Message from the dark side

Depression is the most extraordinary thing. For me, it's not so much the black dog with a pink tongue and a tail as a poisonous snake. I really feel it worming its way into my being, physically, pulling the backs of my eyes and tightening round my larynx, pushing down on my brain and constricting my stomach.

It started a week ago when a man I had thought was amazing suddenly announced that he didn't feel the same thing about me. That was the kick-off point. As an experienced depressive, I knew full well that there are only two things I absolutely must to do when something upsets me: 1) keep busy and 2) exercise every single day without fail. That's literally it. Other things that help are 3) don't drink too much booze and 4) don't drink too much caffeine. And normally, I would have done those things, and everything would have been fine. The nightmare this time was that I immediately came down with Girl Flu, which meant I was too ill to exercise, and too ill too socialise. Within a few days, the depression symptoms descended. I could feel them coming and tried to pretend it wasn't happening, but deep down I knew it was going to get me, and by then I was utterly powerless to do anything about it.

On Friday night, I went out with Kate, came home, and then didn't leave the flat for the rest of the weekend. I didn't want to see anyone, and I certainly didn't want anyone to see me. All I could do to distract myself was watch bad TV. Reading isn't powerful enough when I feel like this, nor is music or the radio. I need as many senses as possible to be occupied.

Self-obsessive that I am, it's always interesting to me to watch myself getting depressed. It's like I'm slightly schizophrenic. On one level, I know full well how lucky I am. I am not that bothered about the guy, and genuinely believe it is his loss as much as mine. I know I am attractive enough, and funny, talented, and kind, and that I have a ridiculously easy life. I am grateful for so much. I have lovely friends who simply wouldn't like me if I was a pain in the ass, so I must be OK. I know that, just a few weeks ago, I felt perfectly content. I am very aware that absolutely nothing has changed - I am still exactly the same person I was then. In fact, I'm even fractionally thinner, so that's good. But depression makes me use a vocabulary I don't normally access. Even though I know all that good stuff is true on a logical level, on a subconscious level, I start to disbelieve it. Depression makes me think I'm a failure. It highlights everything I do wrong, and laughs at my successes, telling me they're paltry. Where I am usually uber-confident, suddenly the thought of speaking to anyone fills me with fear. I can't make eye-contact. I dread the phone ringing. The thought of getting on a tube, having to stand close to another human, makes me cry. My appetite disappears. I have constant, CONSTANT butterflies, as though I am awaiting the result of my own murder trial. It is exhausting. I can't sleep at night, but as soon as 8am comes around, I can't stay awake. My dreams are (as discussed) shatteringly vivid, so when I do shut my eyes, I know I won't get any rest.

And all along, I'm saying to myself, 'This is an illusion, you melodramatic moron. You have been happy, non-stop, for a year. This is a tiny, irrelevant blip. You know you are actually fantastically lucky and very content. This brief spell has been brought on by the unfortunate and rare combination of a self-confidence knock and a week without the serotonin boost that you get from regular exercise.' So I feel like crap, and then I tell myself that I'm a dick for feeling like crap. It's a really fun cycle.

Yesterday I made myself do yoga. I can't do any cardio because I would cough up my lungs and possibly my stomach, but yoga was good. I told myself I would get up early this morning and do it again before going to work. But when my alarm went off, things were bad. I had woken up from nightmares several times, drenched in sweat, livid to have perspired all over my clean sheets. There was simply no way I could face my office. But now it's 15:30. I did yoga again at about 11am, had a shower, burst into tears for no reason, got back into bed, and then pulled myself together and got dressed in normal clothes. Having been wearing pyjamas since Friday, this was a turning point. The plan was to get myself out of the flat. And, about 45 minutes ago, I finally made it. I ran down to the postbox to mail back Blade Runner. I forced myself onwards. It is the most stunning spring day in London, which is ironically a massive problem when you're depressed. Feeling negative when it's chucking it down outside is one thing. Feeling negative when the world is all clear blue and warm sun makes you feel like the loneliest, most isolated idiot on earth. How can you not be happy when it's so beautiful? You must be seriously screwed up, and it's scary. But I strode on, almost running. It is a deeply unpleasant sensation when merely being outside in the open makes you feel so odd, highlighting how different you are, making you think 'Failure, failure'. It seemed like everyone was staring at me, thinking how ugly I looked without makeup. I clutched my arms round my waist, defensive, don't look at me. I couldn't make eye-contact with anyone, I just wanted to get back to my flat, but I knew that if I returned too quickly it could make things even worse, an aborted attempt, another fail. I made it to my local shop and tried to find something to buy. Nothing appealed. I saw Cheryl Cole on the front of The Sun, saying she was worried about being single, and once again I berated myself for having the audacity to complain. You are so lucky, you are so lucky, I said to myself as I walked round the shop feeling like the biggest reject in the world. The fruit and veg looked horrible. I considered buying a bag of Snack a Jacks but at 59p for a handful of MSG-flavoured polystyrene discs, I felt I was being ripped off. I left the shop and strode up the road, crossed the street and entered the park. Finally I made myself drop my arms to my side. Then I made myself slow down and breathe. Then I went into the flower garden and made myself sit on a bench in the sun, but that proved to be too much stillness. Sensing that tears were just a few minutes away, I stood up and walked on. I walked for about twenty minutes, past tufted clumps of crocuses and snowdrops, crows wheeling overhead, and then I came home. And I do feel better. The virus will pass, I know - the snake will slowly slither away to wherever it goes the rest of the time, when I'm feeling normal. I'll do yoga again this evening, and tomorrow I will go to work even if I have to pay for a taxi to take me there. And in a few more days I'll be back at the gym and this will all seem like a dark memory. Can't wait for that. But right now, this is me, in the pit, and I just thought I'd tell the Faithful what it feels like down here. I wouldn't wish it on any of you, but I'll tell you one thing: there's nothing like it for making you grateful for mere existence when it's gone. Hugs and kisses from the dark side.