Death, Depression and Me
mental-health ·Death, Depression and Me
“Every man has his secret sorrows which the world knows not; and often times we call a man cold when he is only sad.”
― Henry Wadsworth Longfellow
By the time I’d met my now wife I’d experienced twelve deaths. Losing family and friends has gone a long way to shaping me into the person I am today. She’d experienced one.
This isn’t some weird flex. And doesn’t even take into account the dozens of pets we’ve had pass through our lives. Just a stark example of home much of a lottery life is.
From close family and school friends to my own half-arsed suicide attempts, death, I feel has always stalked me.
Just talking about it makes people uncomfortable. But it’s a part of life. I wouldn’t say my experiences with death has made me more able to deal with it. I think life, in general, has made me become numb and jaded to life experiences to the point where I can just not really face up to the reality of the situation.
Every loss of a loved one is different. My brother was killed in a motorbike accident in 1999, and I was a complete wreck for months. I didn’t leave the house for six weeks. My dad died in April and I took a day off work.
The two deaths were, obviously, completely different. One was a complete shock, the other I’d had months beforehand to prepare myself for the inevitable. But the outcome is still the same. Somebody close to me, whom I loved, was no longer in the world.
I don’t feel like I’ve gone through the same grieving process with the loss of my father that most people do.
The main difference between the loss of my dad and of my brother is. Depression,
Or at least the acknowledgement and treatment of depression.
As a family, we’ve never really been ones to let emotions show. We very, very rarely argued. We didn’t talk about feelings. What we might have been going through, suffering with, worrying about.
Looking back now I feel like I had depression from my mid-teens. I did all the usual things, drink, do drugs, smoked, and went everywhere way too fast on my motorbike. Everything seemed ‘normal’
Except I used to cut my arms open. Not anywhere where people would see. And not in an emotional state. I would appear cool, calm and collected on the outside, But internally I was always wondering how I would get out of this thing called ‘life’.
I had friends, I was reasonably outgoing. I never considered that despite all this that I had depression and the cutting was my release mechanism.
What Do You Want To Be When You Grow Up
From school careers advice to college lecturers. The future and how I would fit into it was, it felt like, always being thrown at me. And the answer always was with a shrug of the shoulders. I didn’t expect my life to go anywhere. I never intended to live long enough to have to worry about such things.
I managed to leave my college counsellor speechless when he asked where I saw myself in five years? “Probably dead” I replied. Whilst you were probably writing your resume I was writing my suicide note.
According to my plan, I would be dead by the time I was twenty-one.
And yet here I am. And, at fifty-one, I still don’t know what to do with my life. But now, I don’t care.
I’m not saying my entire life has been lived under the dark cloud of depression. It had been more of an acquaintance. I’d gone on to live a normal life. I had relationships, got married, tried to have children, got a mortgage, a job. The usual ‘painting by numbers’ life that you’re meant to have.
But as the years went by. As life threw experiences at me, the acquaintance became more of a friend. I wouldn’t leave. Not this time. It was going to stay. Move-in, get comfortable and no matter how much I tried to ignore it.
It. Just. Wouldnt. Go
At this point in my life, I was divorced, my ex-father in law had died of cancer, my brother was dead, I was now in a town I didn’t really have a connection to. In a job I was increasingly beginning to hate and by this time I had absolutely no friends. Just my ever decreasing in numbers family. Who didn’t talk about feelings.
Time Went By
I was in a good relationship, at least I had a job, a roof over my head, money in the bank. Life could be worse I’d tell myself.
I had enough money to buy the shiny gadgets I crave. I had interests, hobbies. Things to look forward to. Things I could fill my life with so I could avoid living.
Despite all this. My unwanted friend was still by my side.
I’ve never had much faith in therapy. It either works for people or it doesn’t. I fell into the latter group. I’d tried for too long to do this alone. I’d avoided prescription medication for anything other than my vertigo.
But it was time to face up to the fact that trying to stay alive for the sake of other people was killing me.
I was at the point that, despite my girlfriend, who really didn’t like the idea of anti-depressants, where I had to take something. A positive attitude only takes you so far.
Give Me Drugs Or Give Me Death
I wouldn’t say I’m a Prozac zombie, I wouldn’t say life is all roses. But it’s a lot more bearable.
I am different, I know I am. I feel different. It takes a lot to make me cry, I don’t feel like I get angry as much. Nothing really makes my blood boil. My memory is getting worse. My mind wanders. I don’t listen as much as I should. I probably have a small amount of ADHD in me.
Or I might just be getting old.
But, the fire has also gone out. It’s not completely gone. It’s smouldering a little bit. But the passion is laid low. I have moments of madness normality. I still get interested in new things. But the fire rages at an intense heat momentarily before burning out, leaving not even the remnants of the fire.
I still often feel like I’m just trying to get through life as quickly as possible. Ticking off the days. Just trying to get through a day with a minimal amount of drama, human interaction or fuss.
This is usually not the case and is frustrating for the people around me who are dealing with their own life experiences.
So What Now?
So here I am. On a Friday morning. Laid in bed, with a cat by my side. I’m wondering who I’m actually writing this for. Myself? My wife?
This won’t have any real conclusion.
My aspirations of becoming a world-famous blogger, Instagram influencer or z-list celeb will burn out before the year is out. Something new will, no doubt, come along to fill my timeline
And get me through another, yet to be determined, moment of my life.
Maybe all this is normal. Maybe everybody goes through this. Mental health is being talked about more than ever.
Maybe it is good to talk.
Except for me.
