This is the first time I’ve made this admission in a
public arena: I have depression. This is unlikely to come as a great surprise to
anyone who has followed the belligerent narcissism of this blog and my various
self-pitying social media updates. It’s this that has made me realise that not
talking about it is, well... dumb. I’ve been on antidepressants for around a
year now, and this is a brief account of my experiences.
It's going to be a laugh riot
It’s actually my belief that I’ve had depression for a great
many years. My fierce self-loathing began in adolescence, shortly followed by
bouts of unexplained lugubriousness. I noticed my once extroverted personality
slowly but surely turning in on itself. But for a number of reasons I refused
to admit it. In part this was arrogance – I’ve grown up with people who have
suffered tremendously from depression, and I wanted to believe that I was
stronger than them. I also didn’t want to burden my mother. The last thing she
needed was another child with depression.
My tactic for a number of years was to rationalise the
problem by blaming it on being overweight, being single, being prone to locking
myself out of the house at inopportune times. These (increasingly less
rational) excuses were gradually whittled away. I lost weight, yet still
baulked at my own reflection. I felt just as hopeless during my brief
relationships as when I was alone. I even managed to remember my keys on a
day-to-day basis. The depression didn’t disappear. Finally I had to admit to
myself that there was no answer. It was an illness.
The doctor prescribed 20mg of Citalopram daily. For a second
opinion I turned to Dr. Wikipedia for potential adverse effects. Citalopram can
cause, amongst a rather startlingly long list of ailments, sleeplessness (and,
conversely, extreme drowsiness), vivid dreaming, weight changes, emotional
flattening, and loss of sex drive. After a year I can grudgingly confirm that I’ve
experienced, in one way or another, every single one of these.
Sometimes all at once
When I settle into bed it takes around 2 hours to get to
sleep. Once I’m away I experience vivid nightmares that commonly involve all my
teeth falling out or shitting myself in a public place (once, all my teeth fell
out, and then I shat on them). I’ve written previously about my sustained state
of emotional apathy, and, for a man of my age, my sex drive is equivalent to
that of a gelded fruit fly.
Amongst all this fun it was difficult to discern any
positive effect. I saw the doctor only once every few months for five minute
appointments. Depression is determined by a short questionnaire, asking about
your sleep patterns, propensity to slam your head under the toilet seat just to
feel alive, etc. You assign a number to each based on your feelings and
experiences. Your total reveals if you’re depressed. It’s frankly unsettling to
have your mental state evaluated by the equivalent of a women’s glossy magazine’s
compatibility test. I wasn’t sure if I was depressed or if I should marry a
Virgo.
So I quit.
With typical masculine medicinal flippancy, I waved off any
warnings about withdrawal symptoms. What could possibly go wrong when going
cold turkey from prescription strength mood-altering drugs?
Within two days I was suffering severe headaches. I brushed
them blindly aside, until shortly thereafter I started getting what aficionados
refer to as ‘head whooshes’ – a dizzying lurching sensation in the brain, as if
someone is desperately using a shepherd’s crook to try and evict you from the
world stage.
I knew I was in trouble when I dropped a fish finger
sandwich on the floor. I stared at it as barbecue sauce oozed onto the carpet.
And I burst into tears.
Processed fish is all I live for.
I never cry. I didn’t cry when any of my grandparents died,
when my father got cancer, or when Bambi’s mother got shot. Yet here I was
weeping for my half-eaten fish fingers. They weren’t even Birdseye. Soon I
found myself crying at Olympics highlight reels, when my electric razor ran out
of power before I’d finished trimming my pubic hair, or just when I was sat
quietly at my desk. When the withdrawal finally cleared after two weeks, I felt
more depressed than ever.
So, after numerous sheepish apologies to my doctor, I am
back on Citalopram. And, increasingly, I’m less embarrassed about it. It isn’t
my intention to be preachy about depression. I’m very fortunate that my
condition falls firmly into the category of ‘mild.’ Yet I do believe that it’s
important for people to talk about and try to understand depression, as I didn’t
for so many years. So if ever you see me wandering the streets in a haze of
insomnia, gazing glassy-eyed and unstirred by a hypothetical parade of
attractive women, or weeping uncontrollably over a fallen sandwich, feel free
to tap me on the shoulder and ask the crucial question: what the fuck is wrong
with you?
