Ongoing depressive issues
And so it came to pass…
I have had to re-jig this for impact, and I am drunk and haven’t edited (again), the last paragraph is now the first.
There probably comes a time in the life of most depressives, and this is from a small sample group so it may not be accurate, certainly it’s not based on research, but a time in which you consider at great length killing yourself.
You contemplate method, place and time. I have known those desperate enough not to consider ramifications and have been so disassociated to not care. I for one could never throw myself under a train, because I would consider the train driver: His life in torment as to whether he could have stopped, whether he can ever work again, his family. I can’t conceive of the person who would find me hanging, my head like a bloated purple pumpkin, the pool of piss and shit congealed beneath me. Mostly I cannot bear the thoughts of my parents who would wonder until their own deaths what they did wrong, what they could have done to change the outcome and why they’re burying their child rather than the other way around despite their unconditional love of me, whatever their flaws.
I was painfully aware of my vulnerability, my open invitation when I exposed as much of my flank as I have previously. Nobody was more conscious than I of the chink in my armour. It wasn’t rooted out, it wasn’t discovered it was laid bare for anyone to see.
I knew that it made my position precarious, that those with the will and, and this is rare, the insight and intelligence to exploit it, could do so. I relied on, and hoped it would engender more inner strength. That I could be open, frank and try to address these things head on with the knowledge that I no longer could or would have to weasel my way out of this with excuses and spurious bullshit.
I made suppositions of certain people, people I have, and still do disdain. People who I know may read, though probably won’t, my self exposé and that will come to the conclusions that most I would detest.
This is not to say that they won’t, though I suspect they will never read this. But to regret that parties close to me, of whom I thought much more, could be so hugely ignorant of my situation. Worse, that there is a possibility that it’s far from ignorance, but a focussed and deliberate attack on the struts that hold my reconstructed life together.
There is a huge gaping chasm between the problem and the realisation and acceptance of the problem. I am a depressive. I suffer from life endangering and life suppressing bouts of an illness. This is not a frivolity. Depression kills men my age in great swathes (not to say it doesn’t kill other demographics). To accept and understand that I have this condition is a life altering event.
One of the biggest difficulties is to come to terms with realising that I can’t pull my socks up, that I can’t just get on with it. To quote Stephen Fry on bipolar, “It has rained, and it is real, you can’t unthink the rain, the weather makes up its own mind” and to deny that it has rained is not productive. From my own perspective, every day I question whether it’s rained or if I have imagined the precipitation, Each time I have to consider if I am faking it to my own ends. I don’t believe I am. Maybe one day I will come to realise that what is crippling my life, what makes me unable to interact with people and carry out normal day to day activities, which I might add I hide from people in every aspect of my life so they don’t see or appreciate my failure as a normal human, is in fact just a sham. I suspect however that it is not. My failure to do something as simple wash clothes is not idleness nor an excuse, but a morbid (and I mean that clinically) affliction that makes my life barely manageable.
I have said in other places, and will do so again, this is not something I would wish upon the vilest of human beings, excepting a finite time limit to taste what it is.
I will cope and I will manage because I have no other viable alternative. There are however very few things I would not sacrifice for one.