Honest to blog

So a guy came into my office this afternoon. I haven't seen him at work for a while but I was aware that he is one of the Faithful. He sat down and said he wanted to check I was OK, which was really nice of him. And it turned out that he was visibly shocked that I have depression. He'd had no idea, he said, and never would have guessed in a million years. It made me think.

I've never tried to hide it. And it's an illness that strikes every now and then to a point where, for a while, I am unable to function the way I normally do, so anyone close to me knows about it. I have talked several times on this blog about being on medication. But when I'm feeling good, it really isn't something I think about a lot. Actually, that's bollocks. I may not say it out loud, but I think about it every day, in much the same way that I imagine an ex-alcoholic thinks about his alcoholism. I thank my lucky stars, every single day, a) that I got depression in the first place and b) that I am one of the very fortunate ones who can live with it quite happily, 99% of the time. Because yes, I am grateful for it. The therapy I've had, the lessons I've learned, the decisions I've been forced to take as a result of it - I am, without question, utterly different than I would have been without the diagnosis and I am, I believe, a much happier, kinder, more appreciative, sensitive, relaxed individual, and I think I'll be a better friend and, one day, a better mother as a result. Obviously every now and then, the snake takes up residence, and that sucks. But we all have crosses to bear, and as far as the available crosses go, this one suits me OK.

That's not to say it's been easy, though. Grania arrived at midnight last night after I'd sent out a 3pm SOS admitting that I'd realised I wouldn't be able to leave the house this morning without third party assistance. We slept and then woke up early and did yoga, and I washed my hair and put on the clothes I'd laid out last night, and it was all going extremely well, and then we were outside and I put my key in the door and tried to turn it and burst into tears, and said I couldn't do it, even though inside my head I was shouting, 'OH COME ON you loser, turn the freaking key and go to work you cretin,' and eventually she coaxed me, sobbing as though something serious had happened, down the stairs of my building and outside, ignoring my teary suggestion that I couldn't go to work because I was too ugly, and eventually I followed her uncomplainingly, and we crossed the road, and she herded me, sheepdog-like, into the tube station, sensibly worried that I might dart back home the moment her back was turned, and I went through the barriers and down the escalators on my own, and got on the tube, and twenty minutes later I was literally fine. Fragile and shattered, but fine.

Anyway, the point was, why mention it? There's a stigma about depression. Some people find it shocking. Why not just shut up about it, keep schtum, and restrict myself to talking about tripping up the stairs in front of Lily Allen or similar? [NB this has not yet happened]. It's such a big part of who I am, though. Not always obvious, but always there - like diabetes. Writing about the past few days and not mentioning it would have felt like lying. And not writing anything at all for the past few days would have felt dishonest too, like this blog is only about the good times, whereas I believe strongly that LLFF is for the rough and the smooth. I have a lot of smooth, so it's only fair to admit that there's rough too. If not, you'd just get a sanitized version of a life, just another stream of 'Wheeee, I'm off on holiday!' and 'Look! Another really fun thing happened to me!' inanity - and we've all got far too much access to that kind of edited crap on Facebook. I am mostly great, but I sometimes suck, and if I were reading about you, I wouldn't want just one or the other as it would smack of bullshit. And really, there's no significant downside to the honesty policy besides the fact that no one who reads it will ever want to marry me. But fortunately, I don't want to get married anyway, so who's laughing now? Hmmm? [Note to self: this is utterly unconvincing]. Still, I'm guessing they were going to find out sooner or later. [Note to self: this argument is flawed. When it comes to major personality disorders, later tends to be better]. OK shut up.

So anyway, now I'm back home, knackered after a long day, and I have no idea how tomorrow morning will pan out but I'm going it alone so fingers crossed. I feel - tentatively - as though this stint is broken, though. I have high hopes that the snake is retreating. And, all being well, that'll be it for the next few months or years. I had a knock, and I got sick, and it spiralled. These things happen. But after a tough week or so, I'm on the upswing, I'm doing my best and that is, as we all know full well, all we can do. On tonight's menu, a dry Riesling that Simon bought me for my birthday in 2007, and a guilty pleasure dinner: homemade tomato and tuna pasta sauce with caramalised onions and garlic. But no pasta. Just a thick layer of mature cheddar. Mmmmmmm. Molten cheeeeeeeeese. Heroin chic, fortunately, is so last decade.