I woke up this morning (Sunday 7th March) feeling well rested and happy, about a 2.5 on the depressedometer. Yet here I am some eight hours later having about an hour or so ago, slipped rapidly to a seven. I don’t know what triggered it, I seldom do, but the moment I felt the cloud descend, I knew I was in trouble.
The symptom most prevalent today
is my inability to physically speak without feeling even worse than I already do. It’s
strange that I can eloquently string a sentence together in my head but uttering words seems almost impossible. I can’t quite describe it, but I feel like a
balloon filled with water, once the water starts leaking (in my case, the
words) what follows will be totally out of my control. Actually, that’s a much
better way of summing this up, not speaking is currently my only form of
control in a state of depression that is otherwise un-controllable.
My urge to write this post is, I
think, a response to the need I have to ‘spill’ but in a controlled and
thoughtful way. The fact that it has taken me about twenty minutes to get these
words on the page suggests that this entry could take quite some time.
When a depressive episode hits,
the experience is quite unlike anything else I can think of. It can ambush me out of nowhere inside of 30
minutes, or it can take a run up of two or three days. But outside of the
timeframe, the process is much the same every single time.
It starts with a metallic or
lead-like taste in the mouth which sticks to my pallet like glue, however I try
to shift it with strong food and tangy drinks, there is no shaking this disgusting smack. Then I see it: a thick, gloopy, dark green waterfall-type image that
runs in slow motion out of the corner of my left eye. This is, to me, what depression looks like. “Oh, please will you
just fuck off” I say it to it, “Just fuck off and leave me alone, just
for today”.
Needless to say, it doesn’t oblige
and over a period of time (which can vary), slowly edges its way towards me
getting closer and closer, haunting me, laughing at me. The knot in my stomach
keeps growing, because I know what’s approaching and I am powerless to stop it. Despite my attempts to stave it off, the inevitable cannot be avoided “Go
on then, just get it over with” I submit,
and that green sludge becomes like a thin cloud of smoke with a dark and
gravelly smile which envelopes my body, subsequently seeping into my pores and
taking control of my entire being, still smiling as it does so.
Once it has immersed itself in
every part of my existence, it begins to weigh me down. Just lifting my head
and limbs is a struggle. It whirls around my stomach like a washing machine
creating a sea-sickness style of nausea, and it knocks around in my head until I’m
throbbing from the temples up. Daylight hurts, daylight also highlights the imperfections
in my house and on my body which the cloud is so keen to point out. The powerlessness
leads me to frustration, the frustration leads me to tears. I’ll avoid talking
to Holly as best I can, I can’t avoid work, I have to summon up the energy somehow
but I will definitely try to shift some appointments so I can circumvent people as
much as possible. Where necessity forces me to have a conversation, it will be
quick and I will spend the thirty minutes succeeding it, flaked out in my chair
or on the floor, recovering.
My sense of worth gets swallowed up in this process and I immediately start to recall incidents from the past which have caused me guilt or embarrassment. Like the time I over-indulged on Boddington’s ale at a friend’s New Year’s Eve party, stripped off all my clothes, and projectile vomited in almost every room in the downstairs of his home. Or when I told my daughter off for not remembering her manners, a normal thing for a parent to do, but in my depression-based retrospective analysis, it is conclusive evidence that I am the worst parent on the planet. Instances which are irrelevant, commonplace and forgotten by almost everyone but me, are front and center of my conscious, which is presenting them as affirmation of my newfound status as a worthless, meaningless human being.
“You’re going to lose
everything, Jake, and I’m going to be the one to take it away from you” is
the promise made to me by the big green blob. I believe it, I will lose everything,
and it is probably best that I die before that happens. I think about the
impact my death will have on those around me: Holly will be sad, but it will get
easier for her with time when she realises the benefits of not having to put up with me
anymore, before long she will meet somebody else who will help her get over me.
My death in service package from work will give her the financial support she
would need to pay the mortgage and have a comfortable life.
My daughter? She has her Mum and
loving grandparents; Holly will retain a relationship with her and still see
her on weekends. I’m not a religious person, but we could tell her Daddy was
asked to go to heaven to help others up there as God needs a deputy, and I could
write her letters for special occasions, such as her 18th birthday and
her wedding.
I plan my funeral; my best mate
Paul will do a reading as would some close friends from my professional and
footballing circles. I would insist no ties, everyone should be casual, and we’d
play Real Gone Kid by Deacon Blue. I’d be clear in my instructions that it
should be celebration, not a commiseration and we could plan it so it gives
everybody sufficient closure which would help them avoid a drawn out and painful grieving process.
It engulfs me and not only does
it convince me that I and others around me would be better off if I was dead,
it pushes me to practically consider how I could make it happen in a sensible
and well-managed way, so as to limit the impact on those I would leave behind.
Afterword
I wrote this on Sunday and on
reflection, I think its purpose was to share with everybody the actual process
of depression. To share how I was feeling at the time so readers can get a
sense of the journey one goes on at the start of a depressive episode.
It is a little disjointed, but it
is real. I did consider avoiding publishing this one altogether because of its
slight lack of cohesion but decided that it is more likely to help than hinder.
I came out of the depression late on Sunday evening and into something of a
mania on Monday hence waiting until now to publish (my mood is currently
well-balanced).
I was also concerned that talk of
planning one’s death and funeral, as well as the accompanying analysis of ‘life
after me’, might alarm some. It shouldn’t, this is a common part of the process
for me and I am (with the help of medication, therapy and methods developed
from experience) well-equipped to manage it. Most depressives I have spoken to
share a similar pattern of events.
I hope this fairly raw entry is useful and as always, welcome feedback and questions.
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