Basically, this. And I will clarify, before I start, I hated being depressed, of course I did, and I wouldn’t wish that on anyone and I would never ever wish to be in that place again if I to any extent have the choice, and I want you to read the following paragraphs being absolutely certain of that because otherwise you’re all going to hate me. And I don’t know how to say this or where to start because it’s hard to put into words but I want to have said it.
So basically. There are very, very, very few good points about depression – in fact, I think, there is only one. And it is this: that people show you just how much they do care, in a way that when you’re not depressed, or ill, they sort of have no cause to. Does that make sense? There was something really, really good about, when having a bad day, just having someone there to hold my hand and look out for me. When everything tasted like cardboard and nothing had any kind of colour and I couldn’t care less about anything it did actually matter on some level that you were there holding me whilst I drifted miles away marooned in my cloud. There is no greater or more valuable proof of love than that you were waiting for me to come back and didn’t blame me in the least and some of my favourite memories of some of my favourite people are from some of the bleakest and most awful days I had. When I was panicking, running, desperate, away from rooms and crowds and people, or having nightmares and crying out in my sleep, too, and you were there unquestioning saying soothing things as if I was actually a small child whilst I tried to remember how to cry. I want to apologise to the people who had to deal with me in that kind of a state, for the days I ruined, the moments people have had to miss out on in order to stick around and look after me, I don’t like that I’ve put people through that, and it’s probably deeply boring watching me take three hours to decide whether or not I want a cup of tea and then drink it, and it must be hard taking decisions about whether I should eat or drink something and having to put me to bed and watch out for me, it must have been hard taking responsibility for everything for me because I couldn’t do that for myself sometimes, and I’m so very sorry. There’s a bit of me that here and now wants to write a list of tiny little moments that I will always treasure, just to show you all, but I’m not prepared to lay myself and my friendships and, well, other people, that open.
But the way I have been loved and cared for in those moments means more to me than I can possibly express, and now I am (thank God, thank everything, thank everyone) OK, now I’m not depressed and I don’t have nightmares about anything worse than finding myself naked in the supermarket or whatever, now I am fine I don’t expect I will have that absolute nurturing love from anyone ever again, not unless I get ill with something else or something (here’s hoping that never happens to me either), and there’s a bit of me that is kind of sad that never again will having someone’s arms around me or watchful gaze over me as I lie there have that same kind of emotional weight. But I know full well and I know I am lucky to know this, that there are hundreds of ways of feeling loved and of loving people and of being loved.
Please say that all of this does make sense and doesn’t make me a bad person? I know this is a garbled entry, too many convoluted clauses, too much and too little punctuation, very badly expressed, but I hope you can understand this.
So before I move on (I have so much work to do), very simply, thank you, and sorry. Whether you read this or not, you all know who you are.