Wires

As promised, the piece on depression that I wrote for my personal blog:

Over the past few months it’s become apparent to me that very few people actually know what depression is. I mean, everyone knows the word but these days it’s gleefully chucked around like attention-seeking confetti – how else could you possibly feel when you run out of milk at 5pm on a Sunday or your favourite TV show gets cancelled? Under pressure at work? Cat scratched your sofa up? Got the flu? You must be depressed.

By contrast, when you’ve actually analysed your own mind and realised that yes, yes you really are quite depressed indeed, everyone seems to be incredibly keen to tell you that no, you’re not depressed – you’re just a bit sad. Some bad things have happened to you recently and of course that’d make you unhappy but all you’ve got to do is think positively and everything will be ok. Bizarrely, they’re partly right. But they’re mainly wrong.

So let me tell you what depression isn’t: It’s not being ‘a bit sad’. It’s not moaning about how crap life is and how so-and-so is a bitch and you’re SO unappreciated and listening to angsty music and wearing black clothes. It doesn’t raise its ugly head because of one specific dreadful thing that’s happened and fixing that thing won’t magic the depression away. Reminding a depressive of all the lovely and wonderful things in their life won’t make them suddenly leap up and go “You’re right! I AM lucky! What was I thinking?!” and start skipping through the tulips, singing a jaunty musical number. Depression has very little to do with reality, or rather… it has EVERYTHING to do with reality, just not the reality that other people see.

Depression’s like turning the TV to mute - you see the same things as everyone else but they don’t get in, either to your head or your heart. Nothing seems to mean anything any more. It’s not even really sadness or anger, it’s just… nothingness. Everything loses meaning and hope, conversations seem pointless and scripted, music that previously brought you joy is now just a collection of noises sent to taunt you with the existence of happiness. And nobody else GETS it. Everyone else still hears the music. You're alone. It’s like undergoing an emotional anaesthetic, or having your head wrapped in a thick duvet.

Depression is entirely to do with perspective. Yes, there are families living in shanty towns built on rubbish dumps who are pretty happy most of the time but, on the flipside, there are also millionaires with all the everything a person could ever want who are utterly, utterly depressed. Stephen Fry is the perfect example here – everyone loves him, he’s talented, wealthy, has an exciting life and could pretty much do whatever he wants at any time. Unfortunately, ‘what he wants’ is occasionally ‘to kill himself’.

I can only talk from personal experience here, but for me depression happened because I ignored the warning signs in my own psychology for far too long. Probably decades too long. I won’t go into the gory details right now, but looking back over my life I can clearly see indicators that I was going down the wrong road, not so much in the things I was doing, but the way I was thinking about them (the ‘doing things’ was more of a symptom than a cause). I can see every stupid coping mechanism that I allowed my brain to develop and every bad decision I made as a result that gave strength to them, causing the underlying problems to gain more and more power until I became unable to think in any other way. Re-wire your brain badly enough times and you’ll end up with a mess of cables and a device that just about functions but isn’t exactly efficient and certainly isn’t reliable.

Coming OUT of depression, by contrast, was like waking up from the anaesthetic. Actually, the closest thing I can liken it to is being a little kid lying in bed at night, the moonlight casting shadows across the darkened bedroom, and suddenly… there’s a monster in the room. You can SEE it. The shape of the body, the head, there are definitely eyes… is it MOVING? Yup, there’s definitely something in here. Then you flick on the light and realise that it was just a coat and a stack of CDs or something. That’s what coming out of depression feels like – everything’s exactly the same, you’re just seeing it differently.

It was quite a shock, but not a scary one. Suddenly I was flooded with positive emotions and all the niggly things that had been eating away at me for so long just didn’t have any power any more. They were still there, they just weren’t so important. I think it kind of bothers me that this all happened so quickly. Am I doing it wrong? Does this mean I’m heading for a relapse? Does this happen to other people? I’ve no idea. All I do know is that it’s a huge relief to feel anything at all, and that even if I do end up turning the light back out again, and being back in the room with that monster, at least I’ve had this comfort break in which to gain a little hope and perspective.

I think I know deep down that *I* did this. I made the decision to get better, figured out what the underlying problems were and I did what I needed to do to fix them (despite how pointless and crap it often felt). I re-wired my brain. Does that make me feel empowered? A bit, but it also makes me feel annoyed and a bit guilty that I let the wiring get into that state in the first place. I’m supposed to be clever. I should have known better. But fuck it, it’s done. Onwards and upwards. So long as I’m aware of the specific ways in which my wiring tends to tangle then I should be able to minimise the chances of it getting into too much of a state again in the future.

Oh, and I got that gig I auditioned for. And a few others, actually. Things are looking up, though I’m trying not to focus on that. The wiring’s what’s important.

Dropping the Mask

I’ve been debating whether or not to write this for quite some time now. In my line of work any sign of weakness is seen as a risk, so most actors steer clear of speaking their minds online for fear of losing work. Now, I’ve clearly never been one to shy away from voicing controversial opinions or engaging in public debate, but I also very rarely speak online about what’s really going on in my life – the things that are genuinely troubling me. I suppose it’s only sensible, really. That’s what friends are for, right? Airing your dirty laundry on Facebook or Twitter always seems like it should be accompanied by a flashing neon sign that screams “PAY ATTENTION TO ME!” to every poor sod on your friends list.

Turn that sign off, you dramamonger – it’s hurting our eyes. Oh look, a video of a kitten having a bath! Awwwww…

However, a few things have happened recently that have made me feel like I need to speak up, not for attention or to rock the boat but because there’s an underlying issue here that’s causing people genuine pain. It’s an issue that can only be eliminated by being addressed, and if I don’t speak out then I’m effectively contributing to the problem.

Today is World Mental Health Day. There’s a huge Godzilla-sized stigma attached to the issue of mental health and there’s also a huge amount of misunderstanding on the subject, as beautifully and facepalmingly illustrated by ASDA’s recent ‘Mental Patient’ Halloween costume. Despite having a degree in experimental psychology, I don’t feel qualified to speak on the issue as a whole, but I can speak about my own personal experiences. Too few people do this, I reckon, and it leaves sufferers feeling all isolated and guilty, as if they somehow willingly caused their illness. Enough of this nonsense.

Most of you will at least be vaguely aware that I haven’t been having the best time of things over the past couple of years, but only those closest to me will know what’s really been going on. So… here it is… *deep breath*

Last Easter my mum was diagnosed with terminal lung cancer and from that point on everything just seemed to fall apart, not because of the diagnosis itself but because the resulting stresses brought to light problems that had been bubbling under the surface of my brainbox for years, possibly even decades. My work suffered, my personal life suffered and, as I struggled to cope, I slowly became a person that I didn’t recognise – I was shy, wrought with insecurities and eventually stopped feeling any emotions at all (aside from those constant dickhead companions Fear, Sadness and Anger). All of this, of course, was hidden under the mask of someone who appeared to the outside world to be confident and sorted and, apparently, rather threatening in her levels of self esteem. All lies. Filthy, filthy lies.

When you’re going through badness then the temptation to put on that ‘la-la-la, everything’s fine!’ mask is strong, and it can be a powerful, positive accessory at times. However, when it leads to you standing in the London Underground, seeing an approaching tube train as an entirely rational way of getting the hell out of this reality, perhaps it’s time to drop the mask and seek help. So I did.

I was diagnosed with Clinical Depression and offered pills. I refused them, saying I’d take them as a last resort but I’d much rather fix the underlying problem. Believe me, I had to REALLY push to not just be medicated and sent on my not-so-merry way but eventually I was referred to a therapist, at which point I then had to REALLY push for individual therapy, rather than just being lumped into a group for a short course. I know enough about my own psychology to realise that if I’m put in a room full of people I will instantly slip that actor’s mask back on.

Then began a mind-melting three months of waiting for a therapist to become available. This was the worst part. By the time I got to my first session I was a total mess and ‘Clinical Depression’ was quickly upped to ‘Severe Clinical Depression’. Then the work began. I won’t lie, it was a slog. It still is. I had to actually talk about my feelings and yes, occasionally I cried, and I had tonnes of homework to do… but I’m happy to say (yes, HAPPY! What is this strange new world?!) that the results began to show themselves more quickly than I could possibly have imagined. I’m finally me again and I can’t tell you how incredible that feels. I’m not depressed any more, far from it, but there’s still a long road ahead and it’s one I’m actually rather excited about exploring.

I won’t bore you any further about my stuff here, but I’ll post a link to a piece I wrote about depression for my personal blog, just in case it might help anyone who’s going through something similar. That blog’s a recent thing that I started penning as a way to purge my thoughts during therapy, so please forgive me if it’s a little long-winded and morbid!

Aaaaanyway, there it is. I’ve said it. Feels… good? Ish. Satisfying, at least. One less mask to wear.

In conclusion, try not to judge other people based on your own psychology, be compassionate, don't make assumptions until you've really talked to the person in question, and no matter how dire the situation is, it can be overcome. I know how scary it can be to admit that you need help with this sort of thing but please trust me when I say that it’s not half as scary as it seems. And none of this ‘well, I’m not as bad as so-and-so so I don’t really need to see a doctor’ bollocks. Mental health is all about perspective. If you’re going through a tough time then talk to someone – to a friend, a doctor… fight for your right to really live, not just exist. And for your own sake, don’t blame yourself, or feel guilty for feeling the way you feel. This is just a shit thing that happened – like getting the flu or breaking your leg – and it IS entirely rectifiable.

If you’re going through hell, keep going. But take weaponry. LOTS of weaponry.