I Saw You Coming

Mrs Hora and Jose recently decided that the store Dr China in Hounslow’s ‘Treaty Centre’ would potentially be the perfect treat for me, or perhaps that should be perfect treatment for my depression.

I believe in God, I go to church most weeks, I have my beliefs, loads of them: Ipswich are better than Norwich, Spearmint are the best band in the world, the best films come out of France, being a board-game collector doesn’t mean you have to play everything in your collection, ‘Some Girls Are Bigger Than Others’, all of those and more. As I have become educated about my illness, and have researched it more and more, I have realised how little is certain. Prescribed medication is a huge game of trial and error and I don’t think you will ever discover the optimum meds. For starters, what state of mind are you willing to accept? 

That non-depressives do not comprehend the illness is all too obvious - sorry for the sweeping generalisation. Had the situation been different I would definitely found it difficult to empathise sufficiently with sufferers. My expectations of others are therefore laid back. I have lost some friends, and gained some new ones. That would have happened anyway I guess.

It’s much more complex with the family though. They have to live with you, in a changed state, and almost six years on from my ‘episode’, I’m not convinced they believe I will remain unwell for the foreseeable future. My belief is that they expect me to wake up one morning and be fine again, whatever that might mean. It’s tough to dent their hopes.

But. Dr China. Seriously? 

Yes.

  Very. 

Bloody Hell!

In we go and Mrs Hora relates some facts about my illness. The two Chinese ladies ask all the usual questions and I answer them. They decide that fixing my depression is the first course of action. Then we can deal with my obesity. Like all good sales staff they mention the 20% discounts available and start with the most expensive treatments. Acupuncture. Mrs Hora’s father stopped smoking after acupuncture. He was much more malleable to different cures than I will ever be. My cynicism and sarcasm are raring to explode inside the shop. 

Apparently, I will need a course of twelve acupuncture sessions, twice or once weekly depending on which of the two ladies answer my wife’s question. The cost is huge in my opinion. Imagine the amount of food and alcohol that would buy. Imagine how many new CDs I could get, DVDs, etc. And that materialism becomes lodged inside my already tormented brain. Off it goes again..

For today I have a session of Acu-massage provided for me. I am laid on a typical doctor’s bed facing the wall. My feet and back are the areas that take the grinding, the poking, the bruising performance of my host. More questions come thick and fast, more thick the cynical me decides. 

‘Are your ankles swollen?’ I’ve just told her I weigh twenty-three stones, every single bit of me is swollen - barring that special little place, naturellement. Talking French reminds me that the closer to my shoulders she works the stronger the eau de garlic is. And despite me lying there as still as I can, with my eyes closed in resigned relaxed mode, she’s suddenly got her breasts in my face. I dare not open my eyes and the natural stirrings one might expect do not follow. Since taking the medication I am an asexual being; can you imagine?

        Never mind. Losing track of time, or being mind-numbed maybe, the session eventually ends. Returned to the shop front and the largest chairs I’ve sat in we complete a form while lady number two puts together a concoction of twelve different parcels of dust that I must consume twice daily ahead of next Thursday’s first acupuncture therapy. No details provided about the contents but at a further £39 - less the 20% discount - it’s going to taste supreme, I know it!

I had a black dog, his name was depression

Simple enough... this is what it's like.

Troughs I have Fallen Into

My hero Chill did this: Chillmoose

So I’ve fallen into a trough. Everything, every little thing is irritating me. I’m trying to listen to some new music and it’s all fine, some of it very good, but I’m anxious to listen to more, to not forget connections and recent recommendations and I’d usually write them all down but I don’t want to do that today because if I’m writing anything I should be writing that bloody essay for Uni. Not a hope of that. Need to sleep as I went to bed too late again. Just couldn’t lift myself up to bed. Even knowing that I’d have to run Basti in to school again this morning. Would have stayed in bed much longer given half a chance. But then I’d have been late going swimming and Cheryl needed the car so that wouldn’t have worked either. And that’s the shape you find yourself in and you know that nothing, nothing will pick you up and through this. You have to let it overwhelm you, go through it and wait for it to eventually dislodge itself. And all the time you worry about comfort eating, I could really go for that. I tried to arrange a table tennis table for the children this morning and of course that’s not been possible. Basti’s bike needs fixing. And when is that going to be addressed? When I do something about it of course. That grates, big time. I have Facebook and twitter open, normally I only have one open at a time but now I’m getting anxious about keeping up with all the tweets. Shouldn’t I be trying to cut back on the number I’m following? Why I’ve selected some I do not know. Yes, I will prune. When though, I do not know. Trapped you see. At times like these I’d like to read but I have such a huge pile of books to wade through, too daunting to start as I’ll pick the wrong one. It's as if there are all these men pushing one side of my brain. And on the other side there's these men pushing back. In between all those men are these men...

Regrets

Regrets. Until 2009 I lived my life pretty much to a ‘no regrets’ principle. What the hell was the point of thinking something done and dusted could have been different? I made the decisions I’d made with an honest heart and for the best, so going over alternatives and worrying about the choices made seemed stupid to me. If I lived it all again I was sure I would have gone with the same decisions a second time. Maybe if I come back for a third life I could add some variety.

But in 2009 regret took over and since that time I regret a massive number of things in my life. I’ve not been capable of even seeing the options, never mind making the most of things. The more I think about this the worse it seems. I regret all the paths taken and regret all the paths I didn’t take too. So I can’t win. That’s what depression is you see. It tells you everything that’s wrong and points out where you strayed, where you could have gone and then tells you in no uncertain terms that you should never have been on any path in the first place. In fact, you’d have been better off in bed.

There, at least the twists and turns my thoughts and I torment each other with, could mount up without fear of action. Like that buzzing fly taunting me now as I tap away at the keyboard. The dripping tap in the kitchen and the smoke alarm beeping because its battery is ending its life. These things all say the same thing to me. Regret.

Tonight was Holy Thursday Mass. The last supper, the washing of the feet. And afterwards the lights are all turned off and there are just candles in front of the alter for the Adoration of the Blessed Sacrement, marking the hours before Judas betrays Jesus. I sat there contemplating. It’s peaceful, spiritual, but so, so scary. I cried several times and couldn’t come to terms with myself. After almost an hour and a half it was time for me to leave. I moved onto my knees and tried to pray away regret but it’s still here with me now. I will sleep instead, let the mirtazapine take me off instead. Tomorrow will be another day.