So What Is Depression?
Almost overnight,
depression seems to have become the disease of the 21st
Century. A virus of the mind, it
overtakes the strongest, yet has also been appropriated by the duvet generation
to justify their lethargic malaise.
So what is living
with depression really like ? For me,
with 1 notable exception, depression has always been linked with hormonal
imbalances – puberty, an endocrinal illness, post-natal depression and then the
exception: divorce. It first landed on
me in my teens, then my twenties, then my thirties, and now, as I step into my
forties, I am trying to tip toe away from it, yet keep yo-yoing back like
someone trying to escape a bungee cord.
Depression for me is
like a wet, miserable Thursday in November.
It feels dark, heavy, gloomy – there is no light. For someone defined by their sparkle, this is
the hardest fact of all. JK Rowling had
it so right when she created the Dementors, for depression truly does drain you
of the vibrancy of emotion, and reduce you to pure, banal, survival mode.
For me, I can feel
it coming. It creeps up in the shadows,
toying with me. I’ll have the odd day
here and there where I have that gloomy feeling, but I can shake it off and
convince myself I’m ok. And so, she
dances round me for a few days, like a butterfly clinging to the shadows.
A while later, I’ll
realise I’ve felt a bit funky for a couple of days in a row now, but nothing to
worry about, I’ll be fine tomorrow. Often,
you don’t realise depression has snared you until you’re in the net, sinking
under and not at all inclined to struggle for air.
Sylvia Plath likened
her depression to a bell jar, a life of stale air at one remove, where nothing
could touch you or be touched, and where life was lived by remote. For me, this captures some of it, as does
Stephen King’s short story The Langoliers, where life again is stale, drained
of intensity and faded at the corners.
For me, it’s like
living under a heavy see-through dark cloak.
I can see the real world around me, hear it, smell it, touch it, taste
it, but it can’t reach me. Everything is
an effort, even thought itself, and nothingness is a frighteningly accessible
state of mind. It’s a bit like living in
a cocoon, or having padding around you – nothing, NOTHING, can reach you.
I often think this
is why I also tend to extremes. The only
way I can hear is to be loud. The only
way to feel joy is to laugh excessively.
It’s only by going over the top that you can begin to experience
emotion, sensation and colour in a remotely real way. This is why 1 nail varnish can’t bring joy
but 20 at a time can. It’s the reason
why a handbag has to be insanely expensive to even register on the radar. It’s the reason why we hoard and
over-purchase – only too much can attempt to convince us we are anywhere near
enough.
It’s the same with
food. In a life that feels bland, empty
and distant, only something gargantuan in size, taste or calories can touch the
sides and activate the senses.
It’s life under
water, in a bubble, slightly suffocated, but not so fussed you want to do
anything about it. You trundle on, a bit
like a hamster on a wheel, foolishly assuming that one day that wheel will fall
of its axle and land you in a better place.
Of course, it never does.
It’s hard to do
anything about depression, because its greatest strength is its ability to
paralyse, to place the person in an emotional coma where impetus and energy are
conditions of the past. Life isn’t
lived; we exist. You find yourself in an
airspace of one, remote and alone, and where the comfort of the duvet is as
close as you come to peace.
You want to live
again, you really do, but the mere thought of it is exhausting. You begrudge the things you have to do to
exist. Just getting up feels like a
chore. A To-Do List becomes your worst
nightmare, because why do when you just don’t care? Personal hygiene doesn’t register too highly
either. The effort of shaving your legs can be
avoided with trousers, and if you’re all alone on the weekend, who’s going to
notice if you haven’t brushed your teeth or you stay in your PJs?
You look at people
genuinely living their lives with bemusement and exhaustion, partly envious,
partly bitter. You have no comprehension
how life can be attacked in such a way as you lie there, slowly being poisoned
by the depression that has stalked you for so long.
You don’t want to
feel this way; you just do. Depression
kills, but in a slow, dull way. Madness and
mania attract the headlines and the flamboyant reckless acts of daring and
death; depression just …. well, carries on.
Depression is the opposite of living, the opposite of loving, and the
opposite of community – there is only room for one when you are depressed.
Eventually, when you
realise nothing can capture your attention, imagination or delight, you find
yourself at the doctors. You know you
need help, and they know it too. The difficulty
is that help takes at least 2 weeks to get into your system, and this makes
time stretch very slowly indeed. But
sometimes, you know, the drugs DO work, and peace can be restored, and balance
can be regained.
And sometimes, well
sometimes you just have to accept that depression will be your shadow for life.
