We have become programmed to restrict our dialogue about ill-mental-health. Don’t get me wrong, we’re a far cry from the closed off ‘man up’ times, but day-in-day-out, I see people described as ‘brave’ for having shared their story of mental trauma. Indeed, I myself recently described an acquaintance who had told all on their social media network that they were a depressive as “exceptionally brave”. It is of course brave, but should it be? I started this blog in January 2021, and the initial response was overwhelming and brilliant in equal measure, but I found myself pushed into silence soon after publishing a real-life account of what being in a depression feels like for me. Senior leaders within my former employer had suggested that, by talking so openly about my mental suffering, sharing with complete strangers the fact that I am, fairly routinely, suicidal, I was ‘limiting my career opportunities’ and ‘calling into question my reliability’. Bastards like these are the reason s
I. AM. LAZY. Not in the sense that I spend each day draped across the sofa, soaking up the dross that is daytime TV like an upturned turtle, or that I can't summon the energy to get out of bed before midday. But in the sense that exercise has always had little to no appeal to me, none in the slightest. Something of a paradox, given my somewhat unhealthy addiction to football and cricket. For years the hordes have queued up to tell me how much of a release commitment to a personal training regime, or a good five kilometer run is for one's state of mind. Indeed even those high profile public figures whom I revere the most, as a result of their commitment to mental health campaigning (such as Alastair Campbell and Professor Green), appear to wax-lyrical about the benefits exercise has for the mind. In fact, when I first confessed to my being a depressive back in 2018, exercise was one of the first constructive suggestions my significant other had made. "Nah, not for me&