You know those day in a life articles that can make you feel like your own life's a bit boring? About people who manage to hold down full-time jobs, exercise every day, dress impeccably and regularly dine at swanky restaurants with an impossibly glamorous set of friends? Well this isn't one of those. This is a day in my life. Inside the head of a depressive. Ok, sometimes there is more than a little bit of swank. And some of my friends are incredibly glamorous. But there are also days like this. Unproductive. Infuriatingly so. Not the worst ever but not the best either.
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A day in the life of a depressive
Before the alarm goes off: Wake up at numerous points. Panic that I've overslept. Remind myself that one of the side effects of my meds is night sweats so, no, I haven't wet the bed. Struggle to get back to sleep. Get to sleep. Wake up again. Repeat until...
Alarm call: Hit snooze as many times as I can by choosing not to:
- wash my hair
- eat breakfast
- iron my clothes
- speak to the rest of my family
- clear away their breakfast things
- clean my teeth (isn't that what chewing gum was invented for?)
- use eye liner, or eyeshadow, or any make-up at all except perhaps some lip balm
- wear shoes with laces
- wear clothes with too many buttons
School run: Half an hour to chat to Bea and try to switch gear to work mode.
Arrive home: Try to get out of the car. Seriously. Some days I get out in a matter of seconds. Other days it can take up to 30 minutes to find the energy to move. Chris Evans finishes at 9:30am, I've never stayed in the car past then.
The working day: Do everything I can to avoid getting stuck on the sofa. I have had days where I've made the mistake of sitting down with a coffee and then not moving until I have to go and collect Bea from school. Inside my head I'm willing myself to move, trying every tactic I can think of, but Padfoot is sat firmly on my chest and won''t be coaxed off.
You know the worst hangover you've ever had where you can't move because if you do the room spins and you feel ill? It's like that, but without the nausea, and the headache, and the fun night before that makes it worthwhile.
Lunch, if I can be bothered, usually consists of a bag of crisps (Wotsits are the current favourite) and a can of Coke Zero - zero prep, zero washing up and zero nutritional value.
School run: Collect Bea. I park on the village green to wait for her so that I can stay in the car and avoid speaking to any of the other parents. Even the ones I like. Because they might ask me how I am. And if I answered truthfully they might never speak to me again. (This could be a good strategy to use with people I actually don't want to speak to...)
The evening shift: Oscillate between guilt, inertia and catching up on the work I failed to do during the day. Desperately trying to stay awake as I'm now exhausted.
10pm onwards: Tiredness has been and gone and I'm now wide awake with no sign of sleep coming. Eventually fall asleep on the sofa watching ITV 3: Life's Over Murders or something else featuring a place that nobody would ever move to given the number of suspicious deaths that happen there. Eventually I make my way to bed to begin the cycle all over again.
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Thankfully not every day is like this. Just some of them. On a London day I feel much more energised - being in an office with people is hugely motivating. Although I do have to stop myself from staying on the tube or walking past the office - with no destination in mind, simply a need to not reach one.
Prozac continues to help. Friends, colleagues and my counsellor are all excellent cheerleaders. Each kind gesture, supportive shove and piss taking comment is just what I need. It may be one step forward, two steps back but while there's still the tiniest of movement ahead of me I'll take that as positive. And if there's no momentum, never mind, tomorrow I'm probably in London and that might be a different type of day altogether.
Image by Gemma Correll. Thanks for introducing me to her illustrations Ben Swift - they're fantastically insightful.
