I’m Not Really Here

I don’t often break away from my usual film-based rantings, but seeing as its Mental Health Awareness Week, I thought I’d share some of my personal experience of depression and anxiety…

 

I shouldn’t be here.

A little over twelve months ago I found myself staring down the barrel of my own mortality.  I was ready to close my eyes one last time and pay my debt to nature.

I’ve been living with depression and anxiety for a number of years now, most of the time without even realising it.  It is only through counselling that I’ve recognised those moments in my life where depression had taken hold.  Times when I committed to something only to ‘cry off’ at the last minute due to a non-existent ailment; missing out on opportunities because I was ‘too afraid’ or ‘not worthy enough’ to pursue them or neglecting the chance of happiness because ‘why should I be happy?’.

I look back at my childhood with rose-tinted spectacles.  In my naive mind’s eye it was all sunshine, tall grass and an Enid Blyton haze of endless summers filled with joy.  For the most part, this was true.  There were moments where the grey skies dulled the glimmer, though.  My idea of childhood was tainted by an overly-affectionate friend of the family, in a series of events that directly contributed to my current state of mind and put me on a slow path to self destruction.  My confidence and self-esteem were shredded and my inner voice convinced me I was to blame and that I was worthless.  Due to my inability to process what had happened to me I was also unable to share my experience with anyone.  It was a secret.  My dark, painful secret.

As I got older, this secret became an infestation.  My confidence and self-esteem was almost non-existent.  My school life suffered.  My future plans and dreams were disappearing in a fog of fear and self-loathing that I hid behind a mask of competence, high-spirits and fearlessness.

I worked in a series of okay office jobs, made friends, enjoyed social activities and lived a fairly productive life while all the time suppressing my inner turmoil and complicated emotions.  It wasn’t until my father died in 1997 that I began to notice what I now acknowledge as my depression, kick in.  Yet, even then, I just got on with life and paid no attention to what was really going on.  It was another twelve years before my emotions came to a crescendo in the form of a breakdown.  This lead me to the GP and my first course of anti-depressants.  I thought it was a quick fix.  After two weeks of taking the tablets I went back to work and immediately broke down again.  After being comforted by my colleagues I went home.  I returned to work after four weeks on light duties, away from the hustle and bustle.  My depression was under control but my anxiety was rocketing.  Over the next few years this anxiety would continue to haunt me, forcing me to lose days of work and shatter whatever amount of confidence I had left.  Added to that I was still ignoring my past trauma, keeping secrets and making bad decisions.

Everything came to a head a little over a year ago.  I’d reached the end of everything.  There was nothing else left for me.  I started clearing out.  The local charity shops got more bags and boxes from me than ever before.  Things I once thought of as important seemed less so now.  Besides, I wouldn’t need them anymore.  I packed what else I had left in boxes, marked some up for my sister and then set the plan in motion.

For whatever reason, I only got as far as buying extra paracetamol.  Being out of work, I couldn’t afford the alcohol I wanted to go with the pills.  I also found myself thinking how it would be when I was eventually found.  How long would it be before I was discovered?  What effect would that have on the person who had to break the door down?  I don’t see or speak to anyone.  I imagined it being weeks, or even months before anyone missed me.  Also, I was desperately scared to go through with it.  The finality of it all hit me and I decided to make an appointment to see the GP.

One year on and I’m still (happily) taking the medication.  I’ve been seeing a counsellor and talking through my feelings and emotions.  Talking about things I’ve never spoken about to another human being before.  I’m not going to lie and tell you everything is hunky dory, it isn’t.  Its a work in progress.  But what I can tell you is that things are better than they were last year.  They’re not great, but they’re better.  I’ve not had a suicidal thought since that time and, even though things are rough and the future is uncertain, I’m here for the long haul.