I knew it was the paroxetine; I knew, but I didn’t want to admit that, because then the bliss could leave at any moment, the childlike and childish joy in my heart would be contingent on this daily capsule. I knew it was the paroxetine, but secretly hoped that I’d got plugged directly into the heart of God. That it would be as I felt; eternal, oceanic, forever and ever.
It started in the woods.
I’d like to say it started in the forest, because forests are enchanting in all the most wicked ways; but it started in the woods, where kids skulked off for fags and TWOCers burned out their rides and where, bafflingly, you’d get the occasional abandoned fridge-freezer.
I’m fine now, thank you. Continue reading
Came to Leeds, day out. It’s my old stomping ground, where I came to waste away my uni days.
I was off my fucking rocker in Leeds.
I mean, not constantly. There were weeks I’m sure when I was fine.
But I got ill here, and I didn’t appreciate how ill; a lot of my time in Leeds was barb wire and static and me trying to convince myself it was silk and cool water. Still; time dulls edges and smooths wrinkles, soothes stinging memories. Now Leeds is a city of fond nostalgia, the ghosts of friends I wish I’d kept up with, and lifetime and a half away there’s a thin memory of me; less heavy with regret, although maybe just as wound up with uncertainty. And wilder, so much wilder than the man I am now.
At times, I was off my fucking rocker in Leeds. Continue reading
I wish I’d been diagnosed sooner.
I know I bang on about this, but I do, I do and it hurts, it hurts sometimes when I let it hurt.
As I say, I’ve recently taken to meditating; every morning, sometimes in the afternoon, evening.
It’s been a month, more or less. Who knows if I’ll keep it up? I don’t even know why, initially, I started. I sure as hell wasn’t expecting it to do anything other than give me half an hour relaxation a day, half an hour ‘me time’. Half an hour sat like those slim white women (always slim, always white, always women) on the covers of books and magazines and in all the stock photography, with closed eyes and that irritatingly beautific expression beaming from the shelves and the screens and the pages of Yoga Today.
OK. I don’t sit like them. I am in some ways preternaturally flexible (hello boys), but I can’t quite comfortably manage a full lotus position – feet on thighs, pelvis square on the floor, stable, strong. I can drag my legs most of the way, and hold the pose out of sheer bloody mindedness while my feet slide down and my ankles end up twisted at an angle that can’t be healthy (and certainly doesn’t feel it), and maybe even stay like that for a full 10 minutes while my legs go numb and my upper back starts to howl, but eventually I have to admit that I will never be a slim white woman.
Besides, I meditate zen-style. Eyes open.
It’s easy to get upset about things.
I know this is hardly a striking insight from someone prone to profound, paralysing depression. Still.
It wasn’t meant to be like this. And it’s easy to get upset about that.
It was meant to be redundancy, complete MSc, new and exciting job.
No, no, it was meant to be BSc, quit job, MSc, more interesting job.
No, no no no. It was meant to be move to London, get a job, have fun.
I mean, after the original plan had failed, that is. BA, job.
It was meant to be different, it wasn’t meant to be this. It wasn’t meant to be unemployed and skint and living with my family in my mid 30s. It wasn’t meant to be directionless and purposeless.
I didn’t mean to waste all that time and effort. And it’s easy to get upset about that.
Understandable too, I guess. But many understandable things are nevertheless unwise.
I think of suicide – when I think of suicide, which these days is rare but it’s a peculiarly hard habit to break – I think of suicide when I consider how much of my life I’ve wasted, which is a morbidly absurd line of reasoning. Life streams by, gentle, terrible, a single impossibly slim moment which somehow extends on forever.
I’ve taken to meditating.
I’ve dipped my toes into mindfulness based cognitive therapy before; that’s mindfulness rather than Mindfulness(TM), the latter being today’s fashionable false hope. But before mindfulness therapy was even a glimmer in Kabat-Zinn‘s eye, I was drawn to Zen Buddhism.
You try on personalities as a teenager. Try on beliefs and hobbies and ways of being, see if they’re comfortable. Drop and forget most of them, and I mostly dropped and mostly forgot all that hippy shit.
I meditate in the mornings, sometimes in the evenings. Sometimes my mind settles on my breathing with relative ease, other times it’s a butterfly in the wind. Sometimes I get frustrated at how I don’t settle, other times I don’t mind. Sometimes I breathe in and out, and in, and out, and it’s like I dissolve, the world blossoming and falling at once, every moment, endless. Other times I think of shopping lists. It doesn’t matter. The point of meditation, I’m beginning to realise, isn’t anything to do with meditation.
If only I’d been diagnosed earlier, if only they’d initially given me lamotrigine instead of citalopram, if only I’d taken my mental health more seriously, if only if only if only. I could have got the qualifications and the job and the money and the life you’re meant to have and enjoy rather than had years of tears and failure and now this, this, drifting, skint, jobless.
I walk in the park, most days. Pausing sometimes to look up at the ever changing sky, gulls wheeling on the wind, playing. Directionless. An impossibly slim moment stretched somehow into forever.
There are so very few ways, I think, that you can waste that moment. But suicide is definitely one of them.
My depression drinks black coffee, my depression smokes cheap cigarettes. They stain my teeth and stain my skin but my depression doesn’t care.
I get it. I do.
I really do.
Out of work
he aimed low in life
– Roger McGough, ‘Missed’
Woke up full of cold and with depression still fogging up my mind. Sweaty, twisted night’s sleep, although pleasant dreams – they have been, recently, strangely. Mum and Dad on their way to NZ, me alone in the house I grew up in. Feeling like I’ve gone backwards, and stopped.
I looked up philosophy books on Amazon, not sure why, put a few on the wishlist. And so fell back into Leeds and I guess part of the person I was in Leeds.
I was a lot thinner, then. Well, a bit thinner.