Depression: A Personal Story

An article in today's Metro, edited by Lisa Scott, was discussing suicide clusters. The discussion, sparked by a series of suicides by a group of people in Bridgend, Wales got me thinking. Suicide is a subject that has been on my mind quite a lot recently, after reading about these apparently linked deaths and the speculation over Heath Ledger's death, and for one other reason.

For those of you who don't know me, and probably many of you who do, I will clarify some details, some of which I have mentioned on here before, but most I haven't:

I suffer from depression.

I always have.

Many people will doubt that last statement, as it seems unlikely that someone can be depressed their whole life. But depression isn't a steady problem, it comes and goes in waves, depressive tsunamis can be overwhelming and deadly, but most often the depression just manifests itself as ripples on the surface of ones life, for a myriad of reasons tumbling about unseen in the depths below.

From as early as I can recall I have been unhappy. The earliest memories I have come from around the age of 7 (whether by coincidence or not this is around the time when my dad became ill and later died from a brain tumour). It was also around this time that I realised that I was different from other boys of my age. My unhappiness and my difference were things that I believed needed to be hidden. At that age, words like depression and gay [homosexual] were alien to me and, being the times that they were too (late '70's) not something that could easily be talked through, or understood by, most adults, especially with Clause 28 later coming into effect forbidding any teacher discussing homosexuality in schools as this would "promote the teaching ... of the acceptability of homosexuality as a pretended family relationship"!
I coped through my school years, what else would I do? I knew no other way to be. Teenage years are hard on everyone, aren't they? Then came the real world, for which I was woefully unprepared.
Immediately, the emphasis was put on to two things: Work & Relationships (i.e. sex)

I had no directional guidance on either. Careers-wise I was panicked into taking the first job on offer, by talk of a job shortage on every prgram you watched and in every newspaper. Unfortunately this meant that I was working in a tiny, relatively local office, for just £50 a week, a low wage even then. Having had no careers advice at school, after the only careers teacher had died during my third year of senior school, I didn't know what I wanted to do, but knew that my mother probably couldn't afford to keep me indefinately if I went to college. Even if I did go to college I didn't know what I wanted to do for a career and so didn't know what to study either!
Sex-wise, I now knew that the gay thing wasn't to be talked about openly, and certainly not with my mum, who was too embarrassed to tell me about the birds & bees even after I asked her! All my friends were getting into relationships, or at least copping off at the local club come closing time. Whereas I didn't even know how to find someone else like me. Even in a crowd, and sometimes especially there, I felt alone.

One night, probably a Thursday as this was the usual night out for partying, I arrived home after about 6 pints of cider and 6 Southern Comforts, feeling more depressed than I had ever felt before. I sat outside, around the corner of the house and cried to myself for a while, before making my decission.
I went in and to the kitchen, to the second draw down, near the sink, in which my mum kept her headache tablets. I took all the tablets that were there, paracetamol, ibuprofen and soluble aspirin. I then went to bed feeling more at peace than I had ever felt, thinking that I wouldn't have to worry any more.

When I woke the next morning, before I even opened my eyes, my first thought was,

"Oh F**k! It didn't work!"

Physically, I felt healthy and surprisingly alert for first thing in the morning, especially after a night out. I obviously hadn't taken enough tablets. After a little while, I just shrugged, got ready and went off to work.
I had survived my first tsunami, and although I can't recall if this was the spur for it or not, soon afterwards I began making major changes to improve my life.

Over the next 17 years I survived many depressive storms, eventually conceeding to some councelling, and taking anti-depressants for about 6 years, but I never had another night like that one.

Then came last Thursday when I was almost overwhelmed by my second giant wave of pointlessness and emptiness. It hit me as I arrived for work and really took me by surprise as I hadn't felt an emotional earthquake triggering the impending tragedy.
My mood was noticed by my supervisor, but he was going home and so I'm sure he didn't ponder on it for too long. I was working with a stranger that night and barely a word was exchanged between us all night.
On my first patrol of the night I tried to think of all the good things in my life and came up blank.
A good reason to get up in the mornings?
Blank!
Someone who would miss me on a day-to-day basis?
Blank!
I sat in one of the stairwells and cried for ten minutes. No sobbing, just tears falling from my eyes. Then the practical side of my brain kicked into play. Could I face throwing myself off the top of the building? Probably not! Okay, how many paracetamol did I have at home? How many would I need?
If I was going to do it, I couldn't give away any sign in case someone tried to stop me, so I washed my face and returned to the control room to continue my planning. I sat down and began writing a suicide note. I quickly managed a page and a half of A4 explaining that it was no body else's fault, and that I just had nothing to keep me here.
I had evey intention of finishing the shift, going straight home, taking all the pills I had, and going to bed. Amusing myself slightly, wondering how long it would be before someone missed me and discovered my body.

I think, deep down, I knew that I wouldn't do it and sure enough, I didn't. I did have a headache when I got back to my room, but I didn't even take the usual 2 tablets to ward it off. I think, possibly, I'd scared myself a bit too much with how serious I had initially taken the plan. The depression had eased, only slightly, by this time, but by the time I woke up later that day it had dissipated.

I am telling this story not for sympathy or to provoke a reaction from friends, but because I hope that it will aid others in some way. Either to explain how a loved one they have lost, or almost lost, may have been feeling. Or to help someone realise that there are others out there suffering like them.
It is also a very cathartic process, writing down how you feel, or felt, and I have used it tohelp me on many previous occassions.
I personally go on by telling myself that my purpose in life is to make a difference and until I have done that I am not meant to leave this world. For some reason I really believe this, though still have to remind myself from time to time.

For those of you who are worried about someone you care for I have some advice:
It doesn't help someone by telling then that there is always someone worse off than them, although it is almost always true.
It doesn't help to say it is selfish, although this is true too.
It doesn't help telling them that it is a sin or that they will suffer.
It doesn't help to tell someone just to cheer up, it might never happen. That is probably what the person is depressed about in the first place, it never happening!

The best thing to do is be there. Just be there. A visit just for the sake of seeing the person you care about can mean the world. I could save someone's life. It could save you the heartache of losing them!
Reach out and touch someone you care about today.

Phone them.

Email them.

Text them.

Write them a letter.

Go and see them.

Anything, just to let them know that they are in your thoughts and that they mean something to you. It will make a positive difference. Try it.

p.s. I'm fine at the moment, so please don't worry.

Alex