I publish this because depression is often a hidden illness. If liberals are a bit too quick to call ’sadness ‘depression, conservatives often see it as a flag of convenience for people who are really just weak and inadequate.
Well, this is an account of my time in depths of depression. Only 5 years later can I claim the black dog is no longer constantly bearing me down. I still have my days but it’s getting better all the time ” (to quote Lennon and McCartney).
If you suffer from depression know this - you can get better, even after a long time. If you live with a loved one who has depression, hold on to them and love them. They may seem ungrateful sometimes but deep down they love you more than you can ever know. To both of you, the experience of depression is unique to each person and so is the road to recovery. some of this may resonate with you some may not.
This record is also rather wordy and melodramatic. That, dear reader is the cost of being a Welshman; a cursory knowledge of Dylan Thomas should convince you of that truth!
“The evil of this world is not caused by ignorance of the good or failure to appreciate the holiness of human life. It is caused by the black hole that lies at the bottom of every human soul.” David Horowitz ‘The End of Time’.
It wasn’t called 9/11 when it happened. The American convention of putting the month before the day was unknown to me. As I watched the T.V. footage in the comfort of my home in a small Welsh valley town, I was conscious of watching global history unfold. The images were horrific but they were like a shower of cold water to me. They were like a call to come out of a deep and comfortable sleep. “Come”, the images said, “and see the world as it really is.” May God forgive me, it took the deaths of all those innocents to begin to wake me up.
Waking up to reality was long and hard, for at that very time the pernicious seeds of a deep and unlovely depression were sprouting and poisoning my heart and life. Growing within me was a malevolent life that was not wholly mine. It viciously and unrelentingly began to catch hold of my heart and with demonic claws drag it down into a spiral of never-ending descent.
Inside me I was rotting, dying, withering and decaying. It was tangible, it was somatic, I could feel my heart melt within me, my lungs dissolving as water hits coal dust to become slurry along the track. I mostly sat with my head in my hands. Sometimes I would throw my head back into the headrest of the chair as if to gasp for air. Imaginary sabres hacked at my head while knives and gun barrels were pressed against my temple. Frances Bacon’s paintings have been referred to as depicting ‘man stripped bare of his pretensions’. Bacon’s men, alone and discarded, lie on clinical tables with their skin flayed like slabs of butcher’s carcasses. Painted in triptych they resemble a religious sacrifice or an offensive Christian parody, perhaps both. But it was Bacon’s homage to Velasquez that makes visible the existential terror of Pope Pius II, that was haunting my mind. Sitting enthroned, the Pope is isolated against a inky black background, screaming amid a cage of urgently painted downward brushstrokes that both imprison and impale him. Make no mistake about this image, this pope is going down – down where hell is only an ante-room to the real torment.
My mind began to turn upon itself and speak directly to me in ways I had never imagined possible. “You are useless” it accused as it also pronounced the guilty verdict. And I knew instinctively that I was without excuse. Caught and betrayed by my very own self, as a fraud who had fooled others, I could do nothing other than own up the consequences of perusing a deceitful life. These were not the projected external voices of psychotic illness, but internally generated thoughts of a crippled mind. They encountered no resistance as they drained my flesh of all vitality and desire.
The overwhelming desire to sleep, if possible forever, placed it’s heavy hand on my shoulder. No matter how much I slept I woke up desperately fatigued. Some days I slept for 18-20 hours. The tiredness was pathological – it never left me. Every waking moment was a wearing withering experience, as wave after wave of overwhelming desire to return to the petit death, broke over and against my heart, my mind and my body. Weariness consumed me. It sucked all my energies and demanded every moment of my concentration.
The continual downward motion of my internal being sickened and distressed me. I was continually clawed and dragged from within to ever lower and deeper levels of hollowness. Forever falling into the abyss I suffered a debilitating impoverishment of spirit. Seemingly rolling and tumbling over and over again, I descended below congruence with the reality most people share. I had lost the energy to communicate meaningfully even with those I loved and I had lost the will to bother.
Sleep brought a relief from the unremitting tiredness but introduced disturbing dreams. Foul and sickening, the dreams seemed to inhabit me. Sometimes I would awake screaming. They were so intense and crisp and colourful in their clarity. The images inside them were bleak and debasing and degrading. The horrors that life can and does reserve for the unfortunate few were aggregated together for me to gaze upon in seemingly unrelated but disturbing sequences. It was as if I was looking into the recesses of my own black heart and inspecting it’s cadaver and viewing the possible causes of it’s death. As within Mervyn Peake’s Gorhmengast Castle I discovered metaphorical rooms and corridors within me that had been sealed up for years and subsequently forgotten. Entering each one I was witness to degrading occult scenes of pornographic macabre savagery. This nighttime litany of torture and death was preferable to being awake and knowingly alive.
Knowingly awake: a definition. Being awake and being alive and being willing and able to think and act. Being willing to take responsibility and being able to understand what that responsibility is.
I seemed to me, when I was able to make any worthwhile reflection that my present state was the natural development of a life lived in half truths. In a sense that could have been a perverted depressive thought, one designed to send me deeper into the pit. I had to be careful to identify it as authentic, a thought worth dwelling on and exploring. Discernment was required. It didn’t have the taste of a twisted thought or defensive reaction. No, this was a truth surfacing.
I looked out the window into the mid-distance. The arms of the chair were frayed where my hands rested on them and rubbing unconsciously against them. In the soles of my feet and under my chin the muscles continually cramped and needled me. Silent except for the occasional sigh, all but spent and defeated, my body inhabiting a small space, I began to be slow.
Being slow is strangely strange. The clinical term is ‘psychomotor retardation’. I have witnessed this phenomenon before in depressed and psychotic patients. As a nurse on psychiatric admission wards it was regarded as a significant clinical symptom to be dutifully recorded on the person’s case notes. Psychomotor retardation remains a mystery in the sense that there is still no adequate theory to account for its existence. From observation, as is clinical sign, it gives the impression of the air having congealed leaving the human body unable to move easily through it. It’s like witnessing the effects of viscous air, or a bone weary patient trying to move though unseen treacle. On the inside, (as a symptom), the movements are equally mysterious. For quite evidently there is no treacle to wade through and the air offers no resistance.
Locked into the depressive condition my concentration was acute but turned almost entirely inwards. In a sense the key to getting well was to be able to move concentration, back into external reality, to where it’s focus ought to be…..
For 3 good websites to help you or a loved one recover see the comments section number 1.