I don’t suffer from depression. There; I’ve said it.
It is difficult to admit that I don’t suffer from depression because in the current climate so many people are struggling to cope with feeling low. It’s almost an epidemic. Day-to-day troubles can seem insurmountable and it takes just one nasty comment to send you spiralling into a black mood, from which you may not emerge for several days and by then you may have acted hastily, violently, even suicidally. I know this because I used to feel the same way.
So what changed?
I had a fantastic anchor throughout my teenage life – a person who was upbeat to be around, clearly appreciated my personal qualities and who set an example because she woke each day thrilled just to be here and have the chance to tackle whatever was thrown at her. I’m sure you’ll have guessed that it was my mum. But she wasn’t one of these ‘people-pleasing givers’ who act like a saint and just think of others. She was very self-centred - in a way that kept her happy. She lived in the present and took pleasure from every situation; whether it was coffee with friends, daft pranks with her nephew, racing up a hill as a cure for indigestion brought on by eating a plate of bustingly-hot hot cross buns, or odd jobs in DIY stores or Nissen huts filled with dank trays of mushrooms growing profusely in the dark. She laughed, drank, partied, worked. She did things that other people labelled crazy ; like jumping crevasses on a motorbike, touring Spain in a motor home and moving abroad on her own.
When she died in 2001, a friend told me it would take me at least ten years to come to terms with having lost her. She was right. Luckily I was pregnant with Mimi at the time so I didn’t have any chance to become maudlin or sit around. We moved to Spain 4 months later, and I have been hectically busy ever since, just earning a living and having fun with my three girls and Joe. And I have missed her every day, but now I can go through weeks without feeling the pain too intensely. And I know why. It’s because the transformation is complete. We all turn into our mothers eventually.
I am chuffed to bits if a friend rings me when they feel down. When my mate says she thinks she’s going crazy and fighting off depression I can’t wait to see her. If I can take a story of some craziness with me , so much the better. Some days the black dog arrives at my house and I welcome him in, have a rant and a cry while he’s around, and then politely show him the door. Too much going on here to be depressed for too long. And even though I’ve still not published my novel, haven’t found a buyer for our investment plot of land, and my Spanish isn’t as fluid as I’d like it to be, I honestly do get up each day with (as my nan used to say) a ‘shit-eating grin’. Joe can confirm this. It drives him crazy. Which is just how I like it.
