Process

Process

When I sit down and think about it now I’ve probably had depression for far longer than I initially thought. Those days of feeling an appeal in melancholy, of feeling safe in its embrace, of seeing myself in Smiths lyrics, of choosing “the other” to whatever was going on, or where the masses went and what they did, of opting, at some level, to be the outsider, of withdrawing, of isolation. They all make sense now.

I’d been making my way through life, bouncing from one trauma to the next without much regard for dealing with my feelings, even for recognising them. I just got on with things; I mean who else was going to help me and pull me through, if not me? Things really started to build into what would probably be recognised as more than just a momentary low mood about 15 years ago; a long term relationship ended, I was living alone, had a health scare that made me aware of my mortality, was in a job that didn’t fulfil me and my evenings were spent on my own listening to music or watching TV with no social contact, and certainly no-one to confide in or open up to about how I was feeling. So I just pushed it down and ignored it.

I had friends with whom I would go to the pub with but there was no-one on an emotional level, or with whom I felt safe and would understand. This social, drinking friendship circle was therefore all I had and as such I started to put myself in situations and experiences that were negative and toxic for my mental health. When these nights out, or days spent in the pub ended I would walk home alone to my empty flat and cry. I knew I was sad, but I couldn’t pin point the root cause. Now it’s all too obvious.

Fast forward a few years and things started to look rosier - I met someone and it was genuine, we got on great, she was beautiful (still is) and within a year we were married (still are). A year later we bought a place together, and the year after that our little bundle of joy was born. Things were great. Then it started to go downhill.

Within five months of our family growing I had a crash on my bike and broke my hip. Unable to make it up stairs I lived in the kitchen/diner for about two months, hobbling on my crutches into the lounge to watch crap daytime telly and then back into the dining room and the temporary bed my wife had brilliantly sourced from the classifieds. This whole time obviously took a toll on my morale. I would have flashbacks of the crash, of me lying on the asphalt in pain as cars drove by and drivers peered out of their windows at the lycra-clad man on the deck, of the moments in hospital and the sounds of agony I heard emanating from the other cubicles. And then i would think how foolish I’d been, blame myself for causing all this pain and disturbance; castigate myself for taking future memories away from my son for things we would now not be able to do because of my stupidity. I didn’t talk to anyone about these thoughts, instead I grumbled about the discomfort from time to time and put my mask on, hiding the real me. Again.

Following this I returned to work and experienced some good old fashioned workplace bullying which resulted in me diving head first into the ‘no-self-worth-pool’ and considered a world without me in. Also my mood at home changed drastically and my wife and I began arguing over seemingly inconsequential things, I crashed the car (I was ok), lost interest in riding my bike and was scared of going to work to the point where I simply couldn’t do it. I spoke for the first time to someone, my doctor. He immediately identified that I had serious depression and anxiety and signed me off from work. I didn’t go back for about a month or two. Since then I’ve been on anti- depressants to support me.

During this time I got so low that on a ride home one day as I crossed a busy dual carriageway I stopped in the middle of the road, looked at the approaching cars and made my mind up that this was it. I would take away the hassle of everything by letting the traffic take me. The fear then grabbed me and I peddled to the other side, deflated and ashamed.

I levelled off on to some sort of plateau of being, not talking about my thoughts or feelings but aware of the aching and the tiredness in my body. This went on for a couple of years, sometimes worse, sometimes better, but always returning to the point where I felt a generalised sense of no hope or place.

Cue COVID-19. Without me realising I became incredibly affected by the worldwide tragedy that looked to be humanity’s death knell. As my news intake increased, the pressures of work and home ramped up and the scale of this became clear - I increased my alcohol drinking from about one beer a month to perhaps one a day, I stopped cycling, I started to not care about the food I ate. These were all early warning signs which I should have spotted. Before long, this and other factors left my patience down at the cuticles as I snapped at pretty much everyone and everything. Then I snapped.

I couldn’t face anything - work, home, cycling, doing stuff, thinking, reading, anything. I felt so horribly low that everywhere I looked I saw a personal meaning in things that just cemented my despondency and profound sadness at the world and at who I was, my future and the current situation. Years of helping others to identify how to help themselves and how I could help them, of my skills as a Mental health First Aider, as the son of a psychotherapist all evaporated in an instant. Again I was off work. This, although needed, added to my feelings of self-loathing and inadequacy. I had to do again what I did last time, I had to talk.

I found a counsellor nearby and piece by piece, session by session I opened up. It changed everything. I began to understand why I thought the way I did, what was the root cause(s) of my behaviours and perspectives. This gave me the strength to open up to friends and support others who were feeling similar to me - we heal ourselves by helping others heal. So positive was I feeling that I thought I’d licked it, that I’d reached the summit of my climb, the finish line of my century. I wasn’t expecting the fall.

It came quickly, I came crashing back down with a thud. External influences brought me back to where I’d been a few months ago and led me to feelings of real fear for my present and my future. I had trouble sleeping, was unable to focus on other things due to this filling my mind and again my mood was impacted; reacting very spikily one moment, or shaking and crying the next. So, armed with what I’d learnt from my sessions with the counsellor and my experiences that enabled me to spot the signs, I asked for help before it got any worse.

Through this talking with someone I felt safe to be open with, I found support and understanding. I’m feeling much better now and am back on the road; I can see light and feel the glow of the sun.

The road to respair is not a straight, flat road, it is dotted with potholes and obstacles that sometimes you can navigate past, and other times trip you up. The important thing to be aware of is that these stumbles are just part of the process, and talking almost always helps. I know that now, learning the hard way teaches you that, albeit annoying and a bit disheartening, the way out always involves two steps forwards and one back.

The journey we each take is unique to us, we may share certain characteristics within it but it’s our journey and each element of it ultimately directs us to a point that belongs just to us. Had I not gone through the various up and downs along the way I would not have had the experiences I had that inform my view and the conversations I have now, with myself, with my counsellor and with others. I would not be talking, nor writing this now.

I have a postcard from Fingercrossed stuck on my wall by my desk, it reads “all this pain will teach you everything.”. There’s solace in that.

This is a process, stick with it, try not to lose heart. You will grow, you will feel better.

Jonnie Bloor