Anybody who has had depression knows that one of the most difficult things to deal with is that awful desolation that drowns you as you wake up from whatever sleep you can get.
It is an experience that you have to have had to know what it feels like, when the thought of even having to get up and get dressed, let alone do anything else, is beyond daunting.
There was a time when I could only wake up and get up by setting a first alarm clock to go off several hours beforehand, then another sometime after that, and another later still. When I finally did get out of bed, my first port of call was a strong cup of coffee (appropriately named ‘Rocket Fuel’) with which I swallowed my anti-depressant tablet. Eventually I could then get dressed and ready for work.
I’ve started to struggle again with this aspect depression, after years of having trained myself to get up without too much snooze time between alarms. The fact that my partner now brings me a good strong cup of tea helps enormously, as does not having any time pressures at the moment. Even so, the tasks associated with waking up, getting up and getting dressed should not be underestimated for anyone who is suffering from depression. Like a lot of things, breaking the process down into small steps can be a good strategy. First one sock, and then the other.
I’m working towards being one of those people who springs out of bed in order to ‘seize the day’. Just because I’m slow to start, though, doesn’t me I don’t appreciate and value. It just means that I have to take my time to get myself (literally) geared up, even at a basic level.
This is one place (of many) where the poem in my recently posted Poetry Rule No. 9b Keep recycling to a minimum until you’ve got your other priorities right applies.
Rules, Rhymes, Recovery, Recipe, Random – Glad About Life:
It’s not my real name, but ‘Glad’ is better than sad, and I’ve worked hard in my life to be Glad, not sad.
I’ve recently started decorating my house – our house. This may not seem like an amazing revelation or achievement, but it is for me. I’m 64 years old and have had a long struggle to be able to enjoy doing the everyday things that I can focus on now.
It’s taken about fifty years of unlearning and then re-learning how to be me. Poetry hasn’t been the only vehicle I’ve used for recovery and discovery, but it has been a regular companion along the way.
As a teenager – like many teenagers since and still – I developed a very negative self-image of myself, inside and out.
Out
Out, out into the world That’s where I wanted to go What I wanted to do When I was young But when I looked in the mirror All I could see Was an ugly, unattractive body Looking back at me
I went on a diet from the age of about 15 that lasted for the next 30 years or so, and affected every aspect of my life (or more accurately non-life that it had become). I didn’t think I had anything to offer as a person, didn’t know how to form relationships, and put all my energy into losing weight. At least if I was thin, that would be something. Except it led to nothing, because it wasn’t solid ground on which to build a life. It was the best I could do at the time, but I did eventually realise, after I’d had a major breakdown in my late thirties, and was trying to get myself going again in my forties, that I needed to eat, to give me energy, to be able to live. I had to finally, eventually, push through that awful sense of self-loathing that I associated with putting on weight in order to emerge as a (literally as well as generally) well-rounded person with an appetite for life.
I still have to work at it, still take anti-depressants, can’t use shop changing rooms or look at myself naked in a mirror, but on the whole this does not affect my ability to enjoy my life – with my partner – and try to make the most of every day.
I can still very easily cut myself off, go into ‘zombie’ mode, more readily associate with entropy than energy, so decorating my house – however long it takes – and writing this blog – wherever it takes me – are positive signs of engagement; action rather than inaction.
I hope my poems and other musings may resonate with anyone who has struggled to find their own identity and path through life. I know now that there are endless possibilities and I hope that the following poem (in six parts) helps to show how important it is for each of us to find our fighting spirit:
Jacket 1 It’s there, on the chair The red fleece jacket With hood and drawstring waist That I don’t want to wear Don’t want to keep
It’s warm and soft when I put it on But far too big for me Drowned in a red sea Shapeless, I feel A baggy, saggy, faceless entity
I look at the jacket On the chair In limp, loose folds of red, and seams This isn’t the jacket of my dreams
It’s theirs to wear Not mine to keep Their tears to cry Not mine to weep
It’s there, on the chair The red fleece jacket With hood and drawstring waist That I don’t want to wear Don’t want to keep So I’ve put a price on its head To let it go free To someone who wants it But when will that be?
Jacket 2 It’s there, on the chair The red fleece jacket With hood and drawstring waist That I don’t want to wear Don’t want to keep
It’s warm and soft when I put it on But far too big for me Drowned in a red sea Shapeless, I feel A baggy, saggy, faceless entity
I look at the jacket On the chair In limp, loose folds of red, and seams This isn’t the jacket of my dreams
It’s not my layer These aren’t my lies With drawstring waist And nylon ties
It’s not my jacket They’re not my dreams These aren’t my ties They’re not my seams
So I leave the jacket On the chair To go my way While they go theirs
Jacket 3 Now it hangs upon the door That red fleece jacket That I didn’t want to wear Didn’t want to keep
It’s warm and soft when I put it on And not too big for me Warmed in a red sea Shapeless no more No baggy, saggy faceless entity
I look at the jacket On the door In limp, loose folds of red, and seams It’s not the jacket of my dreams But just a layer to keep me warm From frozen looks And glares of scorn
It is my jacket With hood and waist To wear a while From place to place
Jacket 4 What next?
Jacket 5 Jacket in?
Jacket 6 No!
Gladabout.life blog posts from March 2020 to September 2024 are now available as an e-book on Amazon for Kindle:
Rules, Rhymes, Recovery, Recipe, Random: Glad About Life
As this 28-day cycle of journaling/blogging comes to a close, I reflect on how far I’ve come in being able to make the most of every day as I do, after the journey of mental health breakdown and recovery that I’ve had, for most of my so far 69 years.
I’m now going to have a short break from writing while I put together a two-volume book of the story of Lydia and me so far. While I’m doing this, I will re-post a blog from the past every day.
A full collection of my earlier blogs, from March 2020 to September 2024, is now available on Amazon for Kindle:
‘Rules’ came originally from a set of ‘self-management rules’ that I devised, largely to reflect on some of the very negative experiences I’d had of being managed by others. I later developed these Rules into ‘Poetry Rules’, relating them to poems that I wrote or had previously written.
‘Rhymes’ are my poems, even though not all my poems rhyme. I just like writing them, expressing myself through words in whatever way I choose.
‘Recovery’ pieces reflect on different approaches and factors that influence mental health and wellbeing, including barriers to recovery.
‘Recipe’ is largely focused on one dish, but it’s an important one: Leftovers Soup.
‘Random’ – well, anything that didn’t quite fit in to the other categories but wanted to include anyway.
Step by step, day by day, the story of Lydia and me continues, and I’ll continue to record it at https://gladabout.life/.
It’s there, on the chair The red fleece jacket With hood and drawstring waist That I don’t want to wear Don’t want to keep.
It’s warm and soft when I put it on But far too big for me Drowned in a red sea Shapeless, I feel A baggy, saggy, faceless entity.
I look at the jacket On the chair In limp, loose folds of red, and seams This isn’t the jacket of my dreams.
It’s theirs to wear Not mine to keep Their tears to cry Not mine to weep.
It’s there, on the chair The red fleece jacket With hood and drawstring waist That I don’t want to wear Don’t want to keep So I’ve put a price on its head To let it go free To someone who wants it But who wants me?
Jacket 2
It’s there, on the chair The red fleece jacket With hood and drawstring waist That I don’t want to wear Don’t want to keep.
It’s warm and soft when I put it on But far too big for me Drowned in a red sea Shapeless, I feel A baggy, saggy, faceless entity.
I look at the jacket On the chair In limp, loose folds of red, and seams This isn’t the jacket of my dreams.
It’s not my layer These aren’t my lies With drawstring waist And nylon ties.
It’s not my jacket They’re not my dreams These aren’t my ties They’re not my seams.
So I leave the jacket On the chair To go my way While they go theirs.
Jacket 3
Now it hangs upon the door That red fleece jacket That I didn’t want to wear Didn’t want to keep.
It’s warm and soft when I put it on And not too big for me Warmed in a red sea Shapeless no more No baggy, saggy faceless entity.
I look at the jacket On the door In limp, loose folds of red and seams It’s not the jacket of my dreams But just a layer to keep me warm From frozen looks And glares of scorn.
It is my jacket With hood and waist To wear awhile From place to place.
Glad About 
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