My Friend Depression

When I first met depression she allowed me to see only a glimpse of her true self. When I first met depression, she walked with me to the still stream at the opening of her soul, she removed my shoes and encouraged me to dip my toes into her murky waters. Her presence was cold and calm, she wore a dark cloak stitched with shame and laced with sorrow, her greying face barely visible under her cowling hood.

When I first met depression, the sharp water on my skin evoked shivers of sadness. I shook away the droplets of pain but as I trundled home a sense of dampness remained on my soles. I felt a little tired, what we would usually term as ‘down in the dumps’, I ate less than usual; a piece of toast, a few chocolates. I felt different but not remarkably. I would cosy myself in a blanket, watch a film and sleep it off, labelling today as, just one of those days.

When I first met depression I didn’t really know who she was or what she intended to do. She was clever and calculated, she let me in slowly, spoon by spoon she fed me a gradually increasing dose of her toxic medicine.

One day, she introduced me to her friend anxiety. Anxiety was not like depression. She was small and spritely . Wearing silk slippers embellished with mischief she danced with soft feet and a devious sparkle in her eye.

When I first met anxiety she whispered worries in my ear. Small ones at first. “What will happen if you’re late?”, “do you think you should have said that?”, “I’m not sure if they like you”, “you haven’t achieved much today have you?” “what will they think if your house is untidy?”. Her whispers grew louder until her voice became a deafening tinnitus ringing in my ears. That’s when I really got to know anxiety.

When I got to know anxiety, she made my thoughts race at electric speed. She replayed everything I’d ever experienced, a torturing playlist of my flaws; what I said, what I didn’t say, what I did and what I didn’t do. She would pirouette on the record player of my mind manically giggling with delight as I became dizzy and faint with self doubt.

When I got to know anxiety she took me into an unrealistic future where everything went wrong. People were ill, I was ill, people died, I died. She took me at lightening pace from past to future and so, I was never present.

When I got to know anxiety she relentlessly juggled my thoughts around and around until my body was exhausted but my mind could not rest. I would wake in a flood of tears in the still of the night; my heart pounding, my body sweating as I gasped for air. my My hands would shake, I was in a constant state of fight or flight, until I was so overwhelmed that my brain and my body could take no more and I burnt out. I could not fight nor fly, so I froze.

When I got to know anxiety she kicked my legs from under me causing me to physically collapse in my garden, my own safe space, whilst I had been outside desperately trying to breathe. Like everyone told me, like the wellness journal said, breathe. How could I possibly breathe when I was spinning so frantically? At that moment when I was weak and frail and her work was done anxiety handed over to depression who scooped me up, wrapped me in her cloak, led me to the deep river of her stormy soul and that’s when I really got to know her.

When I got to know depression she drained away my appetite day by day until the piece of toast became a bite and the bite eventually became sickening.

When I got to know depression she placed a weighted rucksack on my back, so painfully heavy that my whole body ached. I would walk slowly, clutching onto doors, chairs, any surface to prevent me from falling. My limbs hurt and my bones were tired. I could barely lift my head which felt as though it was lined with lead from my pillow.

When I got to know depression she transformed the tiredness I had previously felt into an all consuming exhaustion. No matter how much I slept I would never feel awake. Sleep was no longer rest it was escape. For hours I would sleep to escape her. Yet, when I opened my eyes she was lay next to me holding my hand, reminding me that she was still there and I would have to suffer another day in her icy grasp.

When I got to know depression she would sometimes fall to sleep. I would see my chance to cry for help. With my heavy hands I would reach for my phone, to call the doctor, a friend, anyone. As I lay in darkness listening to the unceasing dial tone she would awaken, stroke my head and calmly whisper “there’s no point Dear”. No one would believe me or care. They have their own lives. I’m just seeking attention. I’m a burden. What could they do, she’s here’s to stay. She lifted my finger and put the call and my glint of hope to an end and in any case, I deserved her, or so she told me.

When I got to know depression she took away my ability to feel. I no longer felt sadness; I felt numb. Nothing was appealing or interesting. I could no longer laugh or enjoy life. I would run a hotter than usual bath and lower myself in so my body could feel. I wasn’t looking for pain, but for a temporary moment of feeling again.

When I got to know depression her toxic presence became somewhat comforting. She was familiar, predictable, the feelings she evoked began to feel normal, I forgot what life was like before her. I wanted her to go but was somehow scared in case she did because the feeling of goodness now seemed alien. She had been in control and if she left I would need to take back the reigns and I didn’t know how. It pained me to live with her but how could I live without her.

When I got to know depression she allowed me some brief moments of relief, usually when in the company of others, so they would never really know. Like a cruel puppeteer she moved my head to nod at the right time, she gently pulled the corners of my mouth to smile in the right places. She would allow me to feel a fleeting moment of something. Not happiness, not joy, but for a moment I would actually feel something. And then just as quick as she gave it to me, she snatched it away.

Through the corner of a smug half smile she sniggered and placed her bony hand on my shoulder to remind me that she was still there.

When I got to know depression she would convince me that I was ugly and unworthy. She peeled away my confidence layer by layer. She danced around me with her companion anxiety. They sat with me in front of the mirror pointing out my imperfections. When they couldn’t find any, they would convince me to create some. Pick and poke at my face until I made spots and scars. And then whisper “told you so”.

When I got to know depression she placed a suffocating glass helmet over my head so that the world felt distant; freedom so close yet so far away. Muffled and blurred, those who loved me would talk to me, yet I couldn’t hear them, only a faint echo of some kind words, the meaning of which ricocheted off the glass. Tears ran down my face as I stared ahead yet saw nothing. I couldn’t feel the tears. I only knew I was crying when I felt the touch of someone wiping them away.

When I got to know depression I was a young, healthy woman in my twenties. I had a first class honours degree, a brilliant career, a wonderful home, a precious daughter, a loving family and a supportive and stable group of friends. Depression didn’t care and she worked tirelessly until I didn’t either.

She covered my eyes so that I was blind to the precious life I had and the bright future in front of me. She covered my ears so that I was deaf to the beautiful sound of music, my daughters laugh or the loving words people spoke. Like a dementor she drained me from the inside out, leaving me numb to the fresh air on my face, the warmth of a hug, any kind of emotion - good or bad.

When I got to know depression I completely lost myself.

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Mental health is so rightly gaining the attention it so desperately needs, yet so often the message is somehow laced with sugar and spice. It is gaining movement through rose tinted glasses, a surface of “it’s okay not to be okay, “be kind, you never know what someone else is going through”, yet still we don’t truly understand what any one is going through because the painful reality of mental health is sadly often too painful for the individual to share. It’s not just not being ok, it’s dark, raw and utterly heartbreaking.

Writing this made me flinch and recoil in some kind of shame and embarrassment. I’ve deleted some parts because it felt too much but at least it’s some form of insight. I don’t really understand why we feel that way and who it is too much for. I think we have so much work to do to unravel the reasons behind the stigma that is still whirring around the background of society.

Written by Chloe Jackson
Writer

Hi I’m Chloe. I have no professional experience in writing, it is simply a hobby of mine, a liberating escape from at times a chaotic claustrophobic existence. It is a way to disentangle a messy web of thoughts and feelings whilst navigating this complicated thing called life.

When I’m not writing, which is most of the time (I need some more of that time stuff) I am a Speech and Language Therapist, I am a Mum loving my daughter from the depths of my soul whilst simultaneously hiding from her in the bathroom to devour a cake in silence. I am a 30 year old whose life, well, didn’t go to plan. My 5 year plan is now a “let’s get through today plan” and I’m okay with that. My struggles have resulted in my successes. I now realise you cannot control the cards you are dealt, just the way you play the hand and writing has helped me to figure that out.