Happy sadness, dark light

It is that saddest of times and that happiest of times: to be child is to make this night almost unbearably slow with the certain knowledge that joy would follow in the morning. To be an adult alone it is almost unbearably sad to know that no joy comes in the morning -simply another day to be endured like so many others, only on this day there is premium for us lonely people to pay - we must smile and look like we are enjoying the season. I suppose faith might help but having little time for organised religion it looks a doubtful lifesaver.

Last year as many of you know I offended my sister with my 'humorous' remarks. I have seen her three times this year. She drives me mad but I miss her.

I have been fighting the demon voices this last week  -the ones that say no-one will miss you, the world would be an easier place without you in it, you're a waste of space of oxygen of state money. And - it is all true. And it is all true except when I come to the blog and 16,000 of you have read it and that 16,000 people know I am alive and find some worth in what I write and so for tonight the angels win.

Depression is lonely, hard to explain and fight. Christmas is not a time to be depressed and it is harder to fight now that at any other time of the year. So I hope your Yuletide is happy and bright and that 2012 brings us all the hope and happiness we all deserve. "God bless us everyone" , as Tiny Tim would say.

The Witching Hour . Whateve

It is 3.30 in the morning and I am sitting up in bed, cross legged writing this because my brain will simply not accept that this is sleep time.I have been sitting here desperately trying to think of small baba tales to entertain you with and all that is doing is to make sleep waft gently away as smoke from a lit cigarette leaves its toxic cloud quietly above your face.

Awhile ago, when I seemed to have lost my voice for writing I saw a crappy Sunday afternoon film - one of those made for TV movies firmly rooted in the rom com genre. It had a happy ending of course but it made me cry and cry. I don't know why, maybe the protagonist's loss of both parents, maybe the death of the little girl's father. Whatever the reason I cried for two days - not subtle gentle tears that slide eloquently down the face but loud whooping tears and snot. And then I realised - I had never really cried for Mum or Dad and exhausting and terrifying as it was it was also like lancing a boil. I slept for another two days and felt as if a burden had been lifted.

To reach the sunlight when one suffers from depression is a scary thing, the black clouds are always there at your back." But oh my dears and oh my friends it is a lovely light ",as Edna St Vincent Millais would say of candle light.

It is however transient and I wish I could sit here now and say that all in the garden is roses and buttercups but it isn't. There are days when I want to die and days when all I want to do is lay down in a darkened room and stop this carousel world for a few brief moments of respite. I understand the frustrations of those of you love me - I get frustrated too and long for normality and certitude. Long to find Pollyanna again and be more like the small baba with all her confidence and love." Maybe this time..."

Famous Blue Raincoat

It's four in the morning....

You know that insomnia is one of things we all think we get from time to time when we have a few nights of bad sleep. The real thing is insidious - it marks itself as a kind of frenetic night time energy where the brain keeps going rather like one is on speed. You are tired but there is no gentle lulling to sleep, no snuggling beneath the covers, venting that deep breath before sleep so blissfully comes. Instead you lie there - stiff - feeling every lump in the mattress, cursing every street light. Or, if you are me, you give into it and write or play Farmville or watch The West Wing for the 20th time.

It wasn't always thus; I remember a time when sleep and I were good friends. Night time and bed time were to be looked forward to, to the passive and peaceful ravelling of the day's cares, enjoying "sore nature's bath".

To those of you still, loyally, read this - any ideas - 'cos the pills aren't working and I am so tired, so very tired. I think the four o'clock I will try hot chocolate and lying still in the dark. And pray that the insidious thoughts of failure, despair and homesickness will take a short lived holiday from my brain.

Depression days.

There are days when I wake up cursing that another day has to be got through. I long to put mu head under the covers and pray that the world will go away. It never does! Today is one of those days - even the sight of the sun is depressing - too bright and the sky is too blue.

I know that makes me sound like a moaning Minnie - but to misquote Atticus, "walk around in my shoes for awhile and see what it feels like".

I wonder where this all came from - I think from loss - first Mum , then teaching and then Dad. But sometimes I wonder it it goes deeper still - the menopause and the realisation that I would never have children - the loss of self identity that came from the loss of Calcutta. I know many people lose far more and bear it all far better but some weakness within me crumples with each passing until there is nothing left but darling Emily's 'grey emptiness - despair".

All I know is that each day is harder than the last. Oh, the medication helps - without it I would probably have given up long ago so it keeps me alive. Giving blood helped - something that I could do,

The hardest loss and the hardest fight has been to regain my voice in the blog. The fight with my sister took my autonomy away to say what I felt and it had taken until now to find the courage to write again.

I hope this continues for it is my lifeline to the world - again dear Emily, " and real life is over there/upon that shelf".
There was someone who understood the grey of depression, the melancholy and the lack of desire to take part in the real world. Maybe I should go on a pilgrimage to Amherst and lay flowers like all the other Dickenson junkies.Had sad that I cannot get to my mother's grave to lay flowers there. I relied on my sister to take me.

It seems I have lost my family both through death and life - bored my friends beyond belief for this gets uninteresting fast. It all seems rather lonely and pointless - bur hey, tomorrow might be better - or not.

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The Up Side of being Down

There I was - steeped in misery after a not terribly jolly outing to Basingstoke with the blind neighbour. I had seen two dresses I wanted in Monsoon and then looked at the price tag and realised the only way I was going to get them was through the power of  imagination. Don't worry - the blind neighbour was doing his thing in the blessed pound shop.

So we got home and I lugged my massive bag of veggies - new food routine - fresh and healthy. Mmmm wonder what time Domino's start delivery? More to the point I was in right mump and the doorbell rang.

I trotted downstairs and there was one of my most beloved ex students holding a big brown envelope-  couldn't ask her in 'cos it is a tip at the moment and I have some pride left - not a lot but some.

The blessed girl (Tina) had bought me a copy of Desmond's An Artist's Impression and a news agency photograph of Desmond trying to explain to group of Sherpa that he was looking for the yeti. How kind was that? I really don't deserve the love that I keep being shown. Needless to say my mump turned into a jump for joy. Thank you darling Tina.

And then as I was thinking about her at school it came to  me - all the memories I have of her are happy one. The very first Rock Challenge where she saved our bacon by slotting in her solo dance with two of my little guys as sidekicks. They thought they'd died and gone to heaven. She choreographed part of the next year's dance and we made it to the final. She was in my top set English GCSE group and I loved every lesson I taught them. She got so carried away by Cider with Rosie she made her parents take her to Slad.

Here is something that we can all learn from - her random act of kindness stopped me in my tracks today and made me grateful to been here to see her and to be given such lovely gifts. We never know what affect we will have on others by our behaviour but to be kind can be lifeline. It was for me today - it gave me a reason to live.

Sorry this is going to be one of the depressing one. Haven't been able to sleep until last night when I took two extra pills and finally knocked myself out. Woke up and had no desire to get up and face the day -just seemed overpoweringly difficult.

When the depression is about to hit it circles above your head - rather like a migraine - you know it is coming but there is bugger all you do about it. So it had been with me for the last few weeks. Just waiting to the black dog to strike, the dark clouds to encompass me and they have.

In this phase there is little I can but try and ride it out. I have been for a walk but the anxiety means I walk with shaking legs, too fast and in hurry to regain the safety of the flat. Did  go and see the doctor for my monthly chat took me three times of being sick and was the hardest fifty yards to the bus stop.

I wish I could say that this or that acts a catalyst; they don't. The darkness comes unbidden and unwelcome. Today I will stay in bed with the covers pulled over my head, I don't want to have to find 'bright and cheery' Joanna for she is just an act at times like these.

I'm blogging out of a desperate sense of fear and loneliness - at least if I reach some of you I have made a life affirming contact - I hope. My arms looks like train tracks - no real skin left to hurt. So the easiest thing to do is to roll up sausage like in the bed clothes and count the hours until sleep time.

Love and light to all of you and it you would wish the same thing back it might help.

 xxx

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Black dogs and Grey Skies

Sorry I have not been as prolific as  usual. The latest bout of medication seems to have taken away the need, or indeed the ability to write - so I have stopped it for a couple of days and am gradually beginning to feel things more clearly. It surely is a conundrum - with the meds I am fine, even tempered and respond cow like to even the most alarming events. Without the meds my mood crashes, I cut and feel every slight little thing - but I can write and think. What would you do?

I know my friend Gregg hates the term black dog for depression but it is just that that perches on your shoulder, the weight of and contradiction of hating something you love. Churchill knew his depression well. I would love to talk to him about it - I wonder if the war helped? Or maybe he just had days where to function normally was enough.

It is a strange thing this illness - it creeps upon you like an alley cat seeking food. The signs are there but so discreetly that it is easy to simply see them as oddities. Then WHAM! the sky falls and the black cloud descends and all is grey and foglike. To move is too difficult - to speak too much trouble and anyway what to say? "Bit depressed actually", to which the reply is usually, "Have you been for walk? Done some exercise? Spoken to.....?" Well, yes actually I have - the walk knackered me and I almost fell over when I started to hyperventilate. Exercise???? And I don't want to speak to anyone because it is always the same. I am down and they feel a sense of pity that they try not show.

Thank God at the moment I haven't reached the suicidal stage - it comes in stages. I am indifferent to life but too tired to even think about killing myself- but if I was to die tomorrow I doubt I would be disappointed.

And then there is the eternal dichotomy - I don't want people but I am lonely. What I really want is wake up and find that this has all been a horrid dream and that I am in my old (comfy) bed with Ben and Rosie asleep beside me. That I am not a vulnerable case number any more but just Joanna. Joanna who believed in good over evil, loving life and playing the glad game.

And oh yes - I want a dog! Not fussed if he is black - I can lead him round then.

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View in the Mirror

After finishing yesterday's blog I felt great - as if I had achieved something and yet I really hadn't done anything different. So, being a little self analytical, I had a think about it and realised it marked a change. We see ourselves, to a greater or lesser extent , mirrored in the eyes of others. I f you have been a beloved top brick, as I was, then the lack of a loving reflection can cause a form of psychosis: a breakdown of the self image.

What yesterday's blog taught me was that for every one person that sees me a waste of space, shot away or just a whining pain, there is someone who sees me - the me I used to know. Gregg has messaged me and made me laugh and been so incredibly  thoughtful to someone he hasn't seen for  over thirty years that his constant positive take on things has begun to rub off a bit. Another old friend, who only has a distant memory of a female he used to try and teach Karom to, sends me articles and videos and talks of good things always.


All of my friends have lined up over the last year and provided such support and love. Not just the ones who I have stayed in touch with but those I have been able to find using this interweb thing. It is amazing to me that so many of you keep reminding me that I am loved - that you care enough to do it. I love all of you too and don't say it nearly enough.

I wish I could say that the worst is over - that this disease, mental health issue, whatever has gone. I don't think it has and I don't think it ever will.  That seems to be my journey now - to deal with it and, hardest of all, to live with it. So many of you who have written to me and told me of your journeys speak of learning to accept what we have and deal with it as best we can. You humble me because all I do is howl at the moon and thrash about in an orgy of self pity.


Those of you who don't know what this is like find it uncomfortable when I am too frank but those of you who do recognise the need to try and make people understand. The self harming thing is a physical manifestation of how awful we feel. The worse the cuts and bruises and burns the calmer we become because there is something concrete to show - look I bleed, I bruise, I hurt. Those who don't feel this are appalled - how can you slice your arms with a knife - you can, I can, we can, because in that moment the pain is real and visible and tangible and no longer needs to be explained by the euphemistic, ' bit down' or 'black dog'.

I suppose I am trying to say that I would like you to continue to be understanding or try to and bear with me. It is one hell of a battle and how it ends I don't know  but with your help and love I must stand a better chance than I would alone. If I can continue to see the image that so many of you reflect back at me, if I can try and believe that woman does still exist, then I have a chance.


And those of us who talk of these things in long emails to each other and are afraid to say out loud and in the open how shit it can be - we have each other to reflect in - and we are all worthy of loving and being loved. I can say this because I am in an'up' phase- lets all try and remember it when we are 'down'.

And finally - sorry, it's not a small baba day -  to those of you who say it is all in the mind -yeah we know that thanks - and go for a walk - you go for a bloody walk - and pull yourself together - do you know what? You do not reflect me. You reflect your own issues and they are not mine/ours. Those people who offer kindness and love reflect me because that is what I would offer back.

Trying not to Bronte

I have just been having a read back over the past few weeks and have to apologise for two things - one is my absolutely abysmal proof-reading, really unforgivable for a teacher, and quite honestly the quality of writing and content in the last two. In the words of my fictitious orange lady, they were pretty crap. Being a bit prone to navel gazing at the best of times I had a bit of a think. The proofreading will get better when they write software that can do it for you. I read back what I think I have said not what is on the page so I am sorry,Kathryn, but I will try harder.

The other business is more worrying - we all know it is not great literature but why the decline in quality. Were the first twenty odd just flashes in the pan, some kind of writing therapy, things I needed to say. I remember when I joined Facebook for my very first post I put, 'This is my letter to the world that no-one wants to read," with apologies to my dearest Emily for a bit of plagiarism. But you my darling readers seemingly do want to read my dead leaf thoughts. And then it hit me; in Jane Eyre there is a sentence that takes you from being a passive spectator of the novel to a complicit witness. Jane says,"Reader, I married him." and at that moment Bronte has taken us all to that classic key to great fiction: the willing suspension of disbelief.

When I began I wrote for myself and for a reader who was a composite of people that I love and no longer have in my life. It was something very personal that became very public. And I love to please people so I began to write what I thought they wanted to hear, you wanted to hear. I tried to make you complicit in the writing - to do a Bronte. Incidentally I am not being all academically highbrow about the author's name - can't remember if it was Charlotte of Emily that wrote Jane Eyre so I am trying to fudge it. Just checked, it was Charlotte.

You know it is an oddly liberating feeling to worry through a problem, not necessarily arriving at any great solution, but still forcing the intellect to grind out thought and logic.

Over the last ten days my depression has been almost unbearable. I've tried by writing about Mum and home to exorcise the demons. The blog I wrote about Life and Death, I wept a tear for every key stroke. It would be so much easier if it was self pity,  if I could pull myself together and apply the logical thought process above to my mood.

I think I have to be honest in this writing or why do it? I t may make uncomfortable reading, but,in therapy speak, that is not my issue. So honestly, I want to die. I want to stop existing and to stop pretending that there is anything better to come. When the pain of despair gets so bad I take a brooch pin and rake it over my arms until they bleed, because then, the pain is real and visible. I wish I had the real courage to take the pin or a knife or pills and be done with it. Damned to it. My only attempt was pathetic, enough sleeping pills to knock me out for a day and then I woke up. Another day.

I am now on much stronger medication, it makes me sleepy and weepy and numb - but oh God not numb enough. It will take time, they say. What if it doesn't? What if this is it? That great Jack Nicholson moment in the OCD therapists office, what if this is as good as it gets?

I have nightmares, faceless fears, terrors that have no name yet are more terrifying because of that. I wake in the morning and for a few precious seconds I am back in that place I used to know, where I was loved and felt safe. And then the horror of reality, a day of virtual farming, writing, and waiting for the dark like a hamster spinning on its wheel, round and round, never getting anywhere, never moving form that one spot. And you see, if I was to be writing complicitly with you, my reader, then this is self pity on a grand scale. My side of the bargain is broken - my reader is the composite character, Lochinvar riding ventre a terre to rescue me, someone I love to come and hold me and let me feel safe, loved despite being such a hopeless waste of oxygen and resources.

Oh, I know that - actually scrap that I don't know that I am loved, how can I be, I don't like myself very  much. I said to someone the other day that at least I had a voice: so many people with mental illnesses cannot express the way it is - I can. I think I need almost to bear witness to this to let you know what this black dog is like.

Finally, those of you who will read this and think I must phone her tonight, or send her a message to let her know we care. I do know. Of course I do. But you have your own lives to live, my  depression is not your responsibility, any of you.  The gap between expectation and reality is so far apart it is hard to imagine that it can ever be bridged.

I started with an apology and I end with one. This blog may not be simply gentle memories of a golden time; in fact I think it has to be a place where I can express to the universe how I feel, because there is no other way. Nicely brought up Calcutta girls tend not to say, "Suicidal," when asked how they are feeling.

So, sorry for the misery, sorry for the bad writing of the last two and sorry for not being braver or stronger. Oh yeah, don't worry, this isn't the goodbye note. That would go on much longer and name names.

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Today it begins

I really don't know where to begin - ``I'm a failed 55 year old teacher - feeling a little on the scrap heap and then I thought - It's time to wear purple - for those of you who know it is a reference to to a poem entitled "When I grow very old I shall wear purple"

Rather like "Broadcast News ; "I'm as mad as hell and I'm not going to take it any more.

So to business - I suffer from depression - no, no don't turn off it gets better (not the depression).

I nursed my beloved mother through hideous cancer - lost my job and then tokk in my dad who developed bowel cancer. Nothing you haven't heard before. I had a breakdown - doctor signed me off as too unwell to work. I think he was right - I was sitting in a filthy flat - unabe to choose a tin of soup without crying.

Then with apathy of the drugs and the mindset of that, "grey, emptiness despair" (Emily Dickinson), I managed to get my home repossessed. AsI am sure you can imagine it didn't really help the depression.

Got given an interview with a 'health professional'. Took four Diazepam - threw up thrice but went - guess what? I'm fit to work! Oh Yeah come and take a look on the bad days - the days when I take too many sleeping pills in the hope that I won't wake up. But nobody listens because I am articulate and well spoken and people like me aren't supposed to end up in this situation. BUT WE DO!

Now the good bit - through all of this one thing had shone through - we underestimate the humanity and kindness of people. I have never been so humbled by their unfailing kindness - even a stranger offering a bed for the night