A moment in time

I took this photo around eleven years ago. I’d been struggling with depression for a few years, leading me to lose my job. I’d been suicidal, had ups and downs, but been unable to pull myself out of the mire.

I had a wonderful girlfriend, who I’d met through work, and was living with her. She supported me, looked after me selflessly, and let me be a house husband and a step dad to her fantastic son.

But I couldn’t push the darkness away. I felt increasingly worthless and I’m sure some of that came out in my behaviour to her. Worse, I felt the depths returning - whether it was just the fluctuations of my brain chemistry, or the pressure of trying to be the good person I knew I needed to be but felt that I wasn’t.

I began to get terrified that the darkness would engulf me and this time take me, and one day she’d come back from work, having picked the boy up from school, and they’d find me bleeding out on the kitchen floor.

So, instead of trying to fix it, fix myself, I ran away.

I don’t know if she saw if coming, but one day I’d packed a bunch of my stuff into my backpack and waiting for her when she came home. I told her that I had to go away, for all of us, that I felt broken and couldn’t be there any more. I’d done it before but she didn’t let me go. This time she must have know I meant it, or just couldn’t take it any more.

“I’d have done anything for you,” she said.

I croaked out “I know.” I wanted to say but I don’t deserve it, I don’t deserve you but that would have felt like begging to stay, and I really didn’t deserve that.

So I hurt her and the child who had come to see me as his father because I was hurting so much.

The next couple of years are hazy. I probably spent a lot of time laying on the floor trying not to feel anything. Somehow, I stayed alive.

I had a few lucky breaks that came along at times when I was able to take advantage of them. I connected with someone online who became a good friend, a nourishing relationship. I inherited a dog (on the second attempt; my sister had tried to get me to look after one dog that needed a home but I was far too angry with myself to be a good dog dad; the second time I was just up to the task, and the relationship, having to care for this other creature, helped me look after myself).

That lead to another thing. I’d joined a gym with my sister (again, thanks sis!) to try to regain the fitness I’d lost from all that lying around on the floor. We joined together so that we’d be letting someone else down if we didn’t go. She stopped after awhile anyway, but I really got into it (I’d always hated gyms). When I got my dog I thought “well, I walk him two or three times a day and never manage to burn off his crazy terrier energy. I’m sure running outside is just like the treadmill; let’s try that a couple of times a week!”

For the record, running outside is much harder than on a treadmill - especially as where I live “flat” is an alien concept - and I initially hated it. I stuck with it and, after about a month, something clicked. I became a runner, addicted to that endorphin lift and the trails and even the hills. I now run a half marathon at least once a month, have run a full marathon and, since I turn 50 next year, I’ve decided to run a 50k at some point to mark the occasion.

Then another thing cam along. I’d applied for hundreds of jobs and rarely got any response, bottled the few interviews I had because I was so nervous and unsure and afraid. Then one job I applied for gave me a callback. It was an emergency recruitment for a call centre who needed to take on a lot of staff, and didn’t have time for the normal interview process so were doing group assessments. Somehow, I came across as friendly and personable and competent and smart, and was hired on the spot. It was a sales job - inbound at least - but it was a job, and I found I was really good at talking to people on the phone.

Then, within a month of joining I was asked if I wanted to move to a more technical customer facing department. “It’ll be much more complicat-” I barely let my new boss finish the sentence “Christ, yes! Sales is making my brain leak out of my ears!” How had I come t believe in myself so quickly?

Life hasn’t always been easy. I had a couple of relationships that I wasn’t able to commit to. through fear. The depression and anxiety waxes and wanes but has never been as bad as it was eleven years ago when I took this picture.

I feel that I was so lucky. Firstly, that I survived this condition that came so close to killing me, that my sister did so much to help me (and the woman I hurt, and others), that my dog came along a point when I could return his love (he’s still with me and even though he likes to think he has the energy of a pup, his joints mean our outings are limited to walks), that a job fell into my lap and demonstrated that I had skills and intelligence and worth. There have been times I’ve almost been in tears when a customer has thanked me for going out of my way to help them.

I’m with someone else now. It’ll be five years next summer since we met at a comedy club. We don’t live together (partly as she has a cat and I have a crazy terrier) so maybe there’s less pressure, but sometimes I’m still terrified that I’ll hurt her. Early one she told me that she has a good bullshit detector and zero tolerance for it, though, so I count on that instinct.

So, if anyone reading this is going through any stage of the hell that is severe mental illness - as I once read, depression and anxiety together is its own special kind of hell - know that if you hold on things can get better. Unexpectedly, wonderfully, randomly - things can improve. Every day that you make it through is another chance to find light, to find joy, to find yourself.

You owe it to yourself to survive, and to those people who love you, and those people you don’t know yet who will come to love you.

( originally posted as an answer to a question on Quora: https://www.quora.com/What-is-that-one-picture-that-describes-the-lowest-point-in-your-life/answer/Paul-Perry-6 )

The world looks much more frightening through the cracks in the wall

OK, so that was weird.

I had my mental health assessment earlier this morning, a fairly straight-forward phone interview with a perfectly pleasant lass, mostly answering questions on a 0-4 (never, some days, most days, every day) or 0-8 (avoidance and impact of various mental states on various activities), then a more general discussion ahead of a more thorough consult. My throat clamped up a bit and at the end of it I had a little cry - just broaching these things is totes emosh when you've been doing everything possible to avoid it - then I headed out on my bike to do some chores (and clear my head, truth be told). I got back, had lunch and suddenly decided to put on music and do housework.

Before you could say White Winged Dove, I was boogying away to Stevie Nicks (don't you dare judge me) all over the house wielding the vacuum cleaner like I was Freddie Mercury wanting to break free. Cool, I thought, I guess that's just the elation of release, because I'm finally doing something about it. Then Leather and Lace came on. I sang along with Stevie's part and dropped my voice for Don Henley's and suddenly my throat contracted on "Could you ever love a man like me?"

That's it. I was done. I'd fallen from elation to despair in a moment and it was all I could do not to collapse in a heap. I know how I feel about myself, was it that? AM I so fragile? This had never been "our song" with any of my partners, but it did take me back to the time my first relationship, my longest by far, my most painful breakup. Was it every failure since, every time I've run away or sabotaged a relationship before it could - as it inevitably would - end of its own accord?

Or is it just that my emotions are opening up, ever so slightly, after being buried? Is this why I've built this shell around myself, because I'm afraid of truly feeling anything, afraid that I can't control my emotions and they might destroy me as they almost have before.

I need to try to be brave enough to face the world outside, but it takes a lot. Facing it without the shell is all the harder. And if I'm having this much trouble listening to Stevie, who knows when I'll be up to Judie.

Mental health update

I've had my worst day in some time, since my time off work last year. After returning to work on progressive hours to get me back into the flow, I was finding full time too much; the energy it takes to get through the work, of focusing and the performance of dealing with clients and colleagues, of worrying whether I am up to doing this or should even be trying, was just leaving utterly drained. Outside of work I hardly had the energy or inclination to do anything at all.



So, I requested reduced hours, backed by my manager. After initially trying to fob me off with half-hour shorter days, that would have been no help at all, I've gone to a four-day week of normal shifts. I'm only a month and a half in, but I can tell it's helping; the three day break gives me time to recuperate, so it doesn't just feel like a downward spiral from which I'll never recover. I'm beginning to gain the energy to do things out of work, although it takes a hell of a lot of effort.



There are still some really hard days, of course. It's not unusual to have a workday where I feel like I'm struggling early on, where I'm having trouble drowning out the thoughts that I just can't do this and You're fighting an uphill battle that you're going to lose anyway, so why not save the effort? but I push through this and it tends to settle down and I actually end with something of a sense of achievement.



Monday was one of these. Right from the start I knew it was going to be tough; I was having problems focusing and felt outside myself and wanted to give up, but stuck with it until these feeling subsided, and it was a good day. On Tuesday I was fine, hammering away at the coalface and getting lots done. In retrospect, perhaps I was having a little trouble concentrating at times, but that might be entirely post hoc. Suddenly, right after a phone call with a client - which was lovely, no issues at all - it was like being hit by a freight train. The volume level in the office had risen suddenly, as it sometimes does, but it seemed so loud I could hardly breathe. Everyone seemed to be shouting into their phones or across the office to each other. I was having trouble writing up my notes, the world spinning around me. I actually thought I was going to throw up.



I managed to finish my notes and practically sprinted away from my desk. I just needed to be somewhere away, somewhere quiet. I locked myself away in one of the disabled toilets - a room instead of cubicles, and there's nobody in our organisation that would be more inconvenienced by me blocking this than any other loo.



And I couldn't leave. I just had to sit there, on the floor, trying to gather myself. Not even gather my thoughts; when this hits it feels like a tornado in my head, everything whirling around so much that I am aware that thoughts are there but they just flash past like snowflakes, barely visible as individual things, never mind graspable.



I must have been there for 45 minutes, by which time it was lunch so I walked around in the fresh air and winter sun for half an hour, went into Waterstones, although I have no idea what I looked at.



Back at my desk, I was aware I was away from the phones for the rest of the afternoon - admin and casework I could do at my own pace, but I found myself just staring at the screen. I couldn't make sense of anything. Not like I imagine severe dyslexia or alexia is - I could read the words, but just couldn't hold any meaning in my head. What was I meant to be doing?



Even though the office had quieted and it had been almost two hours since I left my desk, I knew I really couldn't do this. The inner voice was right. My manger was away from his desk and the deputy manager seemed in high demand elsewhere - besides, he didn't know about it and I felt suddenly so embarrassed, and didn't feel it was worth troubling him. I just wanted to slip quietly out, but some part of me knew I couldn't so I sent a quick email to the boss - I'm sorry, I'm really struggling today I can't do this. I need to go. I'm sorry - turned off my PC and left.



I jumped on my bike and took a circuitous route home to try to clear my head. I curled up in bed for awhile, in the warm womb-like comfort of the duvet. It was a nice afternoon and I'd thought to go for a run, the rhythm and exertion and serotonin release of running is one of the was I keep going, but I was so tired I could hardly move. I felt drained, probably not more drained than I ever have but that bone-deep weariness which, like severe pain or cold, is difficult to comprehend if you've never felt it or to remember accurately when you have.



This morning I slept through my alarm (although I'd only slept fitfully during the night, I vaguely remember rising enough from slumber to silence my phone) and woke again after 8.30. I'm not sure whether I'd planned on not going in, but that sealed it, so I texted my manager an apology and curled back up, trying to ignore the light of day. Tomorrow would be the last day of my working week, I guess I'll just have to take it as it comes.

screaming

I've always fought against fear, fear of failure and pain. Fighting to try and overcome the knowledge that failure is inevitable and that any success or happiness is just putting off the time when things will come crashing down, and make the crash all the worse.


I try. I try to be positive and try to work hard and try, most importantly, to be a good person but that just ends up throwing into starker relief that I can't do these things. I thought it was getting easier - or, at least, less phenomenally, impossibly difficult. There was always the fear hanging over my of slipping back to the time when surviving each day didn't feel like any sort of victory, but just left me with the crushing weight that I'd have to try to do it again and again, pushing the rock up the hill only to have it roll to the bottom again,knowing that one day I'd not be strong enough and the rock would squash me.


Perhaps it should be relief of sorts to be back there. one less thing to be afraid of. But it isn't.

adrift again

I haven't made one of these pathetic posts in some time.



I'd been in a bad way and sought help. I went to my GP in December and told him how bad I'd been, that I'd been suicidal and was frightened. He was as good as ever, made sure I didn't seem an immediate risk to myself and referred me to the local mental health service. Even though it took them ages to respond (I actually had another appointment with my GP and he was furious they hadn't arranged an an assessment, other than to check again that I wasn't in imminent danger from myself and to give me contact phone numbers), I'd been okay. I think that, having asked for help had been a kind of therapy in itself, knowing I was n the first step and the future looking brighter, actually being able to see a future beyond this thing.



I had my assessment last week, the day after my 45th birthday.



It wasn't helpful. I thought I expressed fairly well the problems I was having, but I obviously failed. I told the mental health worker about my suicidal ideation, how I'd been better for the last four months since I asked for help but how frightened I was that if I slipped I'd slip all the way. I tried to tell him about my background, about the problems I'd been having, about how disconnected and stressed and hopeless I'd been feeling, about how guilty and ashamed I feel all the time, but I guess I didn't express it very well. Perhaps I came across as calm and articulate and was hoping for him to read between the lines and I was asking too much. Or perhaps I'm not worth helping.



I know, intellectually, that this is a stupid, self-regarding thing to think but as I typed it my throat tightened unbearably and tears pricked my eyes. I know its a cry for help, and we in our culture differentiate between 'actual' suicide attempts and 'cries for help'. But if someone is crying for help, surely that is because they need help? and, anyway, I don't think it's as clearly delineated as that. There's the idea of letting fate take a hand. While I profess to not believe in fate sometimes I am quite happy to leave my life in its hands; for a while I made a habit of accelerating down a steep hill on my bike and closing my eyes, but came to my senses (or chickened out) before a fateful impact. The same idea surrounds the 'cry for help'. If I cry and nobody responds, then it proves I am not worth saving.



So I feel adrift, as though I've realised that the lifeline to which I was clinging is held by nothing but seaweed. So far there are a few things staying my hand, other than plain cowardice. The potential indignity of failure in even this. Not wanting to inflict pain on my friends and relatives, or trauma on anyone who has to clean up the mess. My son. But I know I stand on a balance and that the guilt that keeps me here can easily slide over to the other side of the scales. I don't know how many times I can hit the low point before I break through.

The Spiral

It has been said that depression is a selfish illness, and this is true. It is a condition that causes the sufferer to fold in on themself, to shun the outside world more and more, to be concerned only about their inner thoughts - as much as they are concerned with anything.


My own particular flavour (although not unique, of course) is an especially piquant blend of depression and anxiety. As I someone put it recently, “Depression is not being able to care about anything and anxiety is caring too much about everything; having both at the same time is hell.” (I wish I could find who wrote that as it deserves attribution). Those of us  so afflicted are buffeted by constant doubt about everything - double guessing every deed, every word - paralysed by both the appalling, deathly lethargy of depression and the terror of the consequences of our own actions. All compounded by the knowledge that we are (I am) utterly worthless, that we probably deserve to feel this way and suffer all that comes with it; part of the reason it is so easy to become isolated is that we know we aren’t fit for human company.


(Even writing that I have to fight the idea that anyone reading it will think how pathetic it is, this blatant attempt to garner pity - or, worse yet, actually pity me, or feel for me; it is made easier by the thought that nobody will probably read it. Welcome down the rabbit hole that almost every single thought leads. Imagine that, constantly, endlessly, not being able to escape that).


About that selfishness; much of it seems to be caused by an over-abundance of empathy. Not just the worry about how my words and actions will be interpreted, but how they will affect others. But it isn’t just  the big things; EVERYTHING has to be weighed for its consequences, on whether it is the right / best / optimal / moral thing to do. I am crushed beneath the paving stones of good intentions.


And the more we care about someone, they more important they are to us, the harder it is. The effects are magnified, the potential harm all the greater. The knowledge that I can only hurt them by my actions and, if they are around long enough, finally I will hurt them by my exit, on that day when I ask myself “why not?” and can’t come up with a good enough answer. And this is further exacerbated by the Groucho Effect: why would I want to belong to a club that would admit someone like me? So people who do insist on getting close to us become tarnished by the illness. I mean, what are they thinking? If their judgement is so poor that they want to be around me maybe they deserve it. Which is, of course, just an excuse to chase them away, something else to to beat myself up about. Another failure to cling to, to define myself by.

It's become a pattern

How do I do this? I keep falling in love - or think I've fallen in love. I make promises, overt or implied and, even though I say "don't get too close, I'm damaged, I can't do this, I'll hurt you", I let her get close and then I fuck it up and hurt her.


It's become a pattern. I need to stop, but how? I tell myself loneliness is easier, safer for everybody, but I am so afraid of being alone - and so afraid of being with someone. I was with someone for so long, for half my life, and when it ended it tore me apart. I don't know if I can survive that again, but why can't I just stay away from the risk? Stay safe. Stop hurting other people and opening my own wounds.

The closed door

I’m currently in a state where I think about suicide most days. There are many days wherein I actively consider it (and I know many of the people reading this will recognise the difference); days where I hold the concept of ending my life in my hand to view it, more or less dispassionately, considering how viable an option it is.


I am not afraid of death. While many things will happen after I die, I am pretty certain that none of them will involve me. There are, of course, downsides to this course of action; it negates the possibility of improvement. The worry of the transition - the pain of the razor biting into my wrists, the panic and evacuation as the cord tightens around my neck, perhaps the few seconds of acceleration from the high roof will be stretched to an eternity by adrenaline - but these would be fleeting. The main concern is the effect on those who care for me. My friends, my sister. My son. A man now, almost 24, what effect would it have on him? A child should bury their parents, that is the natural order of things, but it hurts so much - and how much more so should that loss be at their own hand? (My mother was taken by lung cancer and, while that was caused by her habituation to cigarettes, I never blamed her for it). My father; no parent should have to bury their child, though I know millions do.


In a way this is encouraging, the fact that these things are of concern to me; there have been times in the past when they have attenuated to the thinnest thread of connection, when that particular mix of pain and numbness has meant that I have considered that any pain of losing me would be outweighed by the pain my continued existence would cause. Times when I have held that concept of ending in my hand and nodded, have stood on the brink of accepting it, seeing it as a gift (fortunately I live in a country that disallows access to firearms, or the simplicity of placing that steel barrel in my mouth or under my chin, angling it upward toward the seat of my consciousness and having to only argue against or distract my survival instinct for that brief moment to allow me to squeeze the trigger; had I not, I doubt very much I would be here, now, writing these words).


So I will continue. The spectre will be kept at bay by distraction, by company and the solitude of reading, by the endorphin rush of running, by the distraction of TV, by the regularity of the day-to-day, of work and shopping and cleaning. And, hopefully, I will rise from this dip to a point where I can forget awhile that door that I know how to open, that I can step through and end all worry and speculation. Although I think that, once you are aware of that door, and have acknowledged that it is unlocked, its possibility, its promise, can never be forgotten.

entropy

I don’t quite believe how long it has taken me to make this connection, but I guess that is part of the pathology.

I’ve hit a dip. From feeling quite well I’ve suddenly plummeted, for no good reason I can place. Dropped so deep I’ve been ideating suicide, at least as an image, as a thing to hold and observe dispassionately. As a concept worthy of consideration.

But then I’ve also done something else that hasn’t happened in quite some time. While walking I’ve just found myself coming to a stop, slowing and ceasing like clockwork winding down, and standing there until I realise I need to make the effort to start moving. This has, as I suggest, happened before - but the realisation is that this is precisely the effect of severe depression; the weight of it makes me grind to a halt while the world around me continues to move, and the stress caused by this disconnect builds until it becomes something I cannot bear.

If you haven’t experienced it I must emphasise that this is no metaphor; in neither the physical nor mental case am I deliberately stopping, the energy to continue just seems to evaporate until some part of me kicks in to keep me moving. But what will happen when that energy isn’t there?

Descent

I’ve been signed off sick for just over a month. Every time I get that two-weeks certificate it makes me feel more like a fraud and a failure. But I’d thought I was getting there. I’d contacted my manager when I sent in my last note earlier this week to say i wanted to arrange my provisional return to work when it ran out, but then this week I’ve just collapsed. i don’t know why, but I feel like I’ve been sideswiped into a deep, dark ditch. I feel like I’m back to where I was three or four years ago in the bleak depths of my depression, and I have no idea why.

I can hardly look at myself in a mirror, barely able to meet the gaze of the hateful monster that stares back at me. Being around people is worse, because they are all mirrors - and people who know me and care about me the worst, because the reflection is distorted by their expectations, however benevolent, however kind. (I know; it is my perception of their expectations that is the problem, making it triply distorted).

I’d come so far. After crashing and burning I’d slowly rebuilt my life and it feels as though everything is crumbling to dust again.

Reports of my demise, etc

So, I’m still here. Obviously.

Still a struggle, of course. I’ve not felt this low in years. I just realised that this morning, I’m back to the time when I genuinely feel lucky to have made it through the day. The hardest part is that, while that should feel like an achievement, feel like a victory, it doesn’t, because I know I’ll have to do it all again, day after day, and I don’t think I’m strong enough. I know I’m not strong enough, or I wouldn’t be in this mess. So maybe I should just bow to the inevitable and give in. Take that easy way out. I know it’s there, I’ve opened that door before and stood on the threshold looking through into the inviting, terrifying darkness beyond and, once you’ve opened that door you can’t forget that it’s there.

Things are slightly simpler now. I’ve broken up with my girlfriend so I only have myself to worry about. Selfish, I know. That was making it so difficult, though, like it has before. The worry that I’ll be dragging someone else down with me making the spiral worse. That tendency to isolation that I’ve mentioned before; drive people away to make things simpler, hurt them now so they don’t get hurt later, because if they want to be around me their judgement obviously can’t be trusted anyway.

I’ve thought I was better for so long, but I guess I’m just not able to cope with stress. The stress of a relationship, of work when it gets difficult - and my job is relentless at the moment. At least I don’t have the immediate stress of poverty as I did before, although there is the worry of what will happen if I become completely unable to cope with work. I’ve almost had to walk out - or run out, screaming - several times in recent weeks, and the sickness benefits of this job are a lot less generous than those I’ve had before and, should it go beyond that, the benefits system a hell of a lot less forgiving.

So I guess I’ll continue on as best I can.

I don't know if I can do this anymore

I don't know if I can do this.


OK, background. After a massive breakdown some years ago I was a wreck. After losing my partner of sixteen years and my job I was on benefits for years, trying to hold myself together and generally being a fuck up. I hurt people, people who tried to help me, to love me.


Then things started t come together. Some friendships and getting an exercise regimen sorted and getting a dog - all things that only months or even weeks before wouldn't have been possible, but fell into place at a time I could handle them. Then I got back into work and a relationship. I was normal again.


It felt great. Having a job is the best therapy, it really is; it gives you self worth and self respect and all that shit - and I was able to not only  start paying off my debts but actually afford stuff, going out and buying things! I started socialising and stuff; it was a transformation.


The relationship started soon after, possible helped by my new-found confidence. A steady courtship with an old flame lead to more, and it was wonderful.


But two years down the line things are starting to fall apart. In recent months the job has become increasingly stressful and I feel that I am floundering. I just don't know if I can cope; I regularly consider calling in sick or even leaving part way through the day. I feel incompetent. And cracks have been apparent in the relationship for some time. I don't know if this is where I want to be. Am I in love, or wanting to be in love, or pretending that I'm in love? I'm just going to hurt someone else who has trusted me.


Part of it is that I feel I have lost myself. In the years of rebuilding myself I had been writing - I'm not sure it was any good but I've been doing it and getting better at it - and taken up photography, at which I'd think I had become quite decent. But in the last two years I've hardly done these. The focus on the 'important stuff' has left little energy fr anything else.


The only thing that is consistently better is my fitness. I took up running (in my forties!) and run 40-50 km a week, a half marathon most months, and am aiming for a marathon in October. This is an accomplishment, yes - but it is also my drug, being able to ignore everything else and exult in the focus and muscle ache and endorphin rush. So I recognise that this, as much as it keeps me close to sanity, is my drug. Along with alcohol.


So I shall probably plug away, keep on going and hope I come out of the other side. Ignore the stress and the worry and the crying and the booze and the ideation (imaging the the cold bite of steel in my wrists or closing my eyes while I cycle to work and letting chance decide my fate). Because I don't know what else to do.

I’ve come to the conclusion that the main problem with depression is the isolation. At least, this is the issues with my depression, but I’m not sure that it is a universal. Perhaps all happy people are the same but all depressed ones unique.

It seems to stem from the complete lack of self worth. If I do not value myself then why would I expect others to? If friends go a time without contacting me this is to be expected, because why would they want to spend time with me? I don’t mean this to sound self-pitying, as though I am sunk in some fug of feeling sorry for myself (although this does happen, on occasion), it is just a self-evident mindset, an obvious state of the world that i accept and love with. So I am (I believe) less likely to go out of my way to contact people, to arrange nights out or get-together, to pick the phone and say hi and shoot the breeze. It doesn’t take long for this to become a self-reinforcing mechanism.

And it can be more damaging than that. It can lead to the Groucho effect; why would I want to be a member of a club that would have someone like me as a member? Surely there is something wrong with people who do want to spend time with you. So you chase people away, pick arguments where there are none - which, of course, is made all the easier by the fact that everyone has their own insecurities. Of course, this manifests itself with those we are closest to; not only are they obviously even more deluded than anyone else, we are just going to end up hurting them anyway. It’s what happens. We fuck up and hurt people and make the world a worse place by our very existence, so perhaps the best course of action is to drive them away early on. Take that minor annoyance or disagreement and build it up, in your own mind, into a major issue that justifies the short-term hurt. Yes, I will have to live with it forever but I’m a freak and I deserve it; I’m sure they’re a normal person who will get over it and, anyway, I’d have hurt them eventually.

The breakdown

My breakdown happened over an extended period. I guess this is the way it usually is, although it’s usually portrayed as a sudden snap, and some of it felt like that.

I know I’ve always been prone to depression. I’ve been of a melancholy disposition from childhood, had insomnia since I was eight or nine, and had a couple of minor episodes, but the break really started when my relationship collapsed. It wasn’t just that; I was in an incredibly stressful work situation at the same time, and I’m sure this contributed to the break up. We’d been together maybe 15 years, since we were both children really. Our son was born early on, well before either of us was ready for that responsibility, but we weathered that and were stronger for getting through those difficulties. After a decade and half, though, we had drifted apart. I had seen it coming for some time and just didn’t know what to do about it. Part of me just accepted that this was what happened; I’d seen it in my own family - my parents and and grandparents and aunts and uncles, my older sister. Relationships ended. It was inevitable.

But when she ended it my world shattered. She had been my life, my lover and my best friend, for so long. We didn’t do everything together, but shared so much - music and books, similar geeky tastes; we fit together. Too late I tried to argue that we should make it work, but neither of us could or would. My son was now about the same age as I was when my parents divorced, which saddled me with a mixed feeling of fate and crippling guilt that I had failed him.

A few months later I met someone else, and thought it only polite to tell my ex. We’d remained on friendly terms since I moved out, and I’d rather she find out from me that someone else. She responded with pain and anger, suddenly deciding that she had made a terrible mistake and that we should get back together. I was torn in two. Part of me yearned to go back to how things were, but I’d made commitments to this new woman and, besides, how could I trust Mel? She had already torn a hole in my chest that was still seeping rich red blood.

That night is etched into my memory. Mel had called me, asked me to go to see her, told me she needed help. I went over, to the house we had shared, and she tried to talk me into going back to her. I couldn’t, I told her, it was too late, too much. We talked in circles for hours, and I realised it was going nowhere so said I was leaving. “Please,” she said. “Please don’t go. If you leave I’ll kill myself.”

I remember this pressure building in my head, my thoughts speeding up. I love you but I can’t trust you I want us to go back to how we were but I am so scared but I want you but I can’t decide it’s too hard do you really mean that? how dare you say that I don’t want to hurt you I don’t want to lose you I have to leave I can’t leave what can I do? what should I do?

And something snapped, like a piece of metal suddenly reaching it’s stress point. I sat down and I could feel my eyes darting around, trying to find something to focus on, and suddenly Mel wasn’t cajoling or threatening any more. She was worried and scared and asking if I was alright. And I wasn’t alright. I must have begun to behave more rationally at some point, but I can’t really remember much after that. I convinced her I was okay and got back to where I was staying, but something had broken and I just papered over the chasm.

The next break was some time later. That is the only measure I can use; I really have no idea how long, but it was a good while. Work was still stressful, probably worse, the constant threat of redundancy and morale through the floor. I was cycling into work and the closer I got the more I could feel this pressure building inside me, constricting my breathing and making my brain feel like it would burst from my eye sockets. I rode past work and powered up the hill, the release of pressure pushing me along. I had no idea where I was going but just needed to get away. Yes, get away; the countryside. The Peak District, that glorious green swathe where I had spent so much time breathing the clean air and solitude.

I couple of hours in I realised I should call work. I got through to my manager and recall a surreal conversation.

“Hi. Sorry, but I can’t come in. I’m.. not well. I tried but it was too hard. I’m sorry for letting you down.”

“Paul? Are you okay? Where are you?”

“No. Not really.”

“Where are you, Paul?”

“I’m on my bike. I’m sorry. I don’t know, I just started riding. It’s beautiful out here.”

“Paul?” Getting more agitated. “Paul, where are you? Can someone come and get you?”

“I’m sorry. I don’t think I can come back. There’re a couple of finches flying along the hedge beside me, dancing around each other in the sunlight. It’s amazing, almost like they’re showing off to me, but they’re probably not even aware I’m here.”

“Paul,” (I’m aware she sounds scared now and is trying to sound calm, but it doesn’t really register) “Let me help you, tell me where you are and I..”

“I’m sorry. I’m sorry. Look, don’t worry. You take care. Good bye.”

I ended up by one of the many reservoirs that pepper the area, providing water for Sheffield and Barnsley and Rotherham and Chesterfield on this side of the Pennines and Manchester on the other. I stood for I don’t know how long, seriously contemplating chaining myself to my bike and jumping in, trying to come up with reasons why I shouldn’t. The fact that I was always able to ask that question, to consider the possibility that there might be reasons to remain, means I never hit bottom. I know there are many people who didn’t have the strength to do that, and it is nothing but luck that I did. this wasn’t the only time I was that close and I can never forget how it felt to stand so close to that line.

It’s strange, all these years later I can  sometimes take the memory of that feeling out - the urge to give in and allow myself the peace of not having to worry any more, to be able to stop fighting and simply be enfolded in the warm embrace of nothingness - and hold it in my hand, hold it up for an almost dispassionate contemplation. But knowing that it is there, having stood at that doorway with my hand on the latch, I know that the door is unlocked and that to open it is an option. Knowing this scares me but, perhaps, it will only become a problem if it no longer does.

I tell her that I love her but I don't know if I'm lying.

I tell her that I love her but I don't know if I'm lying.

I just don't know. I look at myself in the mirror and vaguely recognise the face, but have no insight to the workings inside the head. How crazy is that? I guess being able to look in a mirror without wanting to smash it is an improvement.

When my mind broke it was like a whirlwind inside my head. I knew that I was millimetres away from it tearing me apart so stayed in the calm centre. I could feel the maelstrom swirling, barely outside the border of my skin and that I had to stay as still as possible to avoid being caught up in it. That storm was also inside my head; its violence was the tumult of thoughts I couldn't deal with so I blocked them off and refused to acknowledge them. So I shut off so much of myself to survive.

I've felt like a more-or-less functioning human being for a couple of years now - I rebuilt relationships, managed to get a job - but I don't know if that part of me I shut off is still there or, if it is, if I can still access it. I feel like I'm going through the motions. I don't know if I can cope with the stress of work, the demands and complexity of being with someone. The desire to let go is welcoming and terrifying.