I’m finding it hard to write at the moment. It’s not that I don’t want to; it’s just I don’t know how far I can go before I lose myself to the darkness again.
It’s ironic that the beauty of this UK summer is coinciding with the darkest depression I’ve had in a very long time. It seems that everything is coming together at once and the relentless waves I usually feel my depressions to be, have grown into an almighty tsunami. But I don’t know which metaphorical earthquake has triggered it.
I can’t lay the cause at one door. I’m not sure why I’m trying to. But I can’t just do the whole “acknowledge and accept and let it pass” thing. Forgive me if you will, but I just find that a little bit too touchy feely for my current raw state. My regularly burning skin is just far too sensitive to take any kind of manipulation and I really don’t want to explore what’s in the recess of my mind. I find myself scared of it.
I used to suffer a recurring dream when I was little. It involved the wardrobe in my brother’s room, the non-existent basement to our house and a carpet of writhing, hissing, spitting snakes. I believed that if I stood on the brass makers-plate on the floor of the wardrobe, it would open up and I would drop into the snake pit. I would scream and scream but no one came to help me. I never ever found out what happened to me because my screaming was real and I’d wake myself up. You’d think I’d have a problem with snakes given that nightmare, but I feel neither one way nor another about them. A certain fascination is there, in that I want to learn about them, but beyond that they hold no fear for me. I still think about that dream, a good 30 years since I last had it. I think the snakes were a representation of my thoughts and the basement is just the all-encompassing darkness of the mind. I spent the whole time we lived in that house terrified of a brass plate. It’s now the snakelike tendrils of the thoughts and processes of my mind that occupy my thoughts.
My soul isn’t doing somersaults at the moment, Rumi. Depression came to tea and appears to be staying for dinner. The heart sitting on my sleeve is telling blatant lies through rose-tinted lenses and I’m carrying a shroud of fear and hopelessness that I’m praying is invisible. Bit daft really, when I’m penning a post about how depressing depression is.
And yet, I still get up and function. Traditional descriptions of depression would say that the darkness is all encompassing, there is no functioning, there’s just black. However, this is the 21st century. Most of us who suffer don’t fit this traditional assumption of what depression is. There are just too many facets to it, to adequately pigeonhole all of us who live it.
Why am I able to go to a job and successfully do it if I’m apparently suffering from depression? Well, there are a few reasons. Firstly, it makes me feel more “normal”. Secondly, it’s a distraction. Thirdly, it’s my way of fighting back. These are the highlights for me. Many others don’t have the luxury of sick benefits – they don’t work, they don’t get paid. Many others are simply unable to get out of bed, get out of the house, get on public transport, deal with those so-called simple things that many don’t even think about, they don’t need to.
Depression isn’t a one size fits all illness. It strikes everybody slightly differently. Everybody deals with it slightly differently. We do what we have to do to get through each day. I make no apology for that.