Ghost Town

I start to feel on edge a couple of motorway junctions away. This is the town I grew up in, but it’s not home.

I’m here visiting my brother – he and I are what’s left of our family. We walk through the town centre, where the air is full of familiar accents and bad memories. He says I seem distracted, asks if I’m OK.

I’m remembering the smell of the market that isn’t here any more, the name of the shop where we got our school uniforms, the taste of cheap fishsticks. I’m thinking that this is the street we walked down pretty much every Saturday except the one when the bomb went off. How lucky we were not to be there. How lucky we were that the violence was all nonlethal and contained at home. I’m remembering that he’s dead now. We sold his house to a developer, and the developer gutted it to make it sellable. If we drive past it later, it will be different. Maybe there’s another young family in there now. Maybe the dad is violent. Maybe not.

And I’m angry that my mind is going to these places. I resent the space that these thoughts are taking up. I’m furious with myself – why haven’t I done a better job of moving on? I feel guilty for raking over this again when so many people have had it so much worse. I’m ashamed of allowing the past to run riot in my head. I’m embarrassed about startling at every unexpected noise.

Then, finally, I'm allowing it all to wash over me.

I say “Yeah. It’s just weird to be back.”

Fine

This is another guest post by Dorothy Donald.

Thursday

 “I’m fine,” I say.

(Josh makes a face that says ‘I call bullshit. I’m not going to embarrass you by doing it very loudly and publicly in this coffee shop because I’m your friend, but I do.’ You’ve all seen this face, I’m sure.)

“Really, I am. I’m going to see CBT man tomorrow –”

(Eyebrow)

“But it’s just a follow-up, to see how I’m getting on. I’m fine.”

(Silent bullshit-calling face)

“It’s just… No, I am fine, it’s just I… find Christmas difficult.”

(“I know. That’s why I asked how you were.”)

Damn you, Josh, and your horrifying insight. Please don’t go away.

Friday

“I’m a lot better than I was,” I say. “But I just don’t seem to be able to concentrate at work. I’m not being very productive.”

So far, so familiar.

“And… I don’t really know how well I am. I know I’m better than before, but I also think that I’m not… that great. I don’t know if my problem with work is to do with depression, or if it’s just that I’m lazy, or that this is just how things are, or what.”

Neil suggests a little assessment inventory. The questions are familiar to me (this is not my first experience of depression inventories) and by the time we’re at the end I’ve already had a few clues that I’m maybe in the ‘cause for concern’ category.

The verdict: ‘moderate to severe’ depression. Perhaps, Neil suggests, it’s no wonder I have difficulty concentrating at work?

I’m actually rather relieved. I had somehow convinced myself that it wasn’t legitimate to hope for any further improvement. This assessment has reminded (told?) me that “Not continually preoccupied with ending own life” is a poor benchmark for adequate mental health. It is true that I am a lot better than I was, and that’s good and important. But I am not yet ‘fine’. (Sorry, Josh.)

Then we talk about some strategies for dealing with the Christmas break.

Christmas is Magical

This is another guest post by Dorothy Donald.

Winter festivals are magical for everyone, aren’t they? Whether you’re a cowering 10-year-old trying to make yourself as small and quiet as possible in the hope that your drunk, violent father won’t notice you; or a furious 16-year-old fighting again with your drunk, violent stepfather; or a lonely twentysomething binge-watching films alone under a blanket of depression; or an accomplished, happily single, social-butterfly thirtysomething having a lovely time with friends and not thinking about that old stuff at all because you’ve had ample time to get over it, really…

Oh yes. Christmas has always been magical for me.