Monthly Archives: October 2009

Depression is as normal as freckles

Blogging is a mystery

I live too much in my head. I wonder too much about what to blog. As I try to catch thoughts and ideas amid the flurry in my head, I hear a whispering voice, a voice from a movie soundtrack, “If you build it he will come….”

If I write it who will come? Who indeed?
….and anyway does that matter? I want to write about the darkness of depression, the distress of losing someone to suicide. My incomprehension of it all and the importance of breathing. Dark matters that matter, and ones we don’t talk about often enough.

When Mottsu died – pause – that sounds accidental and his death was planned and deliberate – callously so – and I’ll stick with ‘died’ for now there was barely a person who had glimpsed his depression. There was nobody who had anticipated his despair. Everyone asked “why?” asked it of me and asked it out loud – as if I might have known, or could have explained.

Many of his friends and colleagues were guilt ridden that he hadn’t confided in them, hadn’t mentioned anything….no revelation until it was too late.

That’s how it is, I don’t believe we talk about our dark thoughts often enough or freely enough. I don’t know why, maybe there is no why.

If I write it and nobody comes…. I don’t know, what then…

Depression is not the only cause of suicide, I’ll write it anyway…
It is bleak and black. I will write it anyway.

He/you/she/they/we may not come. I’ll write it anyway.
No thunder claps, no whispering voices, no choirs of angels and no readers.

Many of my friends live with depression. They manage with medication, meditation, and therapy. I only know that because they were generous enough to share their own experiences in the wake of Mottsu leaving.

There is a chance that if people are more readily able to talk about their depression, then someone might turn to you and you’ll need to be prepared to make the conversation safe. These are my recommendations:
1. Check your face and shut your mouth, if it gapes. Adjust your eyebrows down to a standard resting position. Adopt an interested, not a concerned or worried, expression.

2. Assume they are credible – so no expressions of incredulity – no “OMG”, no “REALLY?” or similar. Offer no judgments, only support. This is about them and how they are feeling not you and your reaction – no matter how astounded you are.

3. Don’t do anything you’re not asked to do except listen and empathise. No platitudes, they’re not defined as ‘trite and banal’ for nothing. No over cheerful helpful predictions ‘this too will pass’ type comments – this includes ‘the darkest hour is just before dawn’ (or is that a platitude?) and similar. Ask if there is anything you should/could do apart from listening and being available to listen. There is probably nothing more valuable you can do than listen, and only do what is asked. Understand you can’t fix this for them, no matter how desperately you wish it were otherwise.

Depression is a normal and expected state, as normal as freckles.

I spy with my little eye

I remember our first date. Date? It was more like a “Why don’t you come horse riding with us?”

Mottsu was a friend of my house-mate and “us” was a group of his friends and house mates. The invitation was to join them on a bush ride 5 or 6 hours on a horse. Horse riding sounds easy enough, you sit on top and the one under the saddle does all the work.

An all day horse ride sounds deceptively easy, it is body bruising work. Unfamiliar with the inevitable muscular outrage I readily agreed to go.

It was a fabulous day, a memorable first date, I paid for it later with all over body distress and that’s not my lasting memory. I vaguely recall the physical torment.

There was some natural awkwardness during the long day, it was difficult to converse with ease, from horse back to horse back. Sometime mid-afternoon I felt a particular silence was a tad pro-longed and I scanned my head for things to say when Mottsu, a laconic easy rider, started with “I spy with my little eye…”. We slipped into an unanticipated game of I spy.

WTF? I spy? It wasn’t exactly conversation.

Far out, I spy.

I was delighted by his unconventional wit and style. Unpretentious, the perfect foil for my own uptight sensibilities. I was hooked with a game of eye-spy.

There all sorts of things you love about someone, all sorts of reasons.
Right there, ‘I spy’, is why I loved that man