Here goes..

I write when my depression is bad. It is a pattern I have just identified, so this post is going to be appropriately reflective and personal. Probably too personal.

It has been a decidedly long while, because life has gotten in the way. Since last posting, have experimented in the borderline illegal, seen in a new year, ensnared new romantic interest and once again feel like self is on the brink of some form of a minor nervous breakdown. So I thought I'd start off 2011, and my resultantly stressful existence, with really cheery subject matter: existential angst.

Coming to the end of three years at university, I am trying very, very hard not to panic. I am also trying to ignore the fact that I would feel completely lost in the world of responsible adulthood, and positively baulk at the idea of selling my soul to a 9-5 job in some nameless corporation at the age of 20. Resultantly, I feel that I have not experienced nearly enough of life to even begin making any kind of life-altering decisions beyond what I am going to wear today. I find the process of feeding myself each day more than I can handle sometimes.

It is strange, because I look around, and see people of all ages trying to find their own way through life, as if there is some manuel that we are all supposed to adhere to and follow. We all seem caught up in the illusion that we all know exactly what we're doing. And I'm starting to realise that maybe it is better for my own sanity that I admit that I have absolutely no idea what I'm doing. It is the whole process of falling off a cliff and thinking that everyone else knows just how to 'do' life. I can't help but consider the whole 'job-marriage-babies-death' idea so restrictive and bland. I'm desperately attempting to find some kind of meaning in my existence already, and I've not even landed a proper job yet, or done anything that could count towards being a responsible adult, beyond paying some bills. 

The idea of GETTING A JOB induces something akin to a mild panic attack in my brain. I am positively enraged by the likes of today’s celebrities who have afforded such success from being what my father would call ‘turkey exhibitionists’. It is not that I envy their lifestyle, or their fame, but the freedom that comes with the financial security.  This is despite the fact that a large proportion of today’s celebrities seem entirely unable to cope, and so instead spend their fortune on white powder and Priory treatment. I stare vacantly at gossip magazines in Boots and have to resist the urge to tear the pages out, saying “Die, die”. I have to check myself because I know such behavoir is hardly socially acceptable, or normal for that matter. At least I can recognise that.

I was looking at the Dissertation Handbook the other day - a mistake in itself, as it induced more private brain panic - and reflected upon how keen we are as a culture to ascribe manuals and explanations for everything. Ruby Wax of all people observed recently that “household appliances have manuals, but we don’t.” She identifies this potential lack of control and lack of guidance in a culture so used being guided as the root of her own problem with depression. We have a name for it, it is recognised as a medical condition, but the attitude of society differs hugely. 

I suppose I’m waxing lyrical on this subject because I am in a bit of a hole myself, and writing is supposedly a form of cathartic release from the eddying storm of thoughts in my brain at the moment. I’ve become increasingly anxious of the past year that I am not getting any better, and it is not something I can control either. This is what scares me; anyone who knows me can pinpoint my borderline OCD and my need to be completely and totally on top of everything. I am possibly one of a handful of students world-wide who thinks it is entirely reasonable to write an essay the day after it was set, three weeks before the deadline. No overnight jobs for me: I cannot handle the threat of it spiralling out of my control. 

It is not like you can fake depression either. It is almost like your personality goes on leave and you’re replaced by something very dark, very alien. You’re no longer you, which is the most frightening thing. When you’re in the hole, you truly are in the hole. I didn’t plan to try and fight it but I did anyway, and anything would have been better than that pain - it is indescribable hopelessness that seems to permeate every level of your life. In fact, it is bigger than that. And it goes on for months and months. 

And I don’t mean this unusually candid blog post to be some pathetic emo-plight to the world, sorry AHEM, to my three loyal readers. I just want to bring up the fact that it is ok to feel completely overwhelmed and out of control. I’m not even sure I am convinced or accepting of this idea myself, but if none of us have instruction booklets to life, then doesn’t it make sense that we’re all a bit mad in our own little way?