I’m a glass half empty kind of person. I wish I wasn’t – but isn’t that exactly what a pessimist like me would say?
When I was a child, people tended to say that I was ‘a bit serious’ and ‘a worrier’. Anxiety was a big problem for me: I didn’t sleep for days at a time because I was convinced the police were coming to get me for some minor misdemeanour like knocking a drink over (my understanding of the judicial system was not strong when I was 5) and when the bodies of Holly Wells and Jessica Chapman were found in 2002, 9-year-old me obsessed over her inevitable brutal murder because “I’m getting to the age where that kind of thing just happens and there’s nothing anyone can do about it.”
(Apparently I actually said that. I’m a barrel of laughs now though, I swear.)
In my early-teens, anxiety gave way to what we could now call depression but at the time we called puberty (and perhaps it partly was, who can say? Puberty is no picnic). Going through a depressive episode felt like a huge black void had opened inside my chest and I knew with absolute clarity that nothing was ok and nothing would ever be ok and something very bad was going to happen and everyone was going to leave me and I was entirely alone and unloved and stupid and everything was my fault and I didn’t deserve to be there and the world would be better off without me.
Yes, I listened to My Chemical Romance, and yes, I had an outrageous side fringe. How did you guess?
There are loads of different types of depression, probably as many types as there are sufferers (around 300 million, according to the WHO).[1]My particular cocktail involves a base of low mood (I heard Adele once say that she had a ‘tendency towards sadness’ and I feel as though that describes me quite well too) with bouts of severe depression usually triggered by outside events, and a sprinkling of anxiety just for good measure.
I was experiencing probably the worst depressive episode of my life in early 2019 due to the fact that several aspects of my life – namely my career, relationship, living situation, physical health, self-esteem and bank balance – were in less than ideal states, to put it lightly. It was also winter in London, so it was dark and rainy all the time. Despite my very best efforts, I was facing setback after setback while my friends seemed to be Living their Best Lives. Slowly, I stopped being able to see the value in anything and nothing felt worth doing. I stopped playing netball. I stopped seeing my friends. I stopped cooking and exercising. I stopped being able to concentrate on books, TV shows and podcasts. I started arriving at work half an hour, an hour, an hour and a half late. I stopped showering. What was the point? I’d only have to do it all again the next day.
Ah, hello darkness my old friend.
The first time I was officially diagnosed as depressed and prescribed antidepressants in 2013, I was 19. I took the prescription home and hid it between the pages of a textbook that I never used. I was embarrassed and ashamed. I told myself that I was ‘mental’ and that nobody would love me if they found out I was crazy. I didn’t tell anyone about the diagnosis or the prescription.
I was also afraid; depressive episodes are horrible and I wanted to stop feeling that way, but on the other hand, I couldn’t tell which bits were depression and which bits were just my personality – as I mentioned, I justam a bit of a melancholy person. I don’t even really dislike that quality in myself; I think it means that I really do appreciate good things when they happen, makes me more empathetic, makes me more easily moved by art, music and books, and gives me my dark sense of humour. These are aspects of my personality that I have built my identity on, things that I like about myself, things my friends like about me. I was worried that taking pills to stop me feeling depressed would stop me being me. I’m ashamed to say this, but the ‘tortured genius’ stereotype and the romanisation of mental illnesses did me no favours – I also thought that if I cheered up, I’d lose my talent as a writer and I would no longer be an interesting person.
Over the next 6 years, various GPs kept prescribing me antidepressants and I kept not taking them. I had some therapy, which helped, and several courses of CBT, which didn’t.[2]But at the beginning of this year, I was desperate; I’d never felt so desolate before and I was prepared to try anything.
My GP was lovely and we got along really well. She prescribed 50mg of Sertraline daily and I started taking the pills. I had some weird side effects – I couldn’t sleep and my jaw kept clenching of its own accord, but those subsided after a week or so. And then…
Nothing happened.
Still nothing happened.
Then a bit more nothing happened.
Then I noticed that I felt infinitesimally better. Yes, everything was still shit, and yes, I hated myself, my life and most things in it, but a tiny weeny microscopic bit less than last week. I still felt exhausted, sad and apathetic – but the feeling was fading slightly, like it was going out of focus. Before, depression had felt like a thick black fog, smothering me, weighing me down, obscuring my vision and my ability to breathe and function like a normal person. Gradually, I felt the fog reduce to grey clouds – still very much there, but smaller and easier to deal with.
I didn’t lose my talent as a writer – in fact, I started to write more, which wasn’t difficult as I hadn’t been writing at all (or doing anything else) when I was really depressed. I didn’t become less interesting or lose my personality – I probably gained more of a personality because I started engaging with the world again. I found it easier to get out of bed in the morning and do things that made me happy. I started playing netball again and when my team won the league (more in spite of me than because of me, it has to be said), I could hear the little voice of depression telling me – this is dumb, it’s just a friendly league that nobody cares about, adult women running around a court after a ball is pathetic and pointless – but I didn’t listen to it. I sent a picture of my medal to the family group whatsapp chat instead.
What I am trying to say is that if you’re suffering, please don’t be ashamed or afraid to take steps to help yourself recover. You are not your mental illness, and medication won’t change who you are – it will bring you back to yourself. Whether or not to take medication is a highly personal decision and it may not be the right solution for you. I thought it wasn’t right for me, but really it was just stigma and embarrassment that stopped me taking the medication which has ultimately given me the energy to make my life worth living again. The pills won’t do that for you, but they might tone down the apathy in your brain just enough to enable you to do it yourself.
As a wise band once sang, “Don't you know it's true what they say / That life, it ain’t easy / But your time's coming around / So don't you stop tryin’.”
You can do it.
[2]I should add that this was just my experience and loads of people find CBT super helpful so PLEASE don’t be put off by me if you’re considering trying it out.