Without realising, it’s been 20 years since I was living with the worst of my depression.
Living isn’t the right word; surviving is better because I was surviving and doing little else for a long time until I got the opportunity to go to therapy full time.
Not a lot from that time frame, has survived, including many memories. It all feels empty, dark and thinking too much about that part of my life fills me with anxiety. A lot of that life is gone.
The friendships I made, the meds I took, the coping mechanisms I used, the places I lived and jobs I worked. The debts I accrued.
Even the name I used and the gender I was doesn’t exist anymore.
But I was definitely there; it definitely all happened.
I lived at number 14, worked for the Co-Op, tried and failed Uni twice.
I took Prozac, Citalopram, Tegretol, Seroxat, Diazepam, Zopiclone, Cilest.
I slept, wrote, cut, ate, drank, worked, overdosed, dreamt there. I went to therapy, went to hospital, had family visit.
I went to work, walked through the city centre, caught the buses, the trains, jumped in taxis, got lifts in lorries and vans.
The only remains of my time there is one friendship, my best friend and plenty of scars. I still have my art, my words but the rest is tenuous acquaintances, friends who didn’t make it and lingering side effects I swear I can still feel.
But there is a lot I do have now.
My wife, my kids.
Different meds, some actual support, diagnosis’ that aren’t just “you have anxiety and depression”.
I have hobbies, family, a secure home and less debt.
I have the right name, the right haircut, a mobility aid and better coping mechanisms.
Most importantly, I have some happiness. That even with the anxiety thinking about those days leave me with, I know I’m through it and will remain through it.
