Blue

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                I’m going for counselling. I’ve been struggling with depression for as long as I can remember. I didn’t realize what it was, though, until a doctor diagnosed it when I was in my mid twenties. Up until then, I didn’t think of myself as unusual in any way, although I was beginning to realize that I came from a weird family.

                Sometimes, people ask me what I’m depressed about. The question always takes me aback. Should I give them the obvious answer: everything. Why are you not depressed- about poverty, war, economic stagnation, spiritual impoverishment, The Great British Bake-Off? Have you simply not noticed things? Or do you not believe that they exist, or think that they don’t affect you?

                So I take anti-depressants and I go to church and I make lists of all my blessings and I try to think positive thoughts. In short, I’ve been doing everything in my power to try to fight it. But they’re not enough any more.

                On our wedding anniversary, I kept falling asleep. My wife snapped. Not before time; I’d been doing this too often. She sent me to the doctor, who diagnosed sleep apnea. I’ve got to lose weight, get fitter. I also made an appointment to go and talk to somebody. I’ve been to counsellors before. They’ve made me feel better for a while. But I hope that this time I can get ahead for good. Anyway, I feel like a load has been lifted.

                I’m not really writing. Bits and pieces. Writing practice. Nothing seems to knit into a story. I can’t seem to do it any more. When I was ragingly desperate to keep writing, to keep myself together, to give myself hope, at least, that this story is another step on the road to publication, to performance, when I needed to write more than ever, writing deserted me. Not only am I at square one, I’ve got a ball and chain around my ankle. I cannot envisage moving to square two. I don’t want to think about it, in case it makes me feel more unhappy.

                I’m calm. I’m trying not to think about the future too much (I have to reapply for my own job again soon, by the way). I’m not writing, and that’s all there is to it. My muse knows where I am if she wants me.