Why talking about mental illness isn’t always the answer

I called the Samaritans for the first time, in the middle of the night, a few years ago. After three rings, a soft female voice, saturated with sympathy, said hello in an almost-whisper.

‘Hello,’ I said.

‘How can I help?’

Feeling awkward, embarrassed, but emboldened by my namelessness, I reeled off my woes. The woman was wonderful. She spoke to me without excessive formality, curtness, or judgement. She showed an interest in me, not just my grievances. I told her my name and where I grew up, which, it turned out, was very near her home, so we stopped that discussion quite abruptly, lest our enshrined anonymity be compromised.

She listened. She told me what she thought. She shared her own redacted experience. I was grateful. But when the ‘sharing’ part was over, I was struck with a sudden sense that the next part should begin. The ‘how do I make this better?’ part. The solution, the treatment, the path to wellness. The bit that is absolutely not the Samaritan’s job.

‘Perhaps your next step would be to go to your doctor to discuss treatment options,’ she said.

‘But I’ve already done this,’ I said. ‘he said there was nothing available for twelve months, and to call you.’ She took a deep breath in and said nothing.

As cathartic as the call was, it was clear that conversations of this nature were not a long-term solution. Offloading my woes was helpful – but only helpful once. Even knowing this, I called again a few weeks later, chasing the sense of blessed relief I felt after the first call, as one chases a hit from an illicit drug, sensing all the while that this was an abuse of the resource they were providing and hating myself a little for it.

When the volunteer asked the inevitable question, ‘Have you spoken to your doctor?’ the truth – that is neither universally nor locally acknowledged – hit home: the NHS in my area at least, is not really in the business of helping those with moderate depression get well. What I am expecting does not exist. I would have no choice but to piece together my own patchwork treatment plan with whatever was at hand. I thanked her and rang off, knowing I would not call again.

This experience has led me shrink a little from the campaigns that urge us to talk more about mental illness, as if words themselves were the antithesis of pain. ‘Talking about it,’ helps in the short term. It helps only if one can maintain the belief that the talking will ultimately lead to some upwards trajectory. Without this belief, therapeutic talking inevitably warps into mere complaining, which only leads to a spiral of negativity, and makes depression worse.

Mental and Physical Disorders: Why They Are Not The Same

After 12 years taking anti-depressants, I decided to approach doctor to ask about withdrawing. She sat back in her chair and put her finger tips together.


I took a deep breath. My motivation had something to do with an earnest, if naïve, desire to take the cushioning off the hard edges of the world. To be able to look at life with cold, unflinching, un-chemically-altered awareness and not sink under the weight of what I saw. But the waiting room was packed with patients, and I decided now wasn’t the time to air my existentialist meanderings. “I just want to see if I can cope,” I told her.

She raised an eyebrow. “Would you tell an epileptic to come off his medication to see if he could cope? Would you tell a diabetic to stop taking insulin? Diabetics don’t produce insulin. You don’t produce serotonin. What you have is no different from a physical illness. It’s that simple.”

I agreed to keep taking them and took my prescription, but our conversation troubled me all day. The idea that depression was in anyway “simple” jarred with my own experience of the condition and the glibness of the statement irritated me. If the past twelve years taught me anything, it’s that with depression, nothing is ever ‘that simple’. It is a complex and contradictory affliction and what is true for one sufferer is not always true for another. For me, the view that mental illness is the equivalent of physical illness will never be satisfactory, no matter how widespread it becomes, and the more I hear it the more I want to push back against the lazy assertion.

Yes, depression and epilepsy both have a biological basis. Yes, they are serious disorders and treatment of both warrants significant public investment. They are comparable in many ways, but there is a big difference between the two and it’s this: depressives, to differing degrees, have an element of choice that epileptics lack. You will never walk into the self-help section of Waterstone’s and find a row of books on ‘overcoming epilepsy’. You will find at least a dozen on freeing yourself from depression. Epileptics are not likely to be prescribed talking therapies which are entirely predicated on the theory that the sufferer has the innate ability to heal himself. Depressives are. Despite all of this, it has become taboo to explicitly state that there is an element of choice in depression, and it’s easy to see why.

On the one hand, choice is empowering. For as long as the depressed person has the power to affect his or her condition, there can be hope for recovery. Choice embodies the inspiring idea of self-determination, of man’s ability to write his own destiny. On the other hand, choice also encapsulates ideas of personal responsibility, self-blame, and guilt, and there are no prizes for guessing which perspective a depressed person prefers. “If I can choose to take steps to leave this horrible place,” one may reason, “I must have chosen to enter it to begin with, and therefore I’m as bad as I thought, and completely responsible.”

Feelings of guilt have long been recognised as core symptoms of the illness, and it is perhaps because of their prevalence that we have become squeamish about mentioning the word ‘choice’ to sufferers. To compare depression to epilepsy is to remove this awkward difference from the picture, and unburden the sufferer from feelings of self-blame. The problem with this is clear: If you whitewash choice, you take a stick from my hand that I could beat myself with, but in doing so, you also take away a tool that I could use to leverage myself to some semblance of wellness.

I did not choose to have depression, but I make thousands of decisions each day and each one has a magnifying or minimising effect on the condition. On a down day, I can choose to cry in a darkened room, or I can choose the harder option: to get up, take a bath and eat breakfast. If I choose the first option, it doesn’t mean I’m bad, or weak, or spineless, or addicted to misery, or wallowing. It doesn’t have to mean anything. But if you come into that room and tell me I’m no more responsible for being bed-ridden than an epileptic would be after having a seizure, you are doing me no favours. You are encouraging an illusion of utter helplessness which could extinguish any sparks of confidence in my ability to make myself well. If, on the other hand, I choose the harder option, this always means something. It means I’m treating my choice as a blessing rather than a curse, and choosing action over inaction is the physical embodiment of hope.


To be a teenager is to have a complicated relationship with control. Some want more of it, fast. Others wanted to lose it completely, and succeed in doing so. My troubles began when I realised I had no control to begin with, and had to fashion a synthetic version of it from whatever was at hand.

My wacky idea that I had any real control over my body was the first thing to go. I had become acquainted with my body’s rebellious streak in the past: when I lost my front teeth, had asthma attacks and succumbed to chickenpox. These moments of powerlessness had been briefly unsettling, but I never stopped believing that ultimately, I was in charge. Now, at age thirteen, my body had launched a full-on mutiny. I was shocked by its sudden subversive behaviour. We had once worked pretty well as a team, but now its lack of balance made gym teachers despair, its spottiness could not be contained with cream or disguised by concealer and its crooked teeth grew so wild that they were dotted with cement and clamped together with metal links, like a dangerous chain gang. My body was agitating for change. My mind was the old order, a reactionary power, digging its heels in in vain.

My world was growing less and less predictable too. It was once quite simple, consisting of little more than a house, a wood, and two grandparents’ dwellings acting as distant outposts. Now it contained an ugly, sprawling high school with a long history it mistook for prestige. Its pupils excelled in maths, science, and organising after-school fights on the driveway leading to Haydock Racecourse. Fights were not spontaneous bursts of aggression, but well organised events with participants, promoters, supporters and a reigning female and male champion of each year group. Bullying was condemned sleepily by teachers in assemblies, but unchallenged in classrooms, and I could neither predict it, nor quash it when I was the target, nor manage my sense of utter fragility in the face of it. Other people, it seemed, could be called a pizza face and not run to the office asking to be sent home. Other people, it seemed, were not total pansies.

At thirteen, I knew two things: one, I was powerless over the world and how I felt within it. Two, such powerlessness could not continue.

If there’s truth in the saying, ‘necessity is the mother of invention’, then in my case, control was the necessity, and Obsessive Compulsive Disorder was the invention. Soon after starting high school, I was no longer quite so concerned about my skin, or my clumsiness, or absent-mindedness, or lack of progress in chemistry. My life had a new, entirely manageable focus: avoiding the number three. If I could do that, I told myself, the rest would fall into place. I would be left alone. Things would go as I planned. I didn’t know exactly how my mind had settled on this particular rule. All I knew was that for me, the number three was heavy with angst, uncertainty and terror. It was like the dense matter at the beginning of the universe, buzzing with terrible potential. Avoiding the number three created a mental short-circuit to a craved sensation: relief from the anxiety of not knowing.

There was one slight problem with this particular rule. The number three is everywhere. In boyband line ups. In traffic lights. It was the number of people I shared a house with. Some of my favourite sentences: ‘I don’t know,’ ‘I don’t care,’ were made up of three little words. I was forced to extend these sentences in order to make them four words, ‘I do not know,’ ‘I do not care.’ Teachers mistook my new linguistic precision as petulance.

Maths lessons were a nightmare. My tutor despaired of my lack of ability to get to grips with cubed numbers. The rule book had to be adapted somehow, so if I had to come into contact with the number, I would touch wood as soon as possible to neutralise the harm done. The net of OCD was tightening around my life, but I didn’t care. My compulsion was a bug, in all three senses of the word: it was a flaw, an illness and a passion. The fact that I seemed to be getting the results I craved only made it stronger. Bullies had eased off, and found a new target in a girl called Tammy. This poor kid was avoided, derided and rejected daily –  the year group’s collective number three. I felt terrible for her, but didn’t intervene. I kept my head down and kept doing what was working.

Did I really believe obeying this rule would make things go my way? Yes and no. My new belief was a leap of faith, and the leap was powered by my survival instinct, not by rational thinking. Because if I didn’t believe it, I was exposed. If I didn’t believe it, I had no armour. So, just as I learned that a2+b2=c2, and that an apostrophe before an ‘S’ indicates possession, I learned that I had to jump over any paving flag in the quad that had shattered into three pieces, or the bullying would start up again. The irrationality of it was itself a kind of teenage rebellion against the plodding logic of my education.

Of course, the rational belief was always there in the sidelines, ready for me to re-access once the nonsense belief had fulfilled its usefulness. The trouble is, beliefs are tyrants. They get high on power. They get a life of their own and they don’t care if they should have retired long ago. As my time at high school drew to a close, and my body’s rebellion eased, OCD made its bid for absolute power. Tackling it was as difficult and dangerous and bloody as a revolution.



I like therapy. I like it for all the reasons you’re not supposed to like it. I like the free, never-ending tissues. I like the neutral walls and the conservatory style wicker chairs that are so soft and pliable that they are almost unsupportive. I even like the awkward bits: at the beginning, when you don’t know where to put your coat or whether there’s a specific chair that the therapist favours; and at the end when you pay them, and it all feels slightly seedy.

I like it when you hear the muffled monotone of the poor chap next door as he recounts his undoubtedly more worthy problems, and how the voice of this stranger makes you feel less alone. I like how rebellious it feels when you pick up the odd phrase through the wall: ‘My mother…’ or ‘When I was a lad…’ and how this unintentional snooping adds to the atmosphere of anonymous intimacy.

I like it when the cleaner barges in with her industrial, clattering hoover and says, ‘Ooh, I’m sorry,’ while the therapist smothers a look of blatant irritation with a smile.

I like therapists, especially when they do things they’re not supposed to do, like agreeing that your work nemesis is an arsehole, or talking about the dark periods of their own lives, whether that involves divorce or drink or binge-eating pop tarts. I like it when they are human.

I like therapy because you don’t know how you really feel until you enter a beige box with a smiling, benevolent stranger who asks you how you are, and in doing so, gives you permission to let that unfathomable, chained up sadness off its leash to run around until it tires itself out.

I like it because it’s human contact, and it’s hope, and it’s borrowed strength.

Therapists like their therapeutic techniques. They like their CBT and their MBCT and their self-compassion Ted talks. They like their cycles and their diagrams. They like making irregular garbed messes of minds into symmetrical flow charts and neat cycles. They are the kind of people who enjoyed simplifying equations in school. They are modern cartographers: they like to draw the landscape of your mind using the words you give them. By the end of session one your mind is less like a bothersome tip and more like a map of a middle earth –  with thin ice and quicksand and ditches and caves and mountains with summits labelled ‘happiness’, ‘stability’, ‘success’ and ‘love’. They like to populate these landscapes with characters: imps and Dreadful Iffies and angry parents and critical school masters. They seem to find your mind fascinating, and to love their jobs.

There are lots of different types of therapy on offer, and I seem to have gone through the lot. I’ve been to CBT and person centred and group. I’ve lay on a couch and sat on a hard-backed chair and mindfully walked across a hospital meeting room.

Perhaps I am ludicrously needy, or perhaps therapy doesn’t really help me at all. After all, if it did, why would I need to keep returning? The truth is, it almost always helps. It’s just that it doesn’t always heal. I’m fine with that, but therapists, usually, aren’t.

They like to be seen as teachers of depression management techniques, rather than shoulders to cry on. The ones I have met do not like it if clients suggest that it is the therapist’s patience or understanding or warmth that brought an improvement in their mood. They like the focus to stay on the diagrams on the whiteboard and the thought-challenging exercises. To credit the therapist rather than the therapy is to demean their professional pride: to imply that they are easers of pain rather than enablers of recovery.

These disparate views of the goals of therapy can lead to the relationship becoming dysfunctional. The therapist pushes their ‘teaching’ agenda, the client is swept along, feeling the need to agree that the skills they are learning are life changing in order to keep hold of the truly helpful thing: contact with an empathetic and knowledgeable other who knows exactly what not to say.

I recently attended a twelve-week group course for the self-management of depression, teaching Cognitive Behavioural therapy techniques. On session two, the teacher nipped out to get more photocopies of a handout. In her absence, a woman in the semi-circle admitted she had not done the homework, which was to list our negative thoughts and challenge them using logical alternatives. One by one, we all admitted to the same thing. Confessions of our non-engagement with the homework we were set became a running joke, and we whispered about it in mock disgrace before the sessions started and during the coffee break. We guarded each others’ secret from the therapist with loyalty, unblinkingly allowing others to lie about their efforts.

Despite our hatred of the exercises we were set, we all kept attending until the end. On the last session, we all told one another that our mood had improved since we started the course, and we said this with sincerity.  It would be difficult to credit CBT techniques as the cause of this improvement, given our minimal engagement with them. Amongst ourselves, we all attributed our improved moods to the support of the course leaders, and one another. In one woman’s words, ‘It’s reassured me that I’m not the only one who can’t do life.’

But it was not easy for me as a service user to make this point. Unfettered honesty was not encouraged through official feedback channels.

At the end of each session, the therapist would go round the circle and ask us, one by one, how we felt it had gone. We were told to answer honestly. Members of the group, who gave mixed reviews in private, only gave positive reviews to the therapist. We could hardly have been blamed for this. It’s unrealistic to expect a bunch of people, suffering from an illness which is characterised by a lack of confidence, self trust and assertiveness, to deliver inconvenient truths to a passionate authority figure to whom a debt of gratitude is owed.

New ways of giving feedback that encourage brutal honesty need to be developed. They should be anonymous, and the acceptability of criticising the service needs to be emphasised and even encouraged. Service Users should be trusted to know what, if anything, has caused their depression to fade, and should be asked about this. And the psychological community should have the guts to accept it, whatever we say. Maybe then it will start to be acknowledged that something as touchy feely and unscientific as human support can be the primary catalyst for recovery.

Psych Wards 101

If you’ve read too many depression memoirs, as I have, you might feel a little disillusioned when you enter an NHS psychiatric ward.

In Darkness Visible, William Styron’s hospital offers peace, tranquillity and art therapy. In Shoot the Damn Dog, Sally Brampton’s ward has yoga instructors and group talking treatments. The hospital in Girl, Interrupted is portrayed as some kind of high-security Butlins.

Here’s the thing: the people who write depression memoirs tend to go private.

There was no yoga on my NHS psychiatric ward, although there were people in fixed, uncomfortable postures, like the girl who sat in the corridor each day with her knees under her chin; or Maxine, who lay morosely across a couch in the sitting room that was too narrow for her wide body. It wasn’t yoga, but you got the sense that these postures were thousands of years old.

There was no art therapy there. There was a ‘games and craft room’, which had a bookcase holding half a dozen Jeffrey Archer novels and a copy of the Psalms with a burn mark on the bottom. The room boasted three adult colouring books and a shelf of incomplete, boxed board games. I managed a couple of games of Scrabble with a lady called Felicity. We pooled the few remaining tiles that we found in three separate copies of the game, which meant that some letters were disproportionately represented. We had an abundance of Es and Os. They kept appearing in every pick until my whole tile rack resembled an agonised wail. We could rarely get words that were longer than four letters, and this made the resulting board look cramped and tightly clenched, like a fist.

Hospital, in other words,  is not a haven. It’s upsetting. It’s noisy twenty four seven. It would no doubt make some depressed people worse. So why do so many people ask to be admitted? What does it have to offer?

Letting it be

If you volunteer to go into hospital, you are making a choice. You are choosing to sacrifice freedom of movement, freedom to decide when and where and what to eat, and freedom to define your own mental wellbeing, in exchange for the one freedom denied to you in the real world: the freedom to let the mask slip. It’s okay to not be okay in hospital. It’s expected. This can be an almighty relief.


A psychiatric ward is not a place of healing or inspiration. First and foremost, it is a place of holding, where nurses wait for the passion of suicidal zeal to simmer down into stable, stagnant unhappiness. The psychiatrists who treat you and the nurses you are assigned do not work towards the eradication of depression, or complete wellness or a total reversal of fortunes, but towards stability. In hospital, constancy and routine are the furthest reaches of ambition. If regularity and order have been lost from your life, it is a good place to be.


Poor mental health is an epidemic, and in the community, I felt as if I had to compete with other sufferers for support. My requests for help more often than not resulted in my file being passed endlessly between the GP, Crisis Team and Community Mental Health Team – less a record of a patient, more a weapon in the ongoing tribal warfare between the three.

It’s a different story in hospital. Help is concentrated there. I had a physical health check-up and the offer of debt help from a specialist, who could also advise on benefits.  I was  assigned a nurse who was available to sit with me and talk. I had a care plan on discharge. Getting into a psychiatric ward can be as difficult in the 21st Century as getting out of one was in the 19th, but if you feel you are being dismissed by care providers in the community, securing a bed may be worth the fight.

Access to the good pills

When I was admitted, I hadn’t slept properly in weeks. Zopiclone, a powerful sleep aid which is guarded like the crown jewels by GPs, was given to me each night without question. It didn’t so much lull me to sleep as wrestle my head to the ground and hurl it over a cliff into unconsciousness. At that stage of insomnia, you have to use force.

I was also able to discuss medication with a specialist who understood it. My psychiatrist was kind enough, but singularly interested in the effects and side effects of what she prescribed. When she asked, ‘How are you?’ she meant, ‘How is Aripiprazole affecting your neurotransmitters?’  When I replied, ‘I’ve felt better,’ I meant, ‘Aripiprazole makes me so insatiably hungry I ate a kilogram of chocolate and then felt sick from over eating and utterly ravenous at the same time.’

I began to feel like a stew on a hob, passively allowing her to adjust the seasoning of my mind to taste. My contact with her was therefore somewhat dehumanising, but I never felt that she intended it to be so. Dehumanisation was simply another unwanted side-effect of treatment. Other psychiatrists, it seemed, quite consciously treated patients as if they were less than human.  One patient claimed she had been told that, ‘If you want to commit suicide you should just do it.’ Psychiatrists can help, but they specialise in chemistry, not empathy.

I went into hospital naively hoping to be transformed.  I came out with new medication, a few scrabble victories under my belt and a desire to never, ever set foot inside such a place again. These things, in themselves, were much less than I had sought, but they formed a part of the patchwork that made up my recovery.



In 2011, I was asked to participate in an experimental NHS course called Mindfulness for Depression. Back then, mindfulness was not yet mainstream. Adult colouring books promising instant zen had not yet landed on the shelves of Rymans, and living in the moment and paying attention were good ideas, rather than million dollar industries. I’d never heard of mindfulness, and the word instantly troubled me. I already felt full to the brim of ‘mind’; positively bloated with it, but I turned up at the clinic for the first session anyway and tried to keep my full mind open.

The course leader introduced herself as Doreen. She looked much too young and happy-go-lucky to have such an austere name. She skipped around, all fringe and leggings, handing out meditation CDs to her sceptical looking participants, most of whom were no-nonsense Scousers still in their outdoor coats.

The theory, she explained, was that through mindfulness, we would learn to pay attention. I winced.  I have always been wary of that phrase. I associated it with stern French teachers and huffy driving instructors. Pay attention meant the end of daydreams and the beginning of strained concentration on irregular verbs and clutch control. But I kept listening.

If we pay attention to the world, she said, we can train ourselves to disengage from the direct experience of our thoughts and emotions – for it is in direct experience, apparently, that pain dwells.

Without further ado, she asked us to cup our hands. She fetched a packet of what looked like raisins – yes, yes, they were definitely raisins – out of her gym bag and placed one in the centre of each of our upturned palms. She did it somewhat reverently, as if we were at communion.

‘We are going to practice paying attention to our raisins,’ she said, with perfect seriousness. But we could pay attention to anything and everything, it didn’t have to be raisins, or indeed dried fruit of any kind. It could be the taste of a cup of tea, the scent of washing up liquid, the sensations within our bodies. To live mindfully was to live in the moment, with whatever was at hand.

‘Look at the raisin with wonder,’ she went on. ‘Imagine you’re a child seeing a raisin for the first time.’ When did I first see a raisin? I remember pouring them out when I was a kid, when I was helping Grandma with her Christmas puds. The mixture was always too heavy to stir and I always got told off for not using enough elbow grease.

‘If your mind has wandered,’ she said, ‘gently escort it back to the raisin.’ Hang on a minute, how did she know my mind had wandered? Maybe she could tell by my face. Must keep a poker face. Is this a poker face? If I was playing poker right now, could she tell what cards I had by the frequency of my blinks?

‘If your mind has wandered again, gently bring it back to the raisin. Lick the raisin. How does it taste?’ It… well… it tastes like a raisin. Do raisins count towards your five a day of fruit and veg? I know baked beans count, weirdly, but….

‘Now, listen to the raisin.’ Hmmm. I held it to my ear, but could hear nothing but the smirk of the lady next to me. Doreen could hear it too, but she merely smiled, raisin to ear, and kept listening.

‘Now,’ she said. ‘What did you notice about your raisins?’ The answer was absolutely bloody nothing. But I did notice that paying attention for any length of time was nigh on impossible.

One things I loved about the course was Doreen’s openness to our resistance. We could tell her that ‘paying attention’ bored us rigid and was too damn difficult, we could announce triumphantly that mindful meditation helped us to fall asleep (after she had told us time and again that this was absolutely not the point), we could tell her that the sight of raisins triggered traumatic childhood memories and leave the room in diva-like disgust. We did all of these things and more. She seemed to like it when we scoffed, as if she understood that our extreme reaction was merely a part of the process.

After all, resistance to mindfulness makes absolute sense. It is not necessarily relaxing. It is, at first, deeply frustrating and has no tangible immediate pay off. The first time you attempt formal mindfulness meditation (in which you’ll be asked to do something ghastly like pay attention to the quality of your breath for twenty whole minutes) your thoughts will almost certainly wander onto what else you could be doing with that time. You will ache to turn off the irritating guided meditation CD, to tell the American speaker to stop talking in cliches, turn on your laptop and do everything you’ve been putting off for six months, whether that’s spending last Christmas’s Argos voucher or switching energy supplier. But if you’re doing the meditation right, you will ‘mindfully pay attention’ to that compulsion, and you will stubbornly, indefatigably bring your attention back to your breath.

Despite our struggles, by the end of the course, we were all converts. We were getting better at something, we were progressing, and that felt good. Someone asked Doreen how to ‘go further’ in mindfulness. She answered with trademark wisdom: ‘In order to deepen your experience, you have merely got to practice it.’

I’ve tried, since the course, to practice regularly.  And although it is not a panacea, living more mindfully has been beneficial in a number of ways.

To start with, it has taught me that the connection between the mind and the body is more profound than I had ever before realised.  I have heard a hundred times that exercise, healthy eating, and dressing with a little thought can boost one’s self esteem.  I have acted on all of these titbits of advice and discovered them all to be quite correct. But by doing regular body scan meditations (in which you sit upright and focus attention on the sensations in each area of the body in turn) I realised that I could make myself feel stronger and more dignified merely by arranging my limbs into an upright posture that embodied strength and dignity. I discovered that, by focussing on the goings on of my body as opposed to the activities of my mind, I could gain an intense and longed-for feeling of respite from the latter. Best of all I reawakened to the fact that I was more than a mind, and that my body was more than just an elaborate plinth for the contents of my troublesome skull. It was a gangly, achy, tingling mass of flesh, and was equally, if not more, interesting.

I have always known that depression’s power fluctuates, but I had never fully grasped that its power directly corresponds to the importance I placed on the what was going on around me. It is entirely relational. If the world is considered dull and unworthy of consideration, then depressive thoughts become the centre of attention, and they thrive off attention.  But if the world is big and engaging, depression’s power shrinks.

Mindfulness may not be a magic cure. It has not defeated depression once and for all, but it has caused it to recede, and that’s more than I had hoped for.

The Cellar

As a child, I imagined that my moods were the storeys of a house.  When I was ecstatic, I pictured myself dancing on the roof tiles like a chimney sweep in Mary Poppins. When life was generally fine, I dwelled on the first floor. When I was sad, but not irredeemably so, I pottered about on ground level. It was a melancholy and boring place, but there were other people milling around, windows letting light in and stairs that I could ascend.

But this house had a cellar. It was a dark, dank hollow. There were no bottles of wine or tumble dryers or rusty bikes or other distracting remnants of the adult world within it. Inside it, a person’s senses were consumed with the basement alone: the darkness of it, the smell of it, the threatening sound of everyone else’s footsteps overhead. It was a place that took me out of contact with any comforting person or thing. The basement had a staircase, but, as in a dream, something unspoken rendered an occupier incapable of using it. My childish conception of this hidden, frightening, neglected place was my first encounter with depression.  I hadn’t yet entered the basement, but knew I had the capacity to do so.

I have told this story many times to different doctors in response to the question, “What do you think has caused your depression?”  I have concluded by saying that the basement is not a place that has magically appeared after a traumatic event – a job loss, a death of a loved one, or a relationship failure. Depression is an in-built dimension of my mind, a part of my personality. On the whole, they have found my  response unsatisfactory – the kind of throwaway, resigned-to-misery comment that is often made by the clinically depressed. If pushed, I’ll sometimes give in and recite neat little half-remembered trigger points.  Bullying. Appearance. Shyness. These things have all affected me deeply at different times, but I am not plagued by these things now. They dissolved into long-term memories many years ago. The only honest answer to that question is, “This is how I am built. For me, depression is a steady state, not a big bang”. This is not a statement of dull resignation. It is a statement of insight. As accepting the nature of my own mind – light and dark – was the first step towards minimising the power of its shadowy parts.

Right now I’m dwelling on the ground floor. I can appreciate the cooling cup of coffee on my desk, the way my fancy new wall clock worked right out of the box, and look forward to my boyfriend coming home for lunch. I can dwell in the present moment with the little, friendly, modest things for company.

I like it on the ground floor. But getting here was not easy. This blog is about how I found my way out of the cellar, and how I avoid the pull of the hollowness beneath me. I hope some of what I write will be helpful for you.