Light in the dark

Depression thrives in dark corners, but like a resilient weed, it can survive in full sun, too.

I like to move with the seasons. To slow down and huddle into winter and then feel my energy rise, like sap, come spring. The light is indisputably back. The spring equinox has passed; the clocks have moved forward, lengthening the days. But I have yet to feel a spring in my step.

Sometime near the beginning of March, I got pulled up in front of the committee.

You know them? Shadowy, faceless figures, dressed in darkness.

The usual accusations flew; disappointment was expressed. Criticism was piled on criticism; my talent, my personality, my choices, my appearance. Questions were raised about my very worth as a human being.

They live inside my head, this poisonous panel of naysayers. Sometimes, they are silent; other times, their murmurings are quiet enough to ignore. But occasionally, their voices rise into an all-encompassing clamour. I know not what unleashes them – a rejection, a chemical shift in my brain, a bodily memory – but once the onslaught begins, it is hard to imagine regaining equanimity. I am sick with self-loathing.

It will pass. Almost certainly. It always has before. Believing that it won’t is like fearing spring won’t follow winter. But still…

There are many things that medics and others suggest to alleviate depression.* Movement is one of them (I wrote about it here for The Guardian last year).

“Maybe think about trying to do some physical activity,” the doctor says – a reprise of what doctors have said to me countless times over three decades – and I nod politely, inwardly making an inventory of all the ways I’ve moved this month. Running, walking, cycling, swimming in the chilly loch, CrossFit, Pilates… That box is ticked, but the endorphins have not flowed.

My passage across the earth has felt laboured, my body awkward and heavy. In a perfect metaphor for how I am experiencing the world at large, my feet have faltered. My very soles have recoiled as they press against the ground, feeling raw and inflamed.

Depression is wearying enough, but what makes it doubly wearying is trying to hide it. It has come to visit so many times over the years that I’ve grown expert at putting on a brave face as it lays waste to joy, confidence and creativity. Someone saw through the mask once – a woman I’d not long known.

“How are you?” she asked.

“Oh, fine,” I said.

“No you’re not. The light in your eyes has gone out.”

Walking the dog the other morning, I was suddenly overwhelmed by such fatigue that I wondered how I would make it home. There was a big old Scots Pine in front of me, a tapestry of roots at her feet, fissured red-rust bark showing her age. One huge branch had snapped off and lay on the ground beside her. I sat down on it, and then drew my legs up and lay back, lengthwise. After a moment, Morris jumped up too, and settled at my feet. I focused on breathing in, breathing out, listening to the wind and the birds and gazing up at the sky between the branches.

My tree of rest

If this was a magazine article about the benefits of nature connection to mental health, I would likely go on to say how the tumbling notes of the chaffinch somehow lifted my spirits, so that when I got to my feet there was a new lightness to my being. But it would not be true.

One of the reasons I am here in the Cairngorms is because my surroundings matter to me so much. Even as I write, I can see trees, fields and hills from the window – I can hear the whir of the birds’ wings as they flit to and from the birdfeeder. I know how lucky I am to live in such a wild and green place. I am heartbroken that my demons have followed me here. I had hoped they’d stayed south of the border…

To move through this landscape and not feel uplifted, appreciative, joyful, is disconcerting – shameful even. Look! I urge myself. See how the light is filtering through the trees there? Listen to that little wren firing out his huge song. And I dutifully see and hear… but I do not feel.

Sleep is my sanctuary. I adjusted my clock yesterday with reluctance, not yet ready to meet more light in the midst of my own darkness. I have a friend who suffers from extreme sleeplessness. Sometimes, she has to go to work on an hour or two – at best, it’s 5-6 hours a night. My heart goes out to her as I lie in bed and feel the weight of sleep pull me under, into blissful unconsciousness. It’s hard to come back to the surface. I wake feeling fluttery and fragile – barely-there. But there nonetheless.

As this month has marched forward, I’ve noted the signs of spring appearing, one by one. Frogspawn, the dawn chorus, the bright yellow buttons of Lesser Celandine – even my first bumblebee. The wheel of the year keeps turning. The cones on that big old pine tree will be ripening soon, releasing tiny winged seeds to be carried away on the wind.

So today, like yesterday and the day before, I will open the door and force myself outside. No doubt the committee will come scuttling along beside me, throwing out jibes, queries and observations relating to my many failings. But being outside, at least, reminds me that nothing stays still; that however mired in depression I feel right now, this is not forever. It is a lesson in faith.

One day soon (maybe), I’ll step outside and my eyes will fill with the returning light.

*Over 30 years with depression, I have variously tried St John’s Wort, vitamin D, a light box, therapy/counselling and the SSRI, Citalopram. None are failsafe.