Taking Things Seriously

People that take things seriously are the people who flip over the monopoly board 2 hours in because someone bought mayfair before they could.

I have taken 3 things seriously in my life. FIRST. I took drinking so seriously that I got gout and had to hop around on crutches for a few months. SECOND. I took work so seriously that I lost 5 stone in 3 months. THIRD. I met a girl and decided to stop killing myself. Kind of. Ish.

I don’t do serious. Serious is for people that enjoy going to garden centres, who check their bank accounts without crying and shop at ‘the good sainsbury’s’. Serious is for people who watch question time for the commentary on modern day life rather than screaming through a mouth full of monster munch that the UKIP MEP is a twat. Seriousness is for grown ups. I am not a grown up, I am a failed adult.

I learnt quickly after being told I was depressed that I couldn’t take things seriously. Maybe it’s yet another default in my brain chemistry, but I knew that if I treated every bad thing that happened to me with the gravitas of a BBC drama then I would just crumble under the weight of cliche.

I was depressed, I am depressed, I would spend days in bed staring at the ceiling contemplating the meaning of everything, my position in the universe and my severe insignificance. I ate every few days. I drank like Hemingway. I listened to movie scores and wrote angry little stories for no one to read. I cliched my fucking tits off.

You know the five steps of grieving? We’ve all been through it. denial, anger, bargaining, depression and acceptance and all that bollocks. This applies to MH. Well at least for me, I am not going to shove ideas into your head, we are talking about me here guys, come on. But for me, this is what my brain went through.

Denial. “I’m not depressed. I’m just me. I’m a maverick. Yeah I have down days and I have up days. Yeah I spend days feeling like a Leonard Cohen record but other days I feel like a fucking Iggy Pop LP. But maybe that’s mania. Maybe that’s not right.”

Anger. “So you’re pissed off. You’re pissed off that you’re yet another statistic on another chart for depressed 20 somethings not doing anything with their lives. Your parents didn’t raise you like this. There are real people out there, people going through so much more than you, you privileged fuckwit.”

Bargaining. “RIGHT. If I am depressed it’s not like I’m mad. It’s just a phase. It’s just a little wibble

and next week I will be back to fucking normal. Pretty sure that is the deal here. 30mg? How about 10mg doc? Yeah I’m doing jazz hands. It’s because I am awkward ok?”


Acceptance: “Ok fine. I am obviously not right. I don’t like feeling this way. I am not supposed to be this way. I am not me. I am trapped within myself. What everyone has put up with for the last few years is not me. It can’t be me.”

Or at least that’s how it felt.

As soon as I came to terms with my depression, as soon as I studied it, accepted it and started to try to wrestle with it I felt better. There is one thing I refuse to do however. I refuse to let it consume me again. Been there done that got the shitty T-shirt that fell apart in the first wash. If you can mock something then I think it gives you power over it. My depression is like a shitty Wes Anderson character I wrote for myself, with a bad soundtrack and a lame back story. To throw more cliches into the mix, my life is the feature film, my MH is a shitty DVD extra that no will give a shit about.

Let’s end this convoluted blog post on an analogy, because fuck you I am writing this that’s why. I’ve said this before but for the life of me I can’t think of a better way to put it. Depression is like a house mate you never really invited to stay. He turned up one day and now you’re too polite to get rid of him. His dirty socks are all over the place. His dirty plates litter the kitchen. You just hope he will go by himself, but he won’t. Because he’s a twat.