For almost everything that’s ever born, the world is a shit place. Animals muller each other all over the place, fish eaten by bigger fish eaten by bigger fish. Turkeys wander round waiting for Bernard Matthews to wring their necks. Even if you’re born human, you’ll probably have a bit of a rubbish time of it. Be a woman in the wrong place, or black in the wrong place or just alive in the wrong place and you’ll have a piss-poor time of trying to get anywhere.
I have none of those things, but I still have depression.
It’s a weird thing: I have a roof over my head, I’m not even close to struggling for food, water or warmth. I have a job, friends and cool toys. A HD telly, an iPhone. Things are alright, you know?
Those kids who have to walk 500 miles (and 500 more) to get water each morning. They should be depressed. What do I have to feel down about? And that’s the kicker: I have no idea. I wake up in the morning and it’s a chore to get out of bed. It’s not that I don’t want to go to work, it happens at the weekend, even when I’ve got plans. I want to cancel them all and just spend the day asleep.
It’s not like I get up each day and think “fuck, I’m a useless bastard” and run a carving knife down my arm, and – this was a comfortable moment with the doctor – I’ve never tried jumping in front of a train. I just don’t really want to do anything.
This makes me a really exciting person, and also makes writing updates for the blog really easy. Monday: Minging spaghetti microwave meal, Top Gear repeats on Dave and an early night. Tuesday: Frozen pizza, documentary about a really talk bloke on Channel 4 and an early night. You get the idea.
I feel like I’m walking round in a permanent fuzz, as though I’ve not had enough sleep and so everything is too much hassle. After months of this, I finally clocked on that maybe, just maybe, sitting up until 6am drinking alone isn’t a sign that everything is fine, dandy and awesome.
I phoned the doctors up and the conversation went something like this:
“Hi, can I have an appointment for first thing tomorrow morning, please?”
“Sorry, we can only make same day appointments, you’ll have to call back at 8 tomorrow”
“In that case can I have an appointment for late today?”
“I can fit you in at 3.30″
“That’s a bit early, can you do any later?”
“There’s one at half eight tomorrow morning…”
“Thanks”
So the doctor put me onto anti-depressants, which make everything a bit fuggy. That’s not a real word, but it describes how I feel, so fuck you. They’re super tiring and kill your sex drive, plus make you shrug your shoulders at everything. It’s fun, I guess. More fun than not giving a shit about anything and making stupid decisions.
Don’t make stupid decisions, take pills.
Ouch. And as someone who suffers with depression, I *hear* every word you say. Can’t even offer any heartening words – it doesn’t get better but I suppose I’m “used” to it and I stuff as many little tablets into my mouth as I possibly can … just to keep going. The only thing I CAN say is that without my depression, I can’t write – so Catch 22. I have to write. x
Keep your head up mate. You’re not alone. I’m finding more and more people (nearly exclusively through Twitter) are in the same boat as me.
Sometimes, like you say, it’s hard to even drag your ass out of bed in the morning, let alone consider the prospect of going into work, and dealing with people who don’t get what’s wrong with you.
And you don’t tell them, because there’s such a stigma attached to mental illness.
-Dave
Hope the pills do their job right, mate.
Never taken them myself, whenever I’ve been depressed I’ve been able to blame whatever course I’m on or job I’m in or illness I’ve got and confine it to some sort of time frame. And then fuck off to Africa for a bit.
I think we just weren’t designed to be comfortable. Our minds are supposed to be too occupied with surviving to get depressed.
I have no idea where this comment is going or how it’s supposed to contribute.