It is with some trepidation that I write about my long term relationship with depression.
Recently, I have been drawn to people who talk of happiness as a matter of attitude. People who have had their fair share of struggle, but have looked that struggle square in the face and said “Fuck you!” Their souls, whilst changed, have not been broken. It is a matter of attitude they say.
I read these blogs, books and articles in magazines and my heart breaks a little bit more.
I think, perhaps, I am beyond help.
My head hurts.
My heart is broken.
I stumble through my day wondering why we exist at all?
It hardly seems fair to be created with sentient awareness, but to have no true purpose.
I have been told that my purpose is to write. And it is true, I do feel it in my bones.
But I am ruled by fear. People afflicted with this hideous disease are ruled by fear.
That is the truth of depression.
Some hard wiring has gone astray and we live in a perpetual state of fear.
The voices in our head, that nasty little creature that revels in our misery, tells us, constantly, how it is all going to go wrong, how we will make a laughing stock of ourselves, how we are arrogant to believe that we could be talented in anything, how our lives, really, are just a waste of the space we inhabit, how we just need to die.
And so we sit. We wait. To die.
We don’t really want to die, of course. We just feel incapacitated. We feel isolated and we feel hopeless. And hopelessness is the killer.
I once watched an episode of Bones where the serial killer would brick women up into a room with no food nor water. He would stream video footage of their families to them and then he would watch them as they would scream. But no-one would come. And eventually they would lie down and wait for death, all hope lost. At the end of the episode, when he had been captured, he said that it was this hopelessness, so all encompassing that they would willingly lie down and wait to die, that he could induce in these women that gave him the thrill. Pretty awful really, but a very good mirror on the human condition.
We need hope to survive.
Survival is dependent on hope. Hope for a better future, hope that tomorrow will be better, hope that life will be okay in the end.
People who end their lives no longer have hope.
To have no hope is to be empty, to have nothing left.
To have no hope is to die.
I fight for hope. Every day I wake up and pray for hope. Depression and hope are interdependent.
It is not self pity. Many people think it is. Many people think it is a case of wallowing in our own misery. Which is why mental illness is still so badly stigmatised, why it is underfunded and why it is now touted that not 1 in 5 but 1 in 2 people will be afflicted with a diagnosable mental illness in their lifetime, and only a fraction of those will seek help, and only a fraction of those again will receive the help that will set them on the path to recovery. That is to say, on a path that will enable them to see hope.
At this point in time I see no hope.
It’s horrible. Shocking even. I am a middle aged housewife living in a beautiful home with a beautiful family. I have no right to feel depressed. Or so they say.
But the reality is that I do have a right. I have a right, because it is my reality. It is a reality I wish didn’t exist. It is a reality that I suspect will be a part of who I am for the rest of my life. I will always struggle with finding the joy in a simple day, finding the happiness in a bird’s song. I will always struggle to ignore the voices in my head that tell me I am not good enough, a waste of space, not worthy of love.
It is reconciling that reality, marrying it to a life of less pain, more vitality, less anguish, more evenness, that is the key.
Today, I am losing the battle. But as of this day, I am winning the war, for I am alive.