My daughter said Dad, now do you get it? You don’t know what depression is until you have it

l look inside myself

And see my heart is black
I see my red door
I must have it painted black

Maybe then, I'll fade away
And not have to face the facts
It's not easy facing up
When your whole world is black

The Rolling Stones. Paint it Black.

I’ve not blogged for a while as life has just been trundling on really. The Californian Rocket Fuel combo of Mirtazapine and Venlafaxine provided an initial respite, but the past few days I’ve been more aware of simple daily tasks once again becoming a challenge. A combination of conversations prompted me to write again today, all were very positive ones, including an appointment  with my community mental health nurse where we discussed medication and reflected on progress, a meet with my mental health trust’s CEO to discuss my experience of care, an inspiring hour with a crisis service team member who has lived experience and an exciting planning meeting with a multi disciplinary team overseeing a case study that I’ll write about another time. But it was a conversation with my eldest daughter at the weekend that resonated and made me reflect.

“You get it now don’t you Dad? Unless you’ve had depression, you can’t know what it really feels like.”

I thought I had a good understanding, having been a psychiatric nurse. I thought I knew what depression was. I didn’t and I wasn’t prepared for how all consuming it is. 

You might think that it was whilst at its very worst that I tried to take my own life. It wasn’t. Attempting suicide meant I had the motivation to be out of bed and carrying out a plan. I’d had four months of much darker days before.

It’s hard to put into words, there are far more eloquent writers out there who have also lived with the illness much longer. But I’ll attempt it in my own clumsy way.

I wake and don’t want to open my eyes. They feel heavy and sunken. My arms feel hollow and heavy. My chest is empty and has the deepest, dullest ache I’ve never experienced before, nor thought possible. I thought depression was about your head, not your body? I’ve a massive sense of loss, it’s all consuming. I don’t want to breathe. I don’t want my heart to beat, it’s exhausting. Staying under the covers, head buried under a pillow, to not only block out light, but to block out life. I don’t want to hear any sounds. Footsteps approach, I can’t move, I can’t speak. I can tell it’s one of my daughters. Instead of speaking, she sits on the side of the bed and cuddles my back. I feel safe and go back to sleep. Respite from the cold black emptiness. Submerged into a world of crazy dreams, brought on by medication. They are mostly mixed up nonsense, no nightmares, an escape from reality. But then I wake again and there it is once more. The emptiness, the sunken eyes, the sunken heart. I cannot think beyond me. It is exhausting, it is constant, I can’t eat. I can’t drink. I feel useless, worthless, empty. I want to stop breathing, I want my heart to stop. I eventually go back to sleep and the meaningless cycle continues. There is no point to life. 

The irony of being in the depths of my depression, the lowest I hope I will ever feel, is I was safe. I had no motivation to do anything at all. Whilst I certainly didn’t want to live, I also had no energy, time or thoughts to plan any way of stopping the endless cycle of emptiness. 

Despair only came when my mood was lifted enough by another different anti depressant, to begin to get out of bed, to see parts of life I was missing, and the real fear that this was now ‘me’ for the rest of my life. It was only then that I began to see there was a way out, that would end the emptiness and cease the misery I was causing to my family, friends and colleagues. To end my life made so much sense. 

Fortunately my attempt was unsuccessful. 

I’m in a different space now, I know I want to live and I’m making progress in engaging with life again and enjoying parts of it too. I still have down days, but I now have a lot more people, many whom I’ve met through this journey, who I can reach out to, speak to, message. I also realise how much better I feel if I try to support others, or engage in conversations about topics I still love. It may sound small, but I’ve set a goal to carry out at least one act of kindness a day. I get a lot from just seeing a smile it may have brought to someone else. 

I’ve got hope. 

I’m signing off with the same message as my last blog.

I received one of the most thoughtful and kind emails, that I think I’ve ever seen. I won’t name who it came from, but can say they don’t know me all that well. But what I will say is the amount of care and time that was put into the message gave me a huge uplift and I read the message multiple times. I do want to share how they signed off. 

“Meantime please don’t feel any obligation to reply to this. I know how difficult it can be to deal with things when your mind isn’t right and I wouldn’t want you to feel any pressure.

Much love.”

That acknowledgment meant a huge amount and I enjoyed constructing a reply, recalling memories the email triggered and the emotions too.

If you are ever unsure whether to email a friend, colleague or acquaintance who you know is having a hard time, but are unsure whether to, take a look at how to sign off and send that message, it can make a huge difference.

Lockdown Hugs and well done USA.

Blot x