Depression

I haven’t posted for a while because I’m not very well.

Hold on, that’s the meat and drink of this blog. That’s what it’s all about. Why have I been so reticent?

Because the nature of this illness means that I don’t want to do anything. I can’t do a lot of the things I used to, like smile or cope or cross the kitchen to turn off the execrable Call You and Yours.

I have depression.

It was inevitable that this would come round again at some point. I've had it once every year, give or take a few, for fifteen years. It isn't triggered by anything external, and the only thing that makes it better is ECT.

But even though I had ECT in my last pregnancy, they won't give it to me this time, because the anaesthetist has concerns. I am now on the NHS, rather than being seen privately, which shouldn't make it a difference - but it does.

However, although we felt fully reassured last time that there was no significant risk of having the treatment once I was in my second trimester, I don't want to go back and have it done privately because the concerns have scared me a bit. And because I am crap at making decisions at the moment.

So I have started some new pills, despite the fact I have had pretty much every pill under the sun in the last 1.5 decades, and none of them have worked. But everyone's mad keen on this one. (I'm less keen, especially on the side effects - nausea, jitteriness and heartburn like someone has poured acid down my throat.) But realistically it is all they can do.

Well, the other things the mental health professionals do is to ring me up every now and then to remind me not to kill myself (apparently my family would be 'devastated' - which would never have occurred to me), and do other helpful things like inform the health visitor that Logie has a depressed mother and report me to Social Services as being a pregnant women with 'a problem'.

But I stress to them, and everyone, that it is not affecting Logie. I am looking after him fine. I don't cry in front of him, we get out of the house every day and do something physically tiring, he is fed and watered and generally as happy and bouncy as ever.

It's very very hard, but I do it. I don't doubt that if I didn't have him, I would barely get out of bed. Don't even ask where I've got to with Christmas shopping. But I look after my son. I love him, and even though he is an exasperating handful quite often, he also is a source of love and humour that touches me in a way that nothing else does.

So the upshot is that I'm sitting it out, and feel increasingly less like confiding in any of the medical professionals. It took a while to get the NHS cogs moving and for them to take me seriously, but now they are grinding relentlessly through various admin procedures, none of which actually HELP me, all of which make me cry more (has anyone ever asked you if you are hearing voices? In a totally conversational 'do you like mince pies' tone of voice? I find it humiliating every time, even though I know they have to ask) and some of which add to my worries, eg Social Services.

Then again, look at it from their point of view. What else can they do? Depression is a hard thing to treat. Medication is the standard, and it works for a lot of people. I am pregnant, so my treatment options are limited. And even though my depression has never been caused by life events or hormones, maybe this once it is linked to my circumstance: I have been pretty wobbly and moody through this pregnancy.

So long as I am not suicidal, starving myself or shitting the bed, they won't class me as severe enough to have ECT. The waiting list for therapy is months long, and probably wouldn't be useful to me at this stage anyway. They are massively under-resourced, and judging from the type of flatulent, noisy, scary people in the waiting room they have much more severely troubled people to worry about than me. I have the backing of a loving and supportive family and group of friends - many don't.

So they medicate, monitor, and pass the parcel between departments in order to cover their backs.

Meanwhile, I have a constant sob in my throat, that threatens to choke me (what the marvellous Sally Brampton calls the throat monster - something I thought was peculiar to me til I read about it in her memoir of depression, Shoot the Damned Dog), I feel sad and numb and paralysed and tormented all the time. I sleep barely four hours a night.

People ask me if it helps to know that it will pass, because it has before. Not really is the answer. And it's not the right question. If someone was holding a needle to your eye, and you were shouting 'ow ow OW' all the time, having someone in your ear reminding you that it might pass in a few weeks or months isn't a great comfort.

But my friends and family (especially Jon, without whom I would be utterly lost) are what keep me going. It's just that I find it hard to tell people. Initially because I don't want to admit that it's happening, and then because I don't want them to worry. Or because I don't really want to have to pretend to feel better than I am.

But I feel an awful fraud, because I bang on about depression when I'm well, write articles about it, give advice and am generally clear-headed on the subject. So it seems that this should stave it off, or at least help me cope when it comes back. But it doesn't, because that's the nature of the beast. I feel embarrassed. And helpless.

But at least I've written it down. It was very hard to do.

In order not to leave this on such a bleak note - and thank you for bearing with me during the longest post I've ever written - I'll include a few details about Logie and his words. They are suddenly coming on apace. Wellies are 'wallies'. Satsumas are 'hahumas', like some sort of Hawaiian delicacy. Trucks are 'tyghhhucks' like a guttural German command. Smoked salmon is 'ham' - which amused my friend so much this morning it's become her West London middle-class quote of the week.

Also, here's a picture of him, the first I've ever posted, just to prove that I am not making him unhappy...