So, almost exactly two years ago, sitting cross-legged, tea-cosy-for-a-hat pissed in a dingy hotel room, I guffed out this bumwibble
, about my history with depression.
Since when, despite the optimistic closing sentence in that previous “thing”, life has pretty much remained the same, there have been some ups, downs and juddering halts, but generally it’s been unremittingly dull, like a stale fart, trapped in a vacuum.
That’s the awful beauty of depression though, or at least, my experience with depression, I know it varies from “brain” to droopy “brain”. One day it’s there, pushing its swollen balls up your nose and calling you a fanny, then the next, without warning, it disappears.
I find it can leave me alone, or I can push it out, for months at a time and occasionally, very occasionally, if I’m lucky. I forget all about it altogether. Like a weird lodger, who keeps silently taking larger and wrigglier binbags up to his room, occasionally listens to whale song at 3am and smells like a dying horse, but you don’t question it though, because he pays the rent on time, generally keeps himself to himself and It’s fine, right? I mean, you could be a lot worse off, look at the ‘lodgers’ you’ve had in the past.
However, without you noticing, it can come back, just as soon as it departs, one day you bumble home to find that iffy smelling lodger has nailed empty pizza boxes to the windows, pushed the sofa up against the door, pissed in your cutlery drawer and set fire to that swirling beige and red tsunami of long-ignored bills clogging up your hallway unseen for months.
I suppose what I’m trying to say, is, it’s back, I should have noticed the signs, but you don’t, it creeps up on you, like that ‘boiled frog’ experiment, whereby your brain is the frog and the water is some form of liquid stupidity.
So, where were we? Well, currently, I am back to temping in an office – it’s dull, not awful, worthwhile, I just can’t bring myself to care about it – living in a flat I hate and can’t afford to move out of, up to my dick in debt and making all the same stupid mistakes I’ve made for the last ten or so years and unsurprisingly, doing the exact same moronic shit I’ve been doing for a decade hasn’t solved anything.
As for my mind? Well, currently it feels like I am trapped underneath the weight of it, like a giant, wrinkled hippo is living on my chest farting dusty clouds of ennui directly up into my brain.
I make it into work every day, just about, I get home every day, and I occasionally remember to eat shower and shave, but it isn’t easy, everything requires an extreme amount of effort, and I worry that, that is running out.
When asked to describe it, recently, I said it felt like being an exhausted night-shift security guard, trying to watch an endless bank of CCTV monitors, on each of those monitors is a tiny daily task: getting out of bed, washing work clothes, catching the bus and so on. When the depression isn’t so bad, you know which one to focus on, as and when you need to, when it gets worse, you’re just standing staring at them all blankly, like a badger at a book club, millions of tiny screens, all important, none of which seem important enough to concentrate on, so you try doing everything at once, before giving up. Then you have where I am right now, wherein all these monitors have lost their signal, it’s just fuzz, crackle and snow. You shake the antennae, furiously, but you have no idea what it is you’re supposed to be watching, or doing, and it’s beyond hard. So, you give in.
That’s it, I suppose, that’s where I am, exhausted, trying to winkle these words out of my head in the hope that it helps. I might delete this tomorrow, I might rewrite it, I might forget I wrote it. I just think it’s important to keep talking about these things. Because depression is an awful, shit-wongling motherfucker, that feeds on darkness, and all we can do is keep thrusting it out into the light and hoping the dirty bastard drowns.