M - The Strong Silent Type

The Strong, Silent Type

And so it went like this&;#8230; I went to bed, lit a few candles,
put Faithless on the stereo, swallowed approximately forty paracetamol,
lay back, closed my eyes, smiled with relief that the pain would soon
be over, and waited to die. It was ironic that my first smile in weeks
came about as a result of a suicide bid that would hopefully end my
smiles forever. Ironic&;#8230; but premature. Clearly I'm not dead.
Maybe the occasional bureaucrat ignores me as if I am dead, but I'm
not. No, here I am, still breathing. A failure in his own eyes, whose
crowning glory was his failure to die.

Everybody thinks they know something about depression. After all, we
all feel a bit down at some point in our lives don't we? Unfortunately,
(or should that be fortunately? I do get confused, although thankfully
not as often as I used to! Where was I? Oh yes&;#8230;)
Unfortunately, only about ten per cent of the population really
understand what it's like to be truly depressed. It could be your
friends, your neighbours, your colleague, even - God forbid - you. If I
were able, I'd let the whole world experience depression for a week or
so, just so I wouldn't have to write this. Luckily for you, I'm not
able to do that, but if I could, I would. You wouldn't like it.

To be depressed is bad enough. To be depressed and isolated is worse.
To be depressed, isolated and male&;#8230; well, let's just say that
being a man is great when you think of the pain of childbirth, periods
and such like, but not so great when the world and her long lost
relatives expect you to be the strong, silent type. I suffered in
silence ('suffered' being the operative word here) for a long time. I'm
not silent anymore. Silence is depression's greatest ally and I've
decided to wage war against this nasty little condition. My strategy?
Easy&;#8230; Complain. Raise a ruckus. Play merry hell with GPs.
Demand the help that every person should expect, regardless of age,
gender, race, social position&;#8230; the list is endless. Write.
Talk.

So I'll talk.

Let me be the case study. Early thirties, good job, new house, divorced
but on very friendly terms with my ex, daughter that I saw regularly
and loved very much, good friends, and a partner who could well have
been the best thing to ever happen to me. (She was the first to go.
Ain't that always the way.)

My depression was great at first. That may sound odd, but I became a
little manic. I was the life and soul of the party. First in the pub,
last out of the club. So how did I know I was depressed? Well, I didn't
know, did I. My girlfriend, friends, and ex all thought I was in a
great mood, and welcomed this new me. So where was the leap from good
mood to black moods? Nowhere&;#8230; and everywhere. There was no
one incident that sent me into depression. Like many people, I had some
issues with my family and upbringing, but I felt I'd dealt with those
okay. And then slowly, silently, things were changing.

Work was becoming unbearable. Deadlines were missed. Tears were shed in
the toilet at lunchtime. Sick days were mounting, as were bills and
mortgage payments. Invitations from friends went ignored. Telephone
calls unanswered. I knew these things to be bad, but I was losing sight
of the me that deserved to be happy. In his place was growing some
weird pod person who could only be sad. Anna - God, poor Anna - who
tried her hardest to make me happy, had to go. Sad, lonely, miserable
chaps like me don't deserve wonderful women like that, do they? No. Bye
Anna. (I take back what I said earlier - Anna can be exempted from my
depression week plan. It's the least I can do.)

I wasn't alone though. I had the internet to keep me company and a
hundred different personae to hide behind. The security of my web
existence and the cold, stark fear of the outside world that was
growing more entrenched by the day saw the end of my job. Goodbye to
bill paying. See you soon bankruptcy.

My relationship with my daughter was the last thing to go. It was
strong. It took a lot of effort on my part to foul that one up.
Finally, I managed to convince myself that she would be better off with
no father than with a 'damaged' one. And yes, I know how stupid that
sounds&;#8230; now. I stopped visiting. Then I stopped calling. And
with depression being the most wonderfully manipulative creature, I
even managed to blame my ex - God, poor ex - who tried her best to help
me maintain contact even with my finances non-existent.

So, to bring us up to speed&;#8230; girlfriend dumped, friends
ignored, ex blamed, daughter blanked, job quit, house about to be
repossessed, bankrupt&;#8230; what was left but suicide? It was the
logical next step, and I've always been a logical fellow. Basic
cost-benefit analysis: on one hand crappy, miserable life, on the other
eternal peace and the uncomplaining company of worms. No contest. Which
leaves us where we began; a relaxing, candlelit room, with good music
and a stomach packed to the roof with pills.

Of course, as we already know, it didn't work. Why? Simple really, my
body resented my painkiller picnic and within twenty minutes I was
being violently sick, much against my will I might add. Looking back, I
know that I really, truly wanted to die. No gesture. No regrets. Just
die. But I was still alive. What next? Well, I had to get myself
checked out at the hospital. No damage to my liver - lucky boy - and no
intention of doing it again. (I still can't even look at a paracetamol
without nausea, but I deserve that at the very least for the punishment
my body took.)

It was at this point that my situation changed. My oldest friend and
his girlfriend took me to live with them for four months and nursed me
back to something approaching health - that's physical and mental. They
made me eat. They made me sleep. There was a lot of talking in that
time. A lot of tears. Even, amazingly, a few laughs. I will love them
both forever for what they did for me, and if truth be told, they
didn't do a whole lot except listen. But they did listen. And they
listened without complaint or limitations.

I was now in a state of mind to return to my life. To sort out the
practicalities of my situation. To deal with the issues from my
childhood that probably led me to that state in the first place. Most
importantly, I was able to rebuild my relationship with my daughter.
It's as strong now as it ever was, and nothing will ever get in the way
of that again. I'm still depressed. I take my medication and it usually
works, but sometimes it doesn't. The difference this time is that my
family and friends recognize my symptoms and we talk about them. I'm
still depressed, but it's never as bad as it was. I've embraced it as a
part of me, just like my grey hair or my dodgy knees. I deal with
it.
I ask my self what I could have done differently. I ask myself what
others could have done differently. It's not easy to think about
without ascribing blame, and that's a mistake. Somehow my depression
got out of hand and impacted on everyone's lives. For me, I should have
opened up to those closest to me. I thought they weren't interested but
of course they were. These people are my family and friends. They care
about me. I talk more now. I even write bad poetry and subject them to
it. And they listen patiently, and they let me finish because they know
that they recognized changes in me and did nothing. No-one is to blame.
We're all to blame.

And the moral of the story for males reading this? It's good to talk.
(BT take note - I am available for advertising purposes.) Funnily
enough, once you start talking about feelings and emotions, it becomes
easier and, dare I say it, quite enjoyable. And the moral of this story
for those out there who know males? It's good to listen.

I have this fantastic dream that one day all the pubs will be full of
blokes, not talking about the football or Jordan's new ones, but how
they're feeling. Pubs full to bursting point with mini Kilroys telling
each other 'how that made them feel'. Wouldn't that be great? Come on
guys, when we put our minds to it, we can do anything. What is there to
lose?

Oh, and Anna, if you're reading this&;#8230; I am truly sorry.