Showing posts with label depression. Show all posts
Showing posts with label depression. Show all posts
Sunday, 28 February 2016
Friday, 19 February 2016
Good things happening...
I'm three days into rehearsals for the solo performance I am creating, Worse Things Happen, about my experience of depression. It's a bit of a juggling act because I'm self-producing, but I have some truly wonderful creative people working with me (a solo show is never solo!), including support from Sandra Bendelow through NTW's WalesLab Producer Mentoring programme. Louise Osborn is nominally my dramaturg, but is so much more in reality. Lara Ward, who helped me in my research and development last year, is back on board as Movement Director. Between the two of them I feel as though I am in safe hands - and safety is so important as I plough into deeply personal material to create a performance that I hope will speak to everyone who sees it.
That's really what these first days have been about. I had some material that I had put together for two scratch opportunities in October last year, at The Other Room and madeinroath, so I began by performing that again for Louise and Lara (toughest gig of my life, performing that for two women wearing frowns of concentration and scribbling notes...). We've spun off from that material, going deeper into the stories I am telling and the movement impulses I had improvised around.
What is the story you are trying to tell?, Louise keeps asking. Why are you making this? I feel so strongly that this story, of my on-going battle with a demon in my own mind, is something that so many other people experience and never tell - because they don't have the words, because they don't have the platform, because there's no one listening, because they are just trying to keep it all together. I was floored by this article that I read recently (although it is from 2013), reporting on the depression - both economic and that of mental health - in the south Wales valleys. 10,000 prescriptions for anti-depressants a month in an adult population of less than 60,000! And how many more don't seek medical help? Perhaps the numbers are lower elsewhere, but still: we're a society of walking wounded, and how often do we acknowledge that openly, let alone ensure the safety nets are there for those suffering?
Worse Things Happen is at Chapter Arts Centre, 10-12 March.
That's really what these first days have been about. I had some material that I had put together for two scratch opportunities in October last year, at The Other Room and madeinroath, so I began by performing that again for Louise and Lara (toughest gig of my life, performing that for two women wearing frowns of concentration and scribbling notes...). We've spun off from that material, going deeper into the stories I am telling and the movement impulses I had improvised around.
What is the story you are trying to tell?, Louise keeps asking. Why are you making this? I feel so strongly that this story, of my on-going battle with a demon in my own mind, is something that so many other people experience and never tell - because they don't have the words, because they don't have the platform, because there's no one listening, because they are just trying to keep it all together. I was floored by this article that I read recently (although it is from 2013), reporting on the depression - both economic and that of mental health - in the south Wales valleys. 10,000 prescriptions for anti-depressants a month in an adult population of less than 60,000! And how many more don't seek medical help? Perhaps the numbers are lower elsewhere, but still: we're a society of walking wounded, and how often do we acknowledge that openly, let alone ensure the safety nets are there for those suffering?
Worse Things Happen is at Chapter Arts Centre, 10-12 March.
Tuesday, 26 January 2016
64 Million Artists Day 26: Summer time...
"We don't know about you, but we're ploughing through January dreaming of warmer, lighter days. Make a collage or drawing in celebration of summer. Use old photos, or pencils, paints or pastels, or scraps of whatever you have lying around. Spend time imagining the sights and sounds and smells of summer, then go for it."
I wasn't sure I was going to do today's challenge. I've been having a bad mental health day and the rain, darkness and actual rivulets of water running down the walls in the place I'm living isn't helping. But actually doing this really helped - that's a photo of me on holiday a year ago in Morocco, not technically summer, but close enough.
I wasn't sure I was going to do today's challenge. I've been having a bad mental health day and the rain, darkness and actual rivulets of water running down the walls in the place I'm living isn't helping. But actually doing this really helped - that's a photo of me on holiday a year ago in Morocco, not technically summer, but close enough.
Friday, 14 August 2015
Failure Project Day Ten: Tonight We Fly
Today, the last day of my research and development, was about revisiting and reviewing work. I had a few people coming to join us in the afternoon, and I wanted to make sure I could give them a good overview of what we've been doing for the past two weeks. So, we did that, and I got useful feedback and had a good discussion about the work, and then Lara and I went out for a drink to celebrate.
Now what? I want to sit down and look over the footage from the last two weeks, maybe transcribe a couple of verbal improvisations. Lara and I will let a little time pass, and then do a post-match interview for analysis. I will do some writing - a script, I suppose, but not one with any particular order. I need to get the various stories knocking about my head into words instead.
And then the task of finding the money and finding the support to get more studio time for development, and somewhere to show the piece. And then...?
Thanks for following the beginning of this journey. I'll keep blogging about the process here, no doubt, so if you are interested then check back here.
This process would have been sad, lonely and probably quite static without Lara Ward; it would have been less comfortable without rehearsal space provided by the Wales Millennium Centre; and it would not have been possible in this form at all without the support of the Arts Council of Wales.
Now what? I want to sit down and look over the footage from the last two weeks, maybe transcribe a couple of verbal improvisations. Lara and I will let a little time pass, and then do a post-match interview for analysis. I will do some writing - a script, I suppose, but not one with any particular order. I need to get the various stories knocking about my head into words instead.
And then the task of finding the money and finding the support to get more studio time for development, and somewhere to show the piece. And then...?
Thanks for following the beginning of this journey. I'll keep blogging about the process here, no doubt, so if you are interested then check back here.
This process would have been sad, lonely and probably quite static without Lara Ward; it would have been less comfortable without rehearsal space provided by the Wales Millennium Centre; and it would not have been possible in this form at all without the support of the Arts Council of Wales.
Thursday, 13 August 2015
Failure Project Day Nine: Making Friends
I didn't really know what we were going to do today. I'd thought maybe we could return to some of the improvisations I'd done on Tuesday; some of them had reached the point of feeling satisfactory, but others hadn't. But for some reason we decided to start with an object manipulation improvisation - I'd tried to bring in random objects to use in clowning last week, and one of them - a sprinkler - was still hanging about. Improvising with the sprinkler led to a challenge from Lara for me to choose three items from the costume bag to create a "safe space" for the object (I built the sprinkler a nest). That led in turn to animating the object, which in turn led to building a whole puppet out of the sprinkler and costume bits... which led to two more puppets and the passing of the whole morning.
Unexpected, and actually through-provoking. I love puppetry, and I've not had the opportunity to study or explore it much. So it felt in keeping with the failure ethos (I've not forgotten failure) to get stuck in and play without caring whether I was "doing it right". Puppets may also prove a lighter way to explore dark themes - I couldn't help recall a fantastic puppet show I saw at the Edinburgh Fringe years ago (saw twice actually, it struck me that hard) called Lily Through The Dark, which told the story of a young girl so grief-stricken after her father's death that she tries to kill herself and goes on a journey through the darkness to find him.
In the afternoon we explored falling, and stumbling - being off-kilter generally. It's possibly a very obvious visual metaphor in a study of depression, but I'm trying generally to build a physical vocabulary.
I had a photographer with us all day as well - Jorge Lizalde, of Studio Cano. His work is definitely worth checking out. I'll post some photos as I get them
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Unexpected, and actually through-provoking. I love puppetry, and I've not had the opportunity to study or explore it much. So it felt in keeping with the failure ethos (I've not forgotten failure) to get stuck in and play without caring whether I was "doing it right". Puppets may also prove a lighter way to explore dark themes - I couldn't help recall a fantastic puppet show I saw at the Edinburgh Fringe years ago (saw twice actually, it struck me that hard) called Lily Through The Dark, which told the story of a young girl so grief-stricken after her father's death that she tries to kill herself and goes on a journey through the darkness to find him.
In the afternoon we explored falling, and stumbling - being off-kilter generally. It's possibly a very obvious visual metaphor in a study of depression, but I'm trying generally to build a physical vocabulary.
I had a photographer with us all day as well - Jorge Lizalde, of Studio Cano. His work is definitely worth checking out. I'll post some photos as I get them
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Wednesday, 12 August 2015
Failure Project Day Eight: Danse Macabre
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| one of Hans Holbein's 16th century Danse Macabre woodcuts |
We started with the spine, with movement that is initiated from the spine: shaking and spasms. It's exhausting, and near impossible for me to sustain for any length of time, but that in itself is interesting and strikes a chord with some of the narrative content I am considering.
And we worked with skin, and touch - comforting sensations, basic animal contact - the things that can really help a person in a depression. Do any of us get as much of that contact as we need? I'm not thinking about sexual contact. All the other primates spend time grooming each other, don't they?
From skin, we went back to bone, considering the fragility of our bodies. In one of my depressions I became so aware of my partner's skeleton, how close to the surface it lay, how vulnerable to breakage and exposure. I was terrified of losing my partner in some way, and this fear tortured me through this awareness of his fragility. I definitely think it is healthy to be aware of and to consider death - that's why I've always liked the medieval ideas of Memento Mori and the images of the Danse Macabre, like the one above. But these thoughts should be life-affirming rather than paralysing, right?
I'm finding our process interesting as well. We get stuck, and we have conversations around ideas and follow tangents and look things up on the internet. There's always a niggling worry in my head that maybe we're wasting time. Then suddenly something comes to me or Lara, and I try an improvisation that reveals a lot to us, and I realise that we've only arrived there because we took that circuitous path. It's a good reminder that creativity can't often be forced. And I should worry less generally.
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Tuesday, 11 August 2015
Failure Project Day Seven: Gliding Through The Sea of Silent Euphoria
Today felt immense. Yesterday felt immense too, but in a weighty way that I found hard to shake off in the evening - Lara had to remind me today that improvising movement while someone shouts negative things at you (it made sense at the time) will take a toll on a person.
Today we continued with physical improvisations. I do the improvisations, and Lara has taken on more of the role of director/movement director. We're trying to explore the physical and emotional sensations of depression. It is actually quite difficult to recall, when (like now) I am not depressed, the specificities of those feelings. But I know how I have described them to myself in the past, and so we have begun with that. As an example, we spent a lot of time today trying to pin down the feelings and physical sensations that underly the social anxiety that grips me when I am depressed - trying to find the word, the image, that seems closest. I think we got close by the end of the day.
We're also exploring contrasts and extremes - I spent some time today dressed as a giant golden sausage - and this afternoon we started to tap into movement that expresses euphoria and a sense of release. Thinking about euphoria led us to thinking about the things we do to connect to each other, and how depression is often a severing of or inability to make those connections. We closed the day by watching an absolutely classic TED talk by Jill Bolte Taylor - "My Stroke of Insight". If you haven't seen it, and you can spare 20 minutes, just watch it right now.
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Today we continued with physical improvisations. I do the improvisations, and Lara has taken on more of the role of director/movement director. We're trying to explore the physical and emotional sensations of depression. It is actually quite difficult to recall, when (like now) I am not depressed, the specificities of those feelings. But I know how I have described them to myself in the past, and so we have begun with that. As an example, we spent a lot of time today trying to pin down the feelings and physical sensations that underly the social anxiety that grips me when I am depressed - trying to find the word, the image, that seems closest. I think we got close by the end of the day.
We're also exploring contrasts and extremes - I spent some time today dressed as a giant golden sausage - and this afternoon we started to tap into movement that expresses euphoria and a sense of release. Thinking about euphoria led us to thinking about the things we do to connect to each other, and how depression is often a severing of or inability to make those connections. We closed the day by watching an absolutely classic TED talk by Jill Bolte Taylor - "My Stroke of Insight". If you haven't seen it, and you can spare 20 minutes, just watch it right now.
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Monday, 10 August 2015
Failure Project Day Six: What I Mean When I Talk About Failure
I spent the weekend thinking about the work we'd done last week, and trying to decide what to do with the week ahead of me. Some of the provocations from the observers I'd had in on Friday afternoon stuck particularly in my mind, especially a suggestion I'd had emailed to me on Saturday: "define to yourself what specifically you are exploring about failure". Would that help? Of course. Blindingly obvious, again, now that I consider it. I've spent a lot of time asking other people what they think about failure, and what kind of shaping force it plays in their lives. It has led to a lot of insightful conversations. But ultimately I need to know what I am making a piece about.
Ultimately, failure is secondary. I think I need to make a piece about depression - I've actually been thinking about it for years now. Failure is a major part of my experience of depression, mostly because it is easy for me to use perceived failures as weapons against myself. I guess I've been avoiding stating that with decisiveness, because I often tell myself that "personal is not the same as important". Most of the time it isn't. But perhaps, with regards to mental health, it is.
(I'm aware that I'm still not sounding entirely certain, with my "I thinks" and "perhaps"... I want to leave space to change my mind in the process of exploration).
So this morning Lara and I began by having a chat about how I wanted my exploration of depression (and accompanying failures) to inform our physical work. I brought in an excellent picture book called The Red Tree by Shaun Tan - I can't emphasise enough how much I think it's worth getting your hands on a copy - because the illustrations have always seemed to me to express some of the experiences of depression that are difficult to put into words.
We spent the rest of the day exploring the movement of impulses around the body, and minimalism in movement. This was really to address my concern that I can't dance depression, because nothing happens. So we tried to answer the question: how little can I do and still be doing something?
It's not going to be all unhappiness. My life isn't all unhappiness. I just happen to have this thing that rears its head up occasionally and seriously affects my experience of the world. So I need to explore it in the way that I know best.
As a side note, it sounds like there are some interesting shows about mental health at the Edinburgh Fringe this year.
supported by:
Ultimately, failure is secondary. I think I need to make a piece about depression - I've actually been thinking about it for years now. Failure is a major part of my experience of depression, mostly because it is easy for me to use perceived failures as weapons against myself. I guess I've been avoiding stating that with decisiveness, because I often tell myself that "personal is not the same as important". Most of the time it isn't. But perhaps, with regards to mental health, it is.
(I'm aware that I'm still not sounding entirely certain, with my "I thinks" and "perhaps"... I want to leave space to change my mind in the process of exploration).
So this morning Lara and I began by having a chat about how I wanted my exploration of depression (and accompanying failures) to inform our physical work. I brought in an excellent picture book called The Red Tree by Shaun Tan - I can't emphasise enough how much I think it's worth getting your hands on a copy - because the illustrations have always seemed to me to express some of the experiences of depression that are difficult to put into words.
We spent the rest of the day exploring the movement of impulses around the body, and minimalism in movement. This was really to address my concern that I can't dance depression, because nothing happens. So we tried to answer the question: how little can I do and still be doing something?
It's not going to be all unhappiness. My life isn't all unhappiness. I just happen to have this thing that rears its head up occasionally and seriously affects my experience of the world. So I need to explore it in the way that I know best.
As a side note, it sounds like there are some interesting shows about mental health at the Edinburgh Fringe this year.
supported by:
Saturday, 28 May 2011
I'm new here.
Sometimes a song just knocks you sideways. I've just listened to Gil Scott-Heron's "I'm new here" for the first time, and I'm still reeling. A friend had posted a link to the video, as Scott-Heron's just died. I'd known who he was, but now I realise that's not enough. I must, must go find all his music and listen to it, NOW.
Here's the video. Listen to it.
I've been reflecting a lot these past few weeks on how I am right now compared with about a year ago. I'm trying to come off the anti-depressants that I've been on since last May. I guess I thought it would be easy - I'd been feeling really good - but storms can blow up in minutes on my personal weather map. So much of my thinking has ended with me feeling as though I've gone in a circle and that somehow I've not progressed at all. I've felt frustrated and trapped, as though I've failed. As if self-knowledge is a sort of test I can pass or fail. Gil Scott-Heron sings to me about the freedom in the circular journey. You arrive where you started, you get the chance to walk the same path, but this time with new knowledge: of yourself, of the world, of other people. Or perhaps, with nothing at all: free of preconceptions (misconceptions?) about the things you thought you knew.
I think that is what I need to remember. I'm not slipping backwards, because life doesn't have a direction in that sense. Let's see if I can hold on to that thought.
Here's the video. Listen to it.
I've been reflecting a lot these past few weeks on how I am right now compared with about a year ago. I'm trying to come off the anti-depressants that I've been on since last May. I guess I thought it would be easy - I'd been feeling really good - but storms can blow up in minutes on my personal weather map. So much of my thinking has ended with me feeling as though I've gone in a circle and that somehow I've not progressed at all. I've felt frustrated and trapped, as though I've failed. As if self-knowledge is a sort of test I can pass or fail. Gil Scott-Heron sings to me about the freedom in the circular journey. You arrive where you started, you get the chance to walk the same path, but this time with new knowledge: of yourself, of the world, of other people. Or perhaps, with nothing at all: free of preconceptions (misconceptions?) about the things you thought you knew.
I think that is what I need to remember. I'm not slipping backwards, because life doesn't have a direction in that sense. Let's see if I can hold on to that thought.
Tuesday, 19 October 2010
the last mile is the longest.
It was my 31st birthday this past weekend.
About 6 months ago, in the grip of a depression, I decided that signing up for the Cardiff Half Marathon, scheduled for the day after my birthday, would be a Good Idea.
The year progressed. I ran less and less. It's not that I wasn't exercising. About the same time I signed up for the half, I also discovered roller derby, so I was skating fairly intensively. I'm also a fairly active person, walking or cycling everywhere.
I thought I should train. I got hold of a training plan from a running magazine. It didn't take long to stress me out. I was beginning to regret my rash decision to sign up for the race. The idea of it made me unhappy. When I did run, I wasn't having fun: it wasn't intensive enough, I wasn't pushing myself hard enough, I was going to do badly.
Eventually, enough was enough. I threw out the training plan. I stopped nagging myself to run. I decided that I'd run the half if I felt like it when October rolled around, but I wasn't going to use it as one more way of undermining my ongoing struggle to be content in myself.
The summer progressed. I was busy. I went to Edinburgh (I took my running kit - unused); I went to Poland (I took my running kit - unused); I worked in London (running kit, still unused). I relished being busy. I had moments when I realised that I felt more like myself than I had in, well, years perhaps.
And then my birthday arrived. I came back to Cardiff from London for the weekend. I had a lovely birthday, celebrating quietly with friends. Then, early Sunday morning I took myself down to Cardiff Bay, alone. On the way, I passed many runners on my bike, headed in the same direction. I felt excited. The crowd at the Bay was huge - 15,000 people. It was a perfect autumn day, crisp and fresh, with a cloudless blue sky. I was cold until I found a place in the mass of runners waiting to start. We waited, jumping up and down, stretching, staring in front blankly, rubbing arms and legs. Then nine o'clock arrived and we started shuffling forward to the starting line. Eventually, as one with the crowd around me, I was able to break into a gentle run. The crowd thinned as we progressed and I found my pace. I found myself running with a smile on my face. I was doing it! I didn't think I would. I didn't think I could. But here I was running, and I felt fantastic. I thought, I'm 31, my body mostly does what I want it to, and most days I'm in moderately good mental health: these things are worth celebrating. Oddly as well, I needed to celebrate the fact that I'd managed not to train. Obviously I don't endorse this; I approached the run with a fairly accurate appraisal of my own physical health. But I could have pushed myself, I could have made it into something that wasn't fun but was rather about proving something to myself about myself. I consider it an achievement that I didn't, one that outweighs any time I could have achieved.
And you know what? It was fun. The whole 13.1 miles. I wept a bit at the beginning from sheer bloody euphoria, a Thanks-Be-To-Whatever that I've had a pretty tough year and I'm still standing. Still running. I ran with a smile on my face. I waved with joy to two dear friends who came out to watch me pass the end of their street. I wept a bit more in the last mile, because last miles are the longest, and are made longer by painful legs and an achey knee. I wept and laughed a little more yet once I'd crossed the finish line, alone in a crowd, overwhelmed by a flood of endorphins and emotion.
I don't think I'll ever run a marathon. I feel no need or desire. I might run another half. Who knows? This one felt like a little victory, and one that had not much to do with running. Perhaps there'll be another period in my life that will call for a similar trial. If so, I hope I also find a way to the finish line, weeping and laughing and still on my feet.
About 6 months ago, in the grip of a depression, I decided that signing up for the Cardiff Half Marathon, scheduled for the day after my birthday, would be a Good Idea.
The year progressed. I ran less and less. It's not that I wasn't exercising. About the same time I signed up for the half, I also discovered roller derby, so I was skating fairly intensively. I'm also a fairly active person, walking or cycling everywhere.
I thought I should train. I got hold of a training plan from a running magazine. It didn't take long to stress me out. I was beginning to regret my rash decision to sign up for the race. The idea of it made me unhappy. When I did run, I wasn't having fun: it wasn't intensive enough, I wasn't pushing myself hard enough, I was going to do badly.
Eventually, enough was enough. I threw out the training plan. I stopped nagging myself to run. I decided that I'd run the half if I felt like it when October rolled around, but I wasn't going to use it as one more way of undermining my ongoing struggle to be content in myself.
The summer progressed. I was busy. I went to Edinburgh (I took my running kit - unused); I went to Poland (I took my running kit - unused); I worked in London (running kit, still unused). I relished being busy. I had moments when I realised that I felt more like myself than I had in, well, years perhaps.
And then my birthday arrived. I came back to Cardiff from London for the weekend. I had a lovely birthday, celebrating quietly with friends. Then, early Sunday morning I took myself down to Cardiff Bay, alone. On the way, I passed many runners on my bike, headed in the same direction. I felt excited. The crowd at the Bay was huge - 15,000 people. It was a perfect autumn day, crisp and fresh, with a cloudless blue sky. I was cold until I found a place in the mass of runners waiting to start. We waited, jumping up and down, stretching, staring in front blankly, rubbing arms and legs. Then nine o'clock arrived and we started shuffling forward to the starting line. Eventually, as one with the crowd around me, I was able to break into a gentle run. The crowd thinned as we progressed and I found my pace. I found myself running with a smile on my face. I was doing it! I didn't think I would. I didn't think I could. But here I was running, and I felt fantastic. I thought, I'm 31, my body mostly does what I want it to, and most days I'm in moderately good mental health: these things are worth celebrating. Oddly as well, I needed to celebrate the fact that I'd managed not to train. Obviously I don't endorse this; I approached the run with a fairly accurate appraisal of my own physical health. But I could have pushed myself, I could have made it into something that wasn't fun but was rather about proving something to myself about myself. I consider it an achievement that I didn't, one that outweighs any time I could have achieved.
And you know what? It was fun. The whole 13.1 miles. I wept a bit at the beginning from sheer bloody euphoria, a Thanks-Be-To-Whatever that I've had a pretty tough year and I'm still standing. Still running. I ran with a smile on my face. I waved with joy to two dear friends who came out to watch me pass the end of their street. I wept a bit more in the last mile, because last miles are the longest, and are made longer by painful legs and an achey knee. I wept and laughed a little more yet once I'd crossed the finish line, alone in a crowd, overwhelmed by a flood of endorphins and emotion.
I don't think I'll ever run a marathon. I feel no need or desire. I might run another half. Who knows? This one felt like a little victory, and one that had not much to do with running. Perhaps there'll be another period in my life that will call for a similar trial. If so, I hope I also find a way to the finish line, weeping and laughing and still on my feet.
Wednesday, 17 February 2010
keep yer chin up
I'm not having a particularly good day today. There's no specific reason, though there are I suppose some related causes. I had a long day yesterday - I was up for 20 hours - which included a round trip to London for an audition. I finished the evening having dinner with a friend I'll call the Lady (because she is) and some of her friends. Then I caught the last coach back to Cardiff, making it back into my bed in the wee hours of this morning. It was an excellent day: I enjoyed the audition (I've met someone creatively interesting, even if I don't end up working with her); it was lovely to see the Lady and catch up. But I'm tired. When I'm tired I'm more susceptible to having bad days.
I didn't see 10 o'clock this morning as I hadn't got up yet (bedtime was 4 a.m.). But I still have the feeling that I want to crawl back into a hole, that even the weak light of this drizzly Welsh day is too harsh. What should I do on days like this? Try to fight it? Go out for a run, ride my bike, apply for a job, cook something elaborate? Or do I just surf this particularly black wave until it subsides: go back to bed, sleep if I can, play games on my laptop, watch back-to-back episodes of "Battlestar Galactica", stare at the ceiling...
It's getting dull, you know, having days like this. At the same time, I feel anxious about seeking treatment for my depression; after all, it feels so much like part of who I am that I worry I'll lose something vital of myself if it's gone. Irrational, I know. Because it doesn't "go away", I suppose; I just need to be able to manage the disease. I had a registration appointment at my local surgery the other day, part of my attempt finally to start seeking help. You don't actually get to see anyone with any medical qualifications at a registration appointment; you get a "health assistant" instead. She was a nice enough lady, and at the end she asked if I had any questions, and I did - how to go about getting treatment and so on. What was fascinating was how immediately out of her comfort zone she appeared to be: she got flustered, told me some information I already knew. She advised me of the procedure for getting emergency appointments if that's what I felt it to be. I felt like saying, I've made it to age 30 so I think I can make it another fortnight, but I didn't. I thanked her and got up to go. And she told me to "keep my chin up".
She meant well. She didn't have a clue.
I had a great conversation with the Lady last night. We'd had dinner with some friends of hers, which was not enjoyable, but in an amusing way. It felt a bit like I was stuck in an episode of "Sex and the City", without the occasional lines of witty observational comedy or the distraction of pretty frocks/shoes/New York. I sat there, trying to be nice to the waitress (someone had to be), slightly worried because my friend's friends were so clearly not my people. But she and I managed to flee after dinner for a hot chocolate elsewhere and she confessed that she hadn't enjoyed the evening either, which was reassuring. We ended up talking about depression - keep writing, she said, if it keeps you honest - and the stigma attached to it. I guess that might be what I encountered in the doctor's surgery, of all places. It upset me, that day, in that context, just because the idea of seeking treatment is challenging enough in its own way. I'm not concerned about blogging publicly about depression. I wouldn't be ashamed of having a cold. Or cancer. So why depression? Like being queer, I suppose it's something you should be open about in order to combat prejudice; come out, come out, depressives of the world, wherever you are...
Anyway. No conclusion; I think I've said all I want to say today. I might go back to bed and think about running.
I suffer mornings most of all
I feel so powerless and small
by ten o'clock I'm back in bed
fighting the jury in my head
"have to drive", Amanda Palmer
I didn't see 10 o'clock this morning as I hadn't got up yet (bedtime was 4 a.m.). But I still have the feeling that I want to crawl back into a hole, that even the weak light of this drizzly Welsh day is too harsh. What should I do on days like this? Try to fight it? Go out for a run, ride my bike, apply for a job, cook something elaborate? Or do I just surf this particularly black wave until it subsides: go back to bed, sleep if I can, play games on my laptop, watch back-to-back episodes of "Battlestar Galactica", stare at the ceiling...
It's getting dull, you know, having days like this. At the same time, I feel anxious about seeking treatment for my depression; after all, it feels so much like part of who I am that I worry I'll lose something vital of myself if it's gone. Irrational, I know. Because it doesn't "go away", I suppose; I just need to be able to manage the disease. I had a registration appointment at my local surgery the other day, part of my attempt finally to start seeking help. You don't actually get to see anyone with any medical qualifications at a registration appointment; you get a "health assistant" instead. She was a nice enough lady, and at the end she asked if I had any questions, and I did - how to go about getting treatment and so on. What was fascinating was how immediately out of her comfort zone she appeared to be: she got flustered, told me some information I already knew. She advised me of the procedure for getting emergency appointments if that's what I felt it to be. I felt like saying, I've made it to age 30 so I think I can make it another fortnight, but I didn't. I thanked her and got up to go. And she told me to "keep my chin up".
She meant well. She didn't have a clue.
I had a great conversation with the Lady last night. We'd had dinner with some friends of hers, which was not enjoyable, but in an amusing way. It felt a bit like I was stuck in an episode of "Sex and the City", without the occasional lines of witty observational comedy or the distraction of pretty frocks/shoes/New York. I sat there, trying to be nice to the waitress (someone had to be), slightly worried because my friend's friends were so clearly not my people. But she and I managed to flee after dinner for a hot chocolate elsewhere and she confessed that she hadn't enjoyed the evening either, which was reassuring. We ended up talking about depression - keep writing, she said, if it keeps you honest - and the stigma attached to it. I guess that might be what I encountered in the doctor's surgery, of all places. It upset me, that day, in that context, just because the idea of seeking treatment is challenging enough in its own way. I'm not concerned about blogging publicly about depression. I wouldn't be ashamed of having a cold. Or cancer. So why depression? Like being queer, I suppose it's something you should be open about in order to combat prejudice; come out, come out, depressives of the world, wherever you are...
Anyway. No conclusion; I think I've said all I want to say today. I might go back to bed and think about running.
Friday, 30 October 2009
both a place and a path
A Saturday night in Finsbury Town Hall. A gypsy swing band plays. The noise and chaotic movement of a party swirls around me, but I am pinned to the side of the dance floor, feeling anxious and exposed. The night may not notice me, I think, if I stay in my chair, so that is what I do.
My friend, the Texan, moves toward me through the dancers. We sit and talk. It's one of those conversations that hovers above something large, touching down here and there for the briefest of moments. Life. Art. Work. Ourselves. It's almost a throwaway line as he heads back to the dance floor:
"You should start a blog," he says. "I'm sure you've got more to say than you think."
And so here I am.
But of course it goes further back than that. I'm an actor. I've just entered my thirties. I've always written. Poetry, at times, though not in several years. Journals, for decades (I'm in my thirties now, I can say that). Over the last few years my journal-writing has also slipped. I suffer from depression, relatively mild I suppose, considering just how debilitating the disease can be. I function. I have days both good and bad. Gwyneth Lewis, in Sunbathing in the Rain, an excellent book on her experience of depression, says
This is not going to be a blog about depression, although, being as it is such an influencing force on my life, it will feature occasionally. This will be, I hope, reflections on my experiences as I negotiate what feels like a new direction in my life. I've recently moved to Wales after several years living in London. I have ideas about how I want to develop as a performer and artist that I am beginning to explore. I love theatre and poetry and literature and cooking and being outdoors...all these are also the stuff of my life.
As a starting point: today my friend the Clown landed on my doorstep with his video camera in his hands. He has given it to me to use, with the proviso that I make a film a day, no more than a minute in length. I will see him again in a week; he expects seven short films. I know next-to-nothing about film-making...
My friend, the Texan, moves toward me through the dancers. We sit and talk. It's one of those conversations that hovers above something large, touching down here and there for the briefest of moments. Life. Art. Work. Ourselves. It's almost a throwaway line as he heads back to the dance floor:
"You should start a blog," he says. "I'm sure you've got more to say than you think."
And so here I am.
But of course it goes further back than that. I'm an actor. I've just entered my thirties. I've always written. Poetry, at times, though not in several years. Journals, for decades (I'm in my thirties now, I can say that). Over the last few years my journal-writing has also slipped. I suffer from depression, relatively mild I suppose, considering just how debilitating the disease can be. I function. I have days both good and bad. Gwyneth Lewis, in Sunbathing in the Rain, an excellent book on her experience of depression, says
The reason why writing is so hard and frightening is that, ironically, the process requires you to abandon your fictions and face up to your own truths. If you don't do this, the form you choose will show you up as a liar.I have not been able to face myself on the pages of my journal; it has been like standing in an empty room with mirrored walls. Perhaps writing for an audience, however small, will keep me honest. I hope in that honesty what I write may be interesting to read.
This is not going to be a blog about depression, although, being as it is such an influencing force on my life, it will feature occasionally. This will be, I hope, reflections on my experiences as I negotiate what feels like a new direction in my life. I've recently moved to Wales after several years living in London. I have ideas about how I want to develop as a performer and artist that I am beginning to explore. I love theatre and poetry and literature and cooking and being outdoors...all these are also the stuff of my life.
As a starting point: today my friend the Clown landed on my doorstep with his video camera in his hands. He has given it to me to use, with the proviso that I make a film a day, no more than a minute in length. I will see him again in a week; he expects seven short films. I know next-to-nothing about film-making...
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