What is it about my brain chemistry that means as soon as the going gets tough, my brain packs up and decides to take a vacation in the Bahamas without me? Here’s hoping that it at least sends me a nice postcard or something.
Yes, my good friend depression is back. Yes, I have been pretending that it isn’t back for a month or so now – having been here before and done this a time or five, I know the signs, but I’ve been ostriching in the vain hope that I was mistaken and that it was all going to go away.
Yeah, so we all know that’s not going to happen, right?
When you go to the doctor to talk about one thing, sit down and burst into tears about something completely different, it’s a good indication that all is not hunky-dory in the world according to Claire Louise Kemp. When the doctor then flat-out orders you off work for a week without you even suggesting it, that’s a good indication that perhaps you are not imagining the situation.
So it’s once more onto the carousel of counsellors and yes/no to anti-depressants and bursting into tears over the stupidist things, and generally being a bitch to my nearest and dearest, whilst pretending that actually all is really well with my world and putting a brave face on it and…
You see, people never know really what to say when you say you’re depressed. “There there, it will all be better soon” is just as irritating as “oh, stop making a fuss, it can’t be that bad” which is about on a par with the blank silence you get from some people, or the forced attempt at normalcy other people prefer to adopt. Which is nothing to knowing that the people who love you most are sitting there chewing their insides out not knowing what to do to help you.
That last is perhaps the worst part about the whole thing. Telling friends and family “here we go again” and watching their faces fall just a little bit. Coupled with the knowledge that zillions have it so much worse so why is it affecting you like this?
I don’t write this for sympathy. Sympathy is one thing guaranteed to have me dissolving into a piteous puddle of tears, and I so don’t look attractive when I cry. I write this because my first reaction with everything is to write it down and see what it looks like on the page. I write this because y’all here in blogland deserve to know what is going on in my delightfully f**ked up head. I write this because why is this part of my life any less blog-worthy than the other random crap that keeps happening to me? I write this because not being honest about things is what tends to get me in trouble in the first place. I have this bad habit of not telling people when things are bugging me, then looking all surprised when everything blows up in our faces, going “you never noticed?”
Plus I always did do my best writing when depressed.
I freely admit I’m doing the British thing of presenting a stiff upper lip to the world and not letting on to what I am really thinking. It’s happening. It’s freaking me out. I’m worried. I’m scared. But I know I will get through this. I wish it wasn’t happening. It would honestly be nice to go for a few months without some different part of me breaking. But having been here before enough times to recognise what’s happening in my head, I know I’ve had it worse. I’ve done the thing I always said I’d do in this situation and asked for help before I started drowning.
Now I just need to be patient while that help does what it does and I need to let my friends and family in past my mile-high walls.
I need to keep writing and I need to keep laughing at the world because the day I don’t glory in how truly bizarre and wonderful our little blue planet is, that is the day you really should panic. See, I’m not that worried about me. A little bit concerned and sorry for myself right now, but not overly worried. I’m scrappy. I’m cute. I’m Cas. No neurochemical glitch is going to stop ME from having fun.
Now if you will excuse me I am off to drink yet another bucket of tea and tuck into the mountainous pile of trashy chick lit I have piled around my bed against just such a situation. Times like this, you need to revisit some old favourites so I think a Georgette Heyer marathon, interspersed with some Jill Mansell for the modern take on things, is just what the doctor ordered when she said “take time to look after yourself”. I might mix in some Wyndham, Asimov, Gibson and Stephenson to stop my brain from pouring out of my ears from an overdose of pink fluff, but we’ll see how it goes.
Love, Cxxx 🙂