Counting blessings

grievingI’m back at work.

Well, I’m back working. A few months. Blessed income, blessed progress, blessed not sitting at home bored or – worse – sinking into myself. And it’s a job I’ve done before, in a place I’ve worked before, and it’s a nice place and nice people and it’s no stress, no stress at all. Collect papers, sit. Punch numbers into database. File papers. Repeat.

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‘lexa

This last episode was horrible.

I mean they all are, obviously. I wonder if they’re getting worse or I just forget, each time, how brutal and cold they are.

Anyway.

I thought I’d share a memory from it.

It’s not a happy memory, which you could probably have assumed given I was suicidally depressed at the time. But it’s a memory which plays on me still, and it’s typical experience that anyone who has been through severe depression will probably relate to.

I thought I’d share it. As catharsis, maybe? For education? Because misery loves company?

I dunno.

It haunts me, this memory. This memory is grey, and cruel. It makes me feel cold, shameful, angry.

Just like depression.

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Tang!

I’m re-discovering food.

Most people with serious depression stop eating when they’re ill, but I have the fattening version. I turn into a fun mashup stereotype of ‘gay man eating his feelings with ice cream’ and ‘batchelor surrounded by pizza’. Neither of these are stereotypes I aspire to but here we are.

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And flying I still will not move

I’m rushing.

I’m rushing and it’s beautiful.

Beautiful like fire and lashing rain and thunder and howling howling wind, I’m rushing and it’s beautiful and it’s taking my breath away.

Thank Christ at last I’m rushing and it’s beautiful, rather than hell.

Ideas whip into my head and hardly settle before being picked up spun around, turned about; impatient with myself and the world, plans that come to half a page of scribbled lines. And it feels good it feels good, you have no idea.

I want to just stay dancing in this whirlwind and laugh, and enjoy the storm.

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Horrorscope

“It always seems to be spring, with you”

Dad had stopped slicing potatoes for dinner and looked at me, old eyes wary and full of care. We don’t often talk like this – about this – but today it’s inescapable. Sent home from work, nearly to A&E. Out of a job, again. Bedraggled in trousers and a creased blue shirt, work lanyard still hanging from my collar. It had all been going so well.

“You’re right”

I’d been thinking the same. Past few years, it’s hit or accelerated in spring.

“Ever since you were 14”

Jesus. I’d not thought back that far.


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, slowly, mostly

Costa do good business from me at the moment.

After a stretch of unemployment and life on benefits, you appreciate the luxury of being able to go out for a coffee.

“You do have a job”, said the clinical psych the other day. “I know that right now that doesn’t seem to count for much, but it does.

Just having a job means you’re doing well”

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