond repair. A final slap in the face from a shitty year? Let’s hope so.

During 2010, despite all this, I made some great friends through the #oneaday initiative, through Kombo.com, through The Big Pixels and through Twitter. I also successfully completed the Couch 2 5K running challenge, and have posted every day since the 19th of January on this blog. Those parts of the year I wouldn’t change. The rest can go F itself in the B.

2011 has a lot for me to look forward to. More freelance work, which I really enjoy, even the rewrites. The all-new One A Day Project, which I’m doing my best to co-ordinate. Hopefully a full-time job. And I’m praying for a lift out of the black pit that I’ve been sporadically stuck in since May. Can you be sporadically stuck in something?

Tonight I’m going down to Southampton to spend New Year’s Eve with one of those true friends I mentioned earlier. 2010, I shan’t be sorry to see you leave. Don’t let the door hit you in the ass on the way out.

Actually, do. I’ve installed a spike on it, at just about ass-level. I hope you enjoy it. You cunt.

#oneaday, Day 200: Day 200

And it is with something of a sense of anticlimax that I reach my 200th daily entry on this blog. It’s ten to midnight, I’m sitting in my pants in a stuffy study wondering if I should go and get a glass of milk, play the three Words With Friends games I’ve got on the go at present, stare at Twitter in the hope some revelation might come my way or simply go to bed.

Today didn’t start particularly well, though I managed to get out of bed early for once. Something which I won’t go into right now got me feeling not-particularly-good early on. Downright depressed, in fact. As such, I spent the vast majority of the morning not achieving very much at all. It’s difficult to focus when there’s nothing to really focus on.

That said, the day did improve somewhat later on. I have a second interview for a job I actually want on Tuesday. This is a Good Thing, and brings me on to my next point.

Some time back, I promised that by Day 200 on this blog, I would have made a decision on what I’d be doing. Now, as it happens, said decisions have been pretty much made for me by circumstances beyond my control. But here, for those who give a damn, is what’s happening to me over the next few… I don’t know how long.

I am soon to leave Southampton. In the words of my good buddy Kalam, who just skipped town to live in London and is having mixed feeling about the whole thing, “I’ve got all I can out of this town”. There’s certainly no jobs here that I want to do. If you’re not an accountant, a lawyer or a docker here, there doesn’t appear to be much in the way of work. And I refuse to apply for a job I don’t understand the description for on principle.

I don’t know exactly when I’ll be leaving Southampton. But it will be some time before September 10, which is when the contract on my flat is up and is also, ironically, the birthday of my estranged wife. I will probably be out of here sooner than that, depending on how this interview goes and how soon I’d be able to start at this new position which I’m not going to talk about for fear of jinxing it.

Those of you who are still in Southampton: this town has been a big part of my life ever since I first came here in 1999. Even in the years I didn’t live here, it was still “home”. I have emotional ties and attachments here. And as such, I don’t want to leave it quietly. My time with this town may be coming to an end, but I’m determined that I give myself a proper send-off. So please: if and when I announce I’m doing something to say goodbye, it would mean a hell of a lot to me if as many of you as possible could attend. I know this isn’t “the end” and I’ll doubtless see many of you again. But I’m going to Cambridge, which is a pretty long way away. So I’d like to say a proper goodbye to those I won’t be seeing again for some time. This is a heartfelt request. I’ll try and give as much notice as possible. Keep an eye on Twitter, Facebook and here. And, as arrogant as it sounds, make sure I have a send-off I won’t forget in a hurry.

Beyond this isn’t yet clear. The outcome of Tuesday will impact the details of what happens next. In an ideal world (which I know far too well we don’t live in) I’d get this job, be able to start pretty soon, move back up to Cambridge to stay with my folks for a little while, earn some money, get back on my feet and then the world is my generic clamshell laptop computer.

I have mixed feelings about all this still. The circumstances of everything suck. There’s no changing that. And it’s going to be tough to leave behind this city that’s been home for so long. But at the same time, a new start might just give a fresh outlook on anything. And being back at work will actually be nice. It’s tough to fill the days sometimes, and that’s what can lead to depression and not dealing with things very well.

So in summary: I’m not out of the woods yet. But I’m at least on the path.

Apologies this has been such a melancholy entry for such a milestone in the whole #oneaday project. Let’s hope the next 165 days mark a new beginning. I’m past the halfway point now. Should be smooth sailing downhill from now.

Right?

#oneaday, Day 170: The Pile

Ever have one of those days where every little thing that is bothering you builds up into a mountainous heap and eventually ends up collapsing on your head? Today was one of those days. Every little and big thing that’s been stressing me out attacked me all at once and beat me down until I really felt like I couldn’t take any more. I had what could probably be scientifically-inaccurately-described as a mini-breakdown earlier. Pretty much a solid half an hour of really, really not being able to deal with anything. It’s not a nice feeling. Half an hour isn’t a huge amount out of a day. But it feels like a lifetime while it’s happening. Thoughts flit in and out of your head, images of things that are going to happen, things that have happened, things you fear. Then they’re gone before you can grasp them and deal with them, replaced by something else. The mental noise is awful, and relentless.

Eventually, it passes, of course, and you’re left with a feeling of “what the fuck was that for?” It doesn’t make experiencing it any easier. If anything, it leads to residual feelings of self-doubt, guilt and of course it does nothing for the self-esteem to know that you’re the person who lets himself get beaten down by all the things that are happening.

That’s stupid. Anyone undergoing a difficult situation that they’ve never been through before is sure to feel at least some of these things. So why feel guilty about it? Why feel doubt? Why think it makes you a worse person for letting go at the wrong minute and thinking “whoa… shit, I can’t actually handle this”? No-one has infinite strength, however much they might want it, however much they might try, however much they might try punching the Konami code into various parts of their body.

It has to get easier… right?

I certainly hope so. Because right now, I don’t feel like I’m making any progress. I’m no nearer getting a job than I was months ago. I’m alone. I’m in a place I can’t afford to live in. I don’t know where to move to because I don’t have a job. And it turns out I am not dealing all that well with residual feelings of bitterness, resentment and anger. I don’t like the person that these feelings make me into. He’s weak, angry and cries a lot. He comes and goes. But he’s always back again at some point, triggered by some stupid little thing. And it’s getting to be too much.

I want these feelings to stop. I want my life back.

No. I want a new life. One that involves the important people from this life, and discards those things which have dragged me down into the mud time and time again.

I’m trying to make it happen. I’m trying.

It’s got to start working soon. Right?

#oneaday, Day 121: Janet Street-Porter Is A Dickhead

“Well sure, Captain Obvious,” I hear you say. “What else is new? Gordon Ramsay swears a lot? Brian Blessed is a bit shouty? Graham Norton is gay?”

Wait, Graham Norton is gay? Seriously?

Stop it, ethereal readers who aren’t there really. I’m trying to make a point here. And my point is that, yes, Janet Street-Porter is a dickhead. Why do I say this with such authority though? Because of this.

For those of you too lazy to click on that link, or indeed those of you who are terrified of clicking on any sort of link that leads to the Daily Mail for fear of aspiring middle-class racist viruses infecting their otherwise happily multicultural computer, she wrote an article about depression under the title “Depression? It’s just the new trendy illness!”

Not a good start. As someone who has suffered depression and stress to varying degrees throughout the years (with right now being one of the “more” rather than “less” periods) I found the title by itself offensive. But I clicked on anyway, just in case she had anything enlightening to say on the subject.

The misery movement has rapidly gathered momentum and in recent months it’s become apparent that, along with the Sam Cam handbag, the latest must-have accessory is a big dose of depression.

Oh no. No no no. Fuck you. Seriously, fuck you. Depression is not a fashion accessory. Whether or not it’s been diagnosed and/or treated (mine isn’t and hasn’t, for the record) it’s serious business, and to put it in the same category as a bleeding Samantha Cameron handbag? That’s just the tip of the bell-end poking through her forehead right there. She continues:

I am not denying that clinical depression is a real mental illness, or that it can be debilitating for sufferers. But let’s take a moment to consider whether depression is common among the poor or the working class?

Oh, she doesn’t deny it’s a real, debilitating illness? How big of her. Is it common among the poor or the working class? Well, I don’t know, Janet, you’d better get the SCIENCE! out and let us know.

If you’re a black South African woman growing up in a township, or a mum in a slum favela in Rio, or a supermarket shelf-stacker in Croydon, or one of the band of low-paid female workers who go to work at 3am to clean the offices of the wealthiest and most powerful people in Britain in the City of London, you probably aren’t afflicted by depression. What you’re more likely to be suffering from is poverty, exhaustion and a deficient diet. You will have bills you can’t pay and a struggle to feed and clothe your kids.

Right. Because you can’t have depression and poverty. That would just be ridiculous! Hah! Look at the poor black people. Don’t even have enough money to have a debilitating mental illness! How pathetic they are! PATHETIC, I SAY!

The death of my own sister reduced me to rage and despair, and the sudden death recently of a close personal friend rekindled the same feelings of hopelessness.

But my life goes on, I haven’t retreated under the duvet with a bottle of pills. I refuse to accept this notion that a whole generation of women are being laid low by an unexplained epidemic of depression.

Ahh! “Life goes on!” Of course! All these people who are suffering with depression should just get up and get on with their lives! Silly me.

Of course, she does sort of have a point, albeit one expressed in the most obnoxious manner possible. The worst thing to do when suffering depression is to sit and wallow in it. That just makes it worse and worse and worse until you get to the stage where there’s seemingly no way out of it. For some people, that leads to seeking professional help. For others, an intervention by the people who love them. And tragically, for some that ends in the taking of their own life.

But different people deal with things differently. We can’t all be as strong as she apparently is, and for her to put down the efforts of those who are genuinely struggling with the condition as being somehow weak is both repulsive and wrong.

The truth is, we’ve got fatter and flabbier. Obesity is a medical condition too many of us are suffering from – but you can’t claim time off work because you’re fat. You can, however, suddenly find you can’t ‘cope’ – and stress has become, in our work-orientated society, almost a badge of honour.

If you’re stressed, it implies you are a busy person with plenty to do. Nowadays, women who’ve never been in a war zone or experienced an act of terrorism are claiming they are suffering from stress, when all they do is run a home and get the bus to work.

Stress has become so acceptable, the last government decided that the NHS would make counselling available for a whole variety of mental illnesses, from stress to depression to panic attacks and low self-esteem, totally gratis.

Oh, keep going, Janet! Have a dig at the fatties too! Go on! Especially if they’re black! And poor! Poor black fatties! I bet they’re gay too!

I’ve been stressed – reduced to midnight panic attacks with it, in fact. It’s not pleasant. And I certainly didn’t wear it as a badge of honour. I was ashamed of it. I was terrified on the one occasion I got myself signed off sick with stress. I dropped in the doctor’s note when no-one was around and then got out of the door as fast as possible so no-one could witness my shame. It was an awful experience, and I’m by no means proud of it, as Janet seems to suggest I am. You don’t have to have been in a warzone or have experienced an act of terrorism to suffer from stress. It depends on the sort of person you are. If you’re someone with self-esteem issues like me, one single hurtful comment can trigger a depressive episode.

Needless to say, the article continues in a similar vein for a considerable number of words, with a particular highlight being Janet’s “laughing out loud” at the prospect of men having low self-esteem. Her justification? Men have been in charge of everything for so long, so it’s “karmic revenge”. Well, as a man with low self-esteem, I say again, Janet, fuck you. And may the men in the white coats never come for you.

Of course, by posting this I’m probably doing exactly what was intended by the article – drawing attention to the Mail and it’s “Oooh! Controversial!” columnists. Does Janet Street-Porter really hold such objectionable opinions? I don’t know and right now I don’t care. The Mail has long had a reputation as a filthy rag barely fit to wipe the arse of the country with. Every article like this that appears in it is a little worrying, because there are people out there who will read that and believe it. And that’s a problem.

[UPDATE: The comments on that post are remarkably coherent for Mail readers, with all of the visible ones expressing concern or outrage over JSP’s article. The Mail have closed comments on the article.]

‘Tis the season to be miserable

So what’s the deal with winter anyway?

Trite opening I know but it bears some discussion. Exactly what is it about those winter months that makes an already-curmudgeonly old git like myself into a regular Sad Sack? I refuse to believe there’s not an answer beyond “it’s cold” because I’m not the only one it happens to.

Case study number one: my very good friend, who we’ll just call “E” in case she minds being used as a case study, cited the example to me that every bad breakup she’s ever had took place in the month of December, almost without fail. Is this a symptom of the winter blues or just a coincidence? Whatever it is, it’s made her just as distrustful of the month of Our Lord’s birth than I am.

Who knows. All I know is that it’s dark in the morning when I go to work, often dark in the evening when I return. The general public are in that irritatingly frenzied state of “panic buying” – because some people still aren’t aware that most shops are shut on Christmas Day after all – and all those little annoyances about the general public that you already notice more than the average man in the street when you work in retail suddenly become ten to fifteen times worse. (I have no scientific basis for quoting that figure, I just thought I’d channel the arseholes who come up with make-up “fake science” adverts for a moment – they’re gone now, don’t worry.)

Last year I had the most miserable Christmas of my life. My wife-to-be had departed for Bolton to spend Christmas with her family (duty calls and all that) and I was scheduled to work.

But I had ‘flu (and don’t even get me started on that “man flu” bollocks that is such an unfunny running joke in this country), so I was confined to bed, unable even to go to work and spend time with the few buddies who were still here. Nope, instead I lay in bed on Christmas Day until about 3pm, only rising to make a Beechams Hot Lemon drink when the banging headaches and joint pains were getting a bit much.

I know there’s people out there who have far more miserable Christmases than that, but this is my rant and god-dammit if I’m not going to be a bit selfish! (I also hate how political correctness dictates the necessity of a paragraph like this one, but that’s another post all of its own)

Anyway. This Christmas is fortunately shaping up to be a lot better, as my now-wife Jane and I are spending our first Christmas on our own as a married couple.

It’s not that I don’t like spending time with people, you understand.

Actually, that’s a lie. It’s EXACTLY that I don’t like spending time with people. Especially stressed-out people which, it often seems to me, is becoming more and more a part of the holiday season. The clue’s in the name, people! A holiday should be a break, not an excuse to panic over a fat-ass turkey and whether or not you’ve got enough bloody vol-au-vents to feed Uncle Boggart.

Breathe.

So, there you have it.

I hope you, if you’re reading this, have a better experience in the wintertime than either I or several of my friends have had or, in some cases, are having.

And if you do have friends who are having a tough winter, give them a hug. Sometimes it’s all you need to let someone know you care, and it immediately makes things feel that much better.

I know, I’m a big girl, but I don’t care.

Merry Christmas.

HUMBUG!!!