What no one tells you about depression is how boring it is. Movies and TV tell us female characters are having mental illness episodes by having them lay around in silk negligees, smoking and drinking wine with just a bit of smudged mascara. Because no woman in her right mind would have left a small smudge on their face when doing a full face of make-up every day just to sit in their house alone. Once you see those black dots on a woman’s unpowdered cheeks, everyone knows that’s your sign to ring St John of God asap.
On-screen men with depression are usually a bit more active. They’re punching walls. They’re eating at diners at 2am trying to crack a criminal case. They’ve got training montages before a big fight. They’re ruminating over a girlfriend who broke up with them. They’re too busy to be crying. They had Batman spend his inherited millions on planes and cars that fire missiles, instead of therapy for PTSD; they gave the man who saw his parents get murdered a flamethrower and a mission to fight crime instead of a hug. And then we wonder why men struggle with their mental health, and wonder why it so hard for them to get help.
For me, depression isn’t any of those things. There’s no drinking in a lacy robe at noon. There are no drug binges or any overt signs of self-destruction such as telling everyone I’m training for a marathon on Instagram. There are no calls to friends at 3am to tell them exactly what I think of them.
I try to have empathy for the “you just need to go for a run” crowd, they’re grasping on to an illusion of control
It’s looking at a wall for hours, unable to read or watch or listen. I am simply not here, in the same way we would dissociate in a long, boring Mass as kids and start looking up at the lights wondering which person they would kill if they suddenly fell down on the congregation, instead of listening to how much Jesus loves us and how life is sacred.
It feels like the days in between Christmas and New Year. You’re not sure what to do with yourself. So you end up in a comfy tracksuit in front of the telly eating the unwanted toffees out of the Quality Street because they’re the only ones left. You’re not enjoying yourself but you can’t be stuffed to cook again after the stress of Christmas, or face down the shops, or bring yourself to eat turkey and ham leftovers again. So you’re stuck in front of the telly watching a show you don’t want to watch, eating food you don’t want to eat, but unable to do anything else.
[ Brianna Parkins: The Irish do an excellent death – and the research proves itOpens in new window ]
“You just need to get up and make the most of the day,” the “mind over matter” brigade scoff as they read this at 6am over some masochistic bland porridge. Exercise, diet and lifestyle help with mental health treatment. We know this. But some people misunderstand and think depression is what happens when you don’t exercise or drink too much or eat diets high in sugar. It is seen almost as a punishment. But those behaviours are the symptoms of someone’s sickness, not necessarily the total cause. I try to have empathy for the “you just need to go for a run” crowd, they’re grasping on to an illusion of control. They won’t get sick if they do XYZ; only the lazy, undedicated, powerless get ill, they think. But the reality is, I have played high-level sport at my most depressed. Running every day. Eating well. Being social. But alas, you cannot simply salad and sweat the big sads away.
We’re also bad at asking for help, especially in Ireland. The land of a thousand “I’m grand, thanks”
Depression deprives you of enjoyment. The activities that used to make you happy are now just things you have to do. You’re not living, just running errands. Everything from dates to catch-ups with friends to winning the Nobel prize feels the same way as putting in a parcel at the post office. That’s why you end up inside on the couch. You don’t feel like there’s genuinely anything out there worth putting on pants without elasticated waists for. Even food stops having an appeal. It just becomes something to put into your body so your stomach stops grumbling.
And it’s lonely. People don’t know how to help or they just assume because they haven’t heard from you that you’re busy. Or they panic and say things like “you’re responsible for your own mindset”, not realising they’ll be responsible for your foot up their arse in a minute. We’re also bad at asking for help, especially in Ireland. The land of a thousand “I’m grand, thanks”. What do you say in a text? “Hi, I know I look okay and I go to work every day but I can’t remember the last time I felt happy and am not sure I ever will again, anyway how are the kids? Lets catch up if you’re free, no worries if not haha :)”
I will wait this one out, as I always do. I hope other people are stubbornly wading through shit creek at this time too, even though the boat capsized and they were never given a paddle. And I hope they share their TV show recommendations in the meantime.