I feel like I should write in a way that makes you want to read this. Because, to be frank, this isn’t going to be a post that makes you feel good. I barely even have the enthusiasm to write, if I keep with this honesty thing. But if I didn’t write I would be denying the basic reasons for maintaining this. I wish I was one of those people that could write about this topic in an eloquent way. A way that made you think and listen and identify with the words.

I am in the depths depression.

God that feels so wrong to write. I have seen my Neuroimmunology Team at RPH. Dr Connor is just so fantastic. He even called one of my friends yesterday, Amy, for an appropriate witnesses opinion of me. He said I am to see a psychologist again.

My arms have been heavy for weeks. My torso feels thick and as though it cannot hold my shoulders. The blood moving through my body feels like it is weighted in lead. When I wake in the morning I relish the ten minutes I allow myself to lie perfectly still with my eyes closed. It is warm and safe there with the sheets, pillow and soft air on my cheek. Opening my eyes means sight and sharp cold air on my eyeballs. It takes energy to focus on any one object. I feel great lying in bed, so great I can fool myself into moving enough to get up. By the time I’ve put the kettle on to boil I already resent my decision.

Thinking about what to do each day makes my chest feel like I am being squashed in a vice. I know I should put a nice outfit on, do my face and hair as though I am doing something wonderful today. I remind myself that even a patient in a hospital needs to get dressed to stay in bed. Making no effort makes the bad feelings worse. But the word effort itself causes so much pressure in my chest that I feel breathless and need to sit down for ten minutes to recover.

If I have half an hour of good energy and movement , it takes two hours to recover my losses. My head accumulates weight as the time passes and becomes more difficult to keep up. Concentration, focus, attention. All require even more energy. Mum and dad want conversation. They want engagement. They can have my presence. If they get conversation or responses then I know I should got to bed early lest I overdo myself and snap at them.

I still snap at them.

I go to my room early each night, sit on the bed staring into space. My thoughts these days are vague and often contain little of valuer. I try to read fiction each night. Each day. Watch old comedies. Listen to new music. Write about nothing. Talk to my friends. Cook nice meals. Keep the house clean. Finish my projects. I do everything I am supposed to. I talk the right amount. Engage with everyone as I should.

Gallow asked what makes me sad. Nothing has made me sad. I love my life at the moment. I have wonderful friends, family and boyfriend. My life is full of safety, security. My health is not particularly troubling, if we are honest. I am at the higher end of my classmates in my degree and am doing well in my volunteer roles and at my job.

I am not sad. I am not reacting to an event or set of circumstances in my life. I have depression. My body functionality, the chemicals and hormones running within it, are unbalanced. I do not have a failure to function. I do not have an internal need to cause harm to myself or others. I do not feel the end of this life is an appealing alternative to the existence I currently lead. If you were to meet me now you may think I had been awake for a few days, or was recovering from the passing of a distant loved one.

I am flat.

I must be honest, I knew early on in the relationship that Gallow was not too familiar with mental health illnesses. I wondered how he would go. He is just wonderful, to be honest. He asks all the right questions, about my sleep, my day, my medications, my doctors. He listens and says comforting words. Simple comments. He doesn’t tell me what I should be doing, or that I will feel better soon. I’m so glad.

I just want to feel desire for something. I want to be interested in anything.

I am ready to wake up I just don’t know how.


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