I’m really sorry, everyone, but it’s been a tough week. In the future, there will be more upbeat posts, whenever I get out of this slump. The fact that I know there will be an end to it has to be a positive sign that I’m learning to manage this crap right? But, for now, I wanted to share with you all a thought that I had the other day.
Stood in Doncaster bus station, I did what I always do: People Watch. It’s a hobby that I encourage any aspiring author to take up. Plus, I just really like staring at people (mostly kidding). Anyway, there were a lot of elderly people (whats the PC term? I’m sure someone will tell me) because it was the ancient and fabled Pension Day. As I stood watching the beige armada shuffle with indomitable will through the grey shit hole that is my home town, I realised that that was how I felt on the inside.
People look at this (hardly) fit and (physically) healthy thirty-something and think there must be nothing wrong with me. How could there be? But inside I’m old and withered and my mind shuffles its feet through every thought. Those old people look at you and often say things like “when you get to my age”. But I already am. Living with depression ages you on the inside. My mind has had its centennial birthday even if the rest of me is only a few decades old (lets not talk about how often bits regenerate).
It makes me think of how a character like Doctor Who must feel. It’s always impressed me when the writers of that show let you see exactly what it would be like to be so old in such a young body. That weight of experience and loss which comes with such a long life, but people only see the youthful visage of an Eccleston, Tennant or Smith (and all the others, but I’m not listing them). I feel that way, but without the cool blue box or sonic screwdriver. My body refuses to give up, even though my mind is ready to switch off for the Long Sleep.
And there’s a part of me that wishes I was really that old, so that it would almost be over; that my body would just get the idea and age already. Maybe if I really was that old, these Down Days would be behind me. I’m still learning to live with depression, and to manage it, but maybe somewhere in the future I have this thing licked. I’ve kicked its ass and taken its coat. I’ll have the years of practice that I wish I had now. I want that day to come soon, even if it means I can feel the cold hand of death on my shoulder. Maybe he’ll give me that skull-grin as he leads me into the nothingness and say:
“You’ve done well”
Maybe then I’ll finally be able to smile, and mean it. He’ll let go of my hand and the peace that follows as I drift away will be the greatest reward for a life-battle with depression.
Thanks for reading