The D-Word

Depression is a funny thing.

They say there are only two types of joke, and one of them is “something unexpected happens”. You can quite happily be bowling along, minding your own business, actually doing pretty ok at this whole “life” lark - and then, out of nowhere, you’re floored by a completely unexpected, illogical, inexplicable wave of feeling. Often as not, it will have absolutely nothing to do with the context - “ah, a delightful sunny day? The perfect reminder that I’m worthless scum that’ll never amount to anything!”. Just as often, it will be a laughably nonsensical interpretation of evidence - “my dear lifelong friend who likes and respects me obviously just asked to hang out because she feels pathetically sorry for me”. Let me say this once again, just to be perfectly clear - depression makes no sense. And yet it has the power, unchecked, to utterly overwhelm any other emotions you might be feeling, no matter how illogical you know it to be.

Depression is a funny thing. They say there are only two types of joke, and one of them is “someone, who isn’t you, gets hurt”. There’s a bizarre sense of detachment that comes along with these feelings. You can sit outside of it, and observe it, and poke it experimentally, and lock it away, and let that part of your brain rage and scream and cry and die a little.

People associate depression with Black Dogs.

I don’t know why.

Dogs are awesome.

Depression is a funny thing. They say that if you look long and hard enough at the thought processes that it both causes and is reinforced by, the only reasonable reaction is either to laugh or to despair. The “logical” leaps (and I use that term loosely) involved are often almost laughably tenuous, if they exist at all.

Depression is a funny thing. They say that explaining a joke is like dissecting a frog - you might well learn something about it, but it’s dead before you start. Now, to segue a little (stay with me here), I’m a Scientist (man). I might not do what most people would call science any more, but I believe in Science. If I could be said to have any unshakeable faiths, it would be those that underpin the scientific method - not least, that sufficiently-careful observations can be faithfully recorded, communicated, replicated, tested, and understood. (I also have a pretty good hunch that the Universe predominantly obeys smooth-function laws, but that’s neither here nor there in this case).

And yet one of the funny things about Depression is that it convinces you that (with apologies for the melodrama) no-one would understand, or care, if you tried to communicate to them how you feel. This is a “fact” that I know to be false - numerous amazing, kindly people have made it inordinately clear, in word and deed, that they are happy and willing to listen, and that they are profoundly capable of understanding and sympathizing. And yet for far too long I've taken the quintessentially-British, "stiff upper lip" approach of buttoning down my reactions and soldiering on alone.

Depression is a funny thing. Because it’s also a big, scary, intimidating, threatening thing, and the only way I’ve ever known to deal with serious threats is to make fun of them. But it’s about time I started dealing with it instead.

For a very long time, I resisted calling myself “depressed”. I still do. In my mind, people who suffer from depression have it worse than I do. I might feel a bit crap from time to time, sure, but I can’t be really depressed, right? Because that’s a real condition with real physiological symptoms, and I’m just some whiny middle-class brat making a fuss over nothing.

Turns out that asking for help is not cowardice, and admitting that something is hurting isn’t weakness. Turns out that, while I may not have it so bad as some, I also have it worse than others, and (contrary to what I may often believe) I deserve to feel not-awful. Turns out that people have been suffering from these problems for years, decades, centuries (“you are not a beautiful and unique snowflake”), and have developed strategies to beat them. And they work. Not instantaneously, not uniformly, not flawlessly. But, by and large, they work. And I wouldn’t in good conscience be able to call myself a Scientist if I didn’t at least try to take some observations, make predictions, and develop a modicum of control of this system.

I still feel uncomfortable calling myself “depressed”, since I feel like that’s a word for a medical condition that, like “OCD”, “Schizophrenia”, or many others, has been co-opted by drama-loving teens who need a, like, totally out there way to describe commonplace emotions. But I’ve come to terms with the fact that I can’t just keep suppressing my emotions, and with that I’ve started to actually do something about feeling better. It’s slow, but it’s working. Thank you to everyone who’s helped me this far (you have, whether you know it or not), and apologies in advance for when I inevitably falter. I’m trying hard, I promise, and I’m going to get back on the horse. (Or, in other words, this)

Depression is a funny thing. They say that, if you’re honest with yourself, lean on your friends when you need to, and work hard at it, you can learn ways to live happily and productively in spite of it. If you think I'm going to let depression get the better of me, the joke’s on you.