There are times when, for no logical reason, I feel an almost nervous need to share my feelings about a period of my life that I shouldn’t want a share. Fuck it! Who am I trying to kid? Myself? This only ever happens when I’m drinking, which is exactly what I’m doing now. Alcohol is a doorway to my darkness, a key to my internal conundrum. The bitch welcomes me in with open arms. It’s always been an opening to a place that I fucking hate and would love to stab in the face and spit on, but also need, because it’s part of me … forever, even though just admitting that makes me sick and disappointed in my own existence. It makes me feel disconnected from most of the people in my humanity network. It’s that annoying member of the family that you don’t talk about, but can’t get rid of. We all have the one person we’re related to that is just not worth the time … be honest … you could name them instantly. If you can’t then you’re probably the one your relatives are bagging out. In this instance though, it’s not a relative.

The thing I hate, the charcoal cloud that floats close by and never leaves, is depression.

It’s a word that’s gained acceptance, and is almost cool enough to chat about, but is still as hard as fuck to discuss, because just mentioning it makes it real. This shady friend arrived at some stage after my wife left me in 2008. I don’t blame her for this unexpected dark interaction, not now I’ve had years to evaluate those moments, because all roads lead two ways. She was, and still is, a beautiful person, and I’m incredibly honoured to have had her love in my life. I realise now that there were always demons tangled deep inside me, wrangling patiently, waiting to tighten their grip around my throat when the time was right. But here’s the killer. Here’s the cliff-hanger. When they grabbed, they strangled the absolute fuck out of me. Depression is such a difficult creature to put into words because there isn’t a feeling that fits. No words can truly explain what depression is. I think this is the main reason why people struggle to understand it and just wave it off by saying generic things like … “Snap out of it” … “Be more positive” … and “Just forget about it, it’ll be okay”. Depression isn’t a choice. It’s a painful, dilapidating disease that controls every minute of every day, and all of those seconds that make up those valuable minutes of life are smothered with a stank, wet blanket that is too heavy to lift away. You drown every day and positivity and clarity are a fantasy forever out of reach. Imagine having hot tar poured over you every day while the people closest to you are telling you that it’ll all be okay. It’s an unexplainable son-of-a-bitch. And everyone around you looks happy. Every fucking person looks like they are out of a magazine or starring in your favourite TV show … and you hate them for it. They all look so fucking perfect … the exact opposite of how you feel and what you see when you glimpse a reflection of yourself. I realised that I had some serious issues (something that drinking a bottle of bourbon every evening after work should have pointed out) after a friend, who I consider my brother, told me that suddenly changing my Facebook profile photo overnight to a gravestone wasn’t cool. Not cool at all! It threw up a few warning flags to those close to me. All I knew was that, at the time while drinking and listening to Breaking Benjamin, that photo was exactly how I felt. Dead. Inside and outside. Dead as fuck. So why not change my photo to how I was feeling. At the time there was no realisation or consideration for how anyone else would feel. I didn’t care at the time. It wasn’t done to get a reaction. I truly didn’t give a shit. The fact that someone cared enough the next day to phone and talk to me about it wasn’t something I was grateful for, it was painful. It didn’t change the road I was on, but in reflection, I’m glad that someone cared.

A painful memory stands out within the dark fog that controlled that stage of depression in my mid 30s (approximately 5 fucking years) I had a girlfriend during that time. I was looking after my parents’ house and she was there with me. I suddenly felt a wave of unexplainable sadness and walked outside to look at Penguin, my home town. I looked out over the hundreds of houses and just cried. My girlfriend asked what was wrong. My recollection (in my mind) of that moment still makes me uncomfortable. I said, “How do they do it? How do they get up every morning, go to work, come home, and go sleep … knowing they are going to do that same fucking thing every day of the rest of their lives. Nothing will ever change. That’s all they have to look forward to. Nothing else. The same fucking thing over and over again!”

But here’s the thing I said next. This is the part that gives me shivers, that gives me goose bumps while I’m typing this … because I still remember the feeling I had as though it was five minutes ago. I said … “How do they do it? Why aren’t they killing themselves?”

I truly couldn’t understand how they could deal with knowing that the rest of their lives were just a repeat of the mundane, nothing else to look forward to, because my mind didn’t believe there was anything out there worth living for. That dread, that loneliness, that false realisation of how I perceived life to be a repetitive hell, was so utterly smothering that the memory of it brings forth tears just typing these words. It felt, and the memory stills feels, so fucking real.

My girlfriend at the time was/is an incredible woman and didn’t deserve the crap that my screwed up head pummelled her with. I’m still sorry for what I put her through, and for what I don’t realise I put her through. I wasn’t a good person then. I deserve no forgiveness, but I didn’t know any other way to be. I was a mental mess, even when I thought I was happy.

I should have seen a doctor and looked into medication and/or talked to someone about my problems when it was really bad, but I didn’t want to. It wasn’t because I was being typically male. I just didn’t want drugs to dull my creativity, but the ironic thing is, I didn’t write a damn word worth reading during that time. Not a thing. I kept deleting everything because I didn’t believe it was worthy. Funny, huh! I should have talked to someone. I believe, now, that it would have helped, but I was stubborn. Dealing with depression wasn’t as open back then though. It’s amazing how different thing have become in the last few years. Our communities have become more accommodating and understanding and open. We have a long way to go in many areas, but we’re getting there. I have such hope for the human race and where we are heading. Depression is talked about. It’s not a hidden topic. It’s a son-of-a-bitch and can go fuck itself, but having it out in the open is fantastic.

I still have days when I know it’s watching me (That’s why I have a tattoo on my right arm to remind me that I’m just fighting myself). There are days when that black dog is growling and wanting to be fed. It’s tough, because after coming so far it’s such a kick in the guts to realise it’s never truly going to leave me. Depression is a life sentence. That’s just how it is. But I’m prepared to fight the fucker until I have nothing left, and if you see me fall, give me a hand. I promise I’ll appreciate it.

Please, if you know people who are going through dark times, even if you think they are just looking for attention, show them some anyway, because they may really need it. You may save a life. Is there anything more worthy of your time?