I’ve always thought of poetry as a way out. Words as vice as shield as solace. Something like that.
I love a lot, and that’s part of the problem. See, I wrote a poem once for a boy I loved. He hasn’t seen it. People rarely do unless I’m proud – I didn’t ever think I had a reason to be.
Anyway, this particular poem has a line it that I’ve always thought was ironic, in light of the vents which followed in the months after its composition.
‘I like your pills and I like that you’re sad and I want to be interesting like that.’
In my head, the idea of depression and mental illness had always been romanticised. In the strangest way, I envied everyone I saw who walked with that black dog by their side. My dad is a prime example. I deified him, and I always will, for his stoicism and courage, especially when it came to me. I could never blame anyone for their emotion, it’s part of the human condition and we’re all as susceptible as the next person. The only shame, I think, that the necessary activity of interpersonal relationships necessitates the encouragement and provocation of emotions which can be entirely detrimental.
Case in point? My coming out. I watched as my dad’s mind closed off from me. At once, I had fallen down through the echelons of his esteem and I was locked out. Then the disappearing act. Then the pills. Then, the deceit.
“Don’t talk about it with him, he’ll come to you in his own time. He’s just a private person.”
Mum’s words ringing in my head. He was always dependable and open. How was this 180 worth losing what we had.
Not his purpose. Not my fault.
It took me a long time to realise that I hadn’t caused it, not really. As I’ve said, no one really can control their reactions, that’s what makes them genuine. Time was the hardest facet of it all. He was ill, no doubt. I might have triggered it, who cares. Live for now, love in the present and help where you can. The process of his coming-to-terms with the situation was much longer than I could have anticipated. But he’s fine. He’s always been fine, but that’s sometimes been overshadowed. There is no shame in that.
Now, we have an open dialogue. I think that, mutually, we both find some degree of comfort in the fact that we’ve both now been through cycles of depression. As his son of 16, I noticed for the first time his symptoms. As my father, when I was 19/20, he identified in me areas of similarity, and was able to help.
Relationships are exhausting, though worthwhile and lovely. They take it out of you, no doubt. However, exacerbate and expound positive emotions through a lens of sudden tragedy and bereavement, and anything is likely to happen. I was with my partner for the best part of two years, during which time his mother was terminally ill. She died in the penultimate months of 2014.
I lost a lot of the person I thought I was during our time together; afterwards I was a shell. I had not had a major break-up before, nor had I experienced a death in the family at an age when I was emotionally mature enough to comprehend its significant affect.
Oh, and the affect was significant. Our relationship was rocky for the next few months, until we split in February 2015. I had been having counselling, to no avail. I had been expressive, now it was time to go inwards. Drink seemed like the next option.
University fell into a ditch by the wayside. I tried my best to keep my drinking from my housemates, loving, and nosey, as they are. But I couldn’t keep up the charade for long. Self-loathing comes will the feeling of having let someone down, but guilt was new to me. On the first occasion (of many) that my best friend came home to find me blacked out on the floor of my bedroom, with letters torn to pieces around me, and my prize orchid smashed against the wall, I didn’t care. She didn’t care she was just interfering. This was for me to deal with she could stuff it. Matt, you fool!
It happened more, and more. Darkness as release as escape as avoiding life. She told me once she was scared of me, and most days didn’t know whether saying “hello” to me in the house was safe or not.
The marvellous thing, though, about people who love you, is that they accept your faults. My only wish is that I hadn’t waited so long to admit it to them. Looking back, I’m not even sure I did. But, they weren’t looking for causes, they were looking for solutions. They explained it to me, and my closed mind was opened again. It took time (these things always do), but I let them help.
Let, don’t demand. Be ready, don’t rush.
Conversation was key for me. Both as an onlooker and as someone experiencing depression.
There is support. There always will be. There is no need to trap yourself in anything that poisons your mind – it will not help you.
What’s that clichéd saying? No man is an island. No man wants to seem weak, but anyone whose worth the light of day won’t see it that way.
Between the sound of a lit cigarette,
And the scuffing of a shoe,
Someone’s always caring.
Even if it isn’t you.
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