Me -- unplugged - Thought Leader

I’ve been off the blog a few days now. Not because of Eskom (though Telkom is trying hard to regain its status as public enemy number one), not because of threatening emails, not because I haven’t had much to say (got plenty of both).

Regular readers of my blog know I have major depressive disorder (MDD), a debilitating, crushing, dehumanising mental illness caused by a chemical imbalance in my brain that fucks up the messages being sent from neurons in particular pathways in my head. This chemical imbalance doesn’t get the message wrong; it gets everything wrong. It is a mental sickness, just like physical ones such as high blood pressure or diabetes.

About eight million South Africans suffer depression in one form or another. Some are mild and stick around for a few months. Some recur without warning but dissipate quite quickly; others come and go and are never felt again. Some are nothing worse than the blues.

None should ever be taken lightly. Depression does not come by itself nor go by itself. You do not pull yourself out of it. Depression is a ruthless, thoughtless, remorseless killer. Given the slightest chance, it will take your life. Zap — just like that! And no one will be able to understand why.

About a million or so of us have MDD. It never goes away. It is a bitch of a thing. It’s happiest when you’re dead. It tries to take everything you have away from you — your family, your wife, your children, your friends, your career, your hobbies, your enthusiasm, your self-respect, your sense of value, your morality, your energy, even your faith in God. Especially your faith in God, cause He’s the arch-enemy of depression. Or so I have found.

My MDD, this vicious killer that lives inside of me, has tried to kill me twice. It’s put me in a mental institution — and when you have no money and no job and no medical aid and no family (because you’ve shut them out), a mental institution run by this callous and inept government and is maladministrators is definitely no place you want to be. It’s worse than you can imagine.

MDD turned my life-and-soul-of-the-party drinking to a dozen Black Labels and two bottles of vodka (sometimes mixed with Hunters, mostly from the bottle) a day. The psychiatrists euphemistically call it “self-medication”.

Now, I’ve been dry for nearly seven years — except for communion wine. I take two Arapax in the morning so I can function just like you or most other normal people. At night I take a Rivotril and a Zolpidem to keep the nightmares at bay. Hey, I can still get up for a swazz if needs be or grab my torch if the dogs start going ape. But otherwise it’s the stuff Saint Mary sweetly slid from heav’n into the Ancient Mariner’s soul.

Yesterday morning, I sort of woke up as Nanaki quietly shut my door so her housekeeping wouldn’t disturb me. I grunted and, as if I was lifting Table Mountain, rolled over. Gee, you really need more sleep, I thought, and duly did. My cellphone rang just before 10am and I couldn’t pick it up.

I literally had no energy. I answered the phone. It was my brother who wanted to know if I needed some help. I fobbed him off. I always do that to all my friends; I don’t want to be a burden.

But I was like the energiser bunny and Eskom had just unplugged me. I needed to go to the loo. I was panicking. Feeling as if I was tackling all of Hercules’s tasks at once, I managed to hoick myself more or less vertical and shamble-shuffle to the loo.

I told Nanaki I wasn’t feeling well, where her lunch was and to wake me if she needed anything. I woke up as thunder crashed outside and both my dogs were licking my face and elbow. Nanaki had prudently gone and left a get-well note with a little flower on it saying she’d call me today.

It was 5.47pm by my watch. I felt better.

I stumbled out of bed, but can’t remember much of what I did next. I know I didn’t take a shower — that I figured out this morning. I fed the dogs (that I know); I answered emails (the read receipts today verify that). I don’t think I ate anything, but I drank a lot of water.

Then I guzzled three Zolpidem, four Arapax, half-a-dozen aspirin and about 3gm of vitamin C and went back to bed. I awoke 14 hours later and felt much better. I just dodged another bullet: .357MDD.

I thought I’d tell you guys about this not because I want sympathy (I told you I shut out even the very closest friends and family), but because you or your friends may feel this way. Maybe yesterday, maybe tomorrow, maybe right now. Seek help! It is bigger, meaner, tougher, more cunning, more vicious than you ever can imagine.

My first stop is usually the people who know (and though we love them deeply, that’s not necessarily our family): the South African Depression and Anxiety Group (011 783 1474 or www.anxiety.org.za).

I’m not much by way of a counsellor, but I will know something of how you feel. I resolved many years ago never to say “I know how you feel”, because I don’t! Each one of us feels a little different, but I understand. Shit, do I ever understand!

And if you think you’re the only one at that time who feels as lonely, sad, wretched, hopeless, worthless as you, maybe my story helps you feel a little less abandoned. Seems we’re also in quite esteemed company: Peter Gabriel. Diana Spencer, Elton John, Richard Branson and even Honest Abe Lincoln. Unfortunately It seems the devil won against Kurt Cobain and maybe also Heath Ledger. He wins far too often — about 800 times a month in South Africa alone.

Don’t let him take you too.