Live Jam - Jan 2008

Subject: Illness: I Can't Stand It!

A prompt that allows me to wax lyrical - I really can't stand with my illness, at least not for long. I use a wheelchair when I'm outside, and even around the house at times. Having to stop and rest my aching muscles is a source of great frustration, but it pales when compared to the mental side of the condition.

For I am one of the unlucky/lazy/lying (take your pick) few/growing number/many (ditto) who have that most elusive of diagnoses - M.E. Or CFS, if you prefer. Or CFIDS, as some call it. Or "damned exasperrating collection of pesky symptoms, what does the name matter", as I prefer to think of it. It get into everything, into every aspect of what I laughably refer to as my life, and brings with it (or encompasses, no-one really knows) that old favourite, clinical depression.

WARNING: RANT FOLLOWS!!!!!

"Depression" is a stupid name. The great minds who are employed in uncovering it's mysteries, wouldn't know depression from a hole in the ground. I have 'depression' - what is that supposed to mean? I have an area of low pressure? Hardly. I sometimes feel as though I'm under the most enormous pressure, from my own worst enemy. So, do I have a severe economic collapse? Possibly. My inability to concentrate has led me to fill out forms late/wrong/etc, leading to a suspension of my benefits. Unless I can get help soon, my own little economy will certainly crash. But that's not what 'depression' means here, oh no. Here, it means a low mood. Low self-worth, no motivation, enthusiasm or drive. Everyone gets depressed, we've all had the blues now and then as Sedaka so rightly sings. So what's my problem? Just snap out of it, right? Grin and bear it, it could be worse, it might never happen, don't worry, be happy. Right? Wrong.

The mental condition so ignorantly termed "Depression" isn't the blues. It's not even "mood Indigo". It's the mean reds, it's a black dog. It's anger turned inward. It is the utter certainty, a conviction deep in your soul that you are worthless. It is childish in it's reasoning, and in it's egotism. No-one can reason with you, because what do they know? Of course they're going to say they like you, but that's because you look so miserable. Other people are nice, they will lie and say that they like you in an attempt to make you feel better. But it doesn't mean anything. Maybe they're not lying. Maybe they really think that you are alright. Well that's only because they don't really know you. If they knew you, really knew you, they'd run a mile. You're dirt, not fit to be in company. You are nothing, you never will be anything.

Over and over, this broken record plays itself on the needle of your subconscious. As surely as you know you are alive, as surely as you know your own name, you know that this is the true estimate of your worthlessness.

Except for one, tiny, powerless part of your mind. The last foothold of sanity, trapped like a fly in amber. Your reason sits and watches, helplessly, as layer after layer of the mind succumbs to the false beliefs. For some, this is the end. They go into hospital, or they kill themselves, or they live housebound, totally dependent on their families for the rest of their lives. But I was lucky, I have a weapon in my arsenal that can allow Reason to break free from the prison, at least for a while. I have a strong sense of humour, an awareness of the absurd. It won't ever let me quite give up, it shakes me awake whenever I want to lie down and give up. Even when I am so tired, physically, mentally and emotionally, I never completely loose.

There are days when I can't get out of bed. There are days when I can't bear the thought of speaking to anyone. There are days when I can't think straight. There are days when I can't remember anything. But always, ticking over in the background, is humour, reminding me that life isn't worthless and miserable. Humour points out the absurdities of the broken record, highlighting the flaws in the arguments, giving my Reason the strength to break out and proclaim the truth.

And so I write. Reason escapes the glass walls, but is always recaptured. Whilst Reason is free, I write the truth that I know. I counter the lies that run around my head, and hold on to the knowledge that as long as I keep fighting, I can never loose.

Illness. Maybe I can't stand it. But I can try.

Fight on!