I have always been reluctant of the idea that I have ever suffered. I tend to view suffering in terms of the physical; people who are tortured, or starving or experiencing the anguish of terminal illness. I have never experienced those, so couldn't believe I have suffered.
Having read John Colwell's book, Why Have you Forsaken Me? my opinion has changed. John has been grappling with clinical depression for thirty years and some of the book is a reflection of his experiences. It was comforting to read of someone's experiences and be able to relate to them. Depression can be terribly egocentric. You know other people suffer from the illness, but you can be so consumed by the darkness, you doubt anyone is able to relate to what you're going through.
Reading of similar symptoms (physical and mental) and of similar thoughts and fears, made me realise that my illness was not an island and it was also achievable to live with it. And I literally mean that, because suicide is a real option when you are deeply depressed. John put it brilliantly when he writes that suicide is not a selfish act when consumed by depression; you genuinely believe those around you will be better off if you were no longer walking this planet.
Reading his book though scared me hugely because he is still battling this illness thirty years on and I hate the idea that I will be living with it so many years on. But then this made me think about suffering and its part to play in this world.
I firstly realised that suffering comes in many painful forms and to be mentally ill is to suffer. I have really suffered and been in very dark places (which I'm not out of yet). If you you haven't experienced such darkness, it is like razor blades slicing through your mind, so that the pain makes it hard to see clearly or rationally. Everything becomes terrifying and you literally want to remove your brain so the torture stops. I am not being melodramatic. It. Is. Horrible.
But I am starting to wonder if I was always meant to have this illness: does this make part of who I am? Would I be any less Tom if I wasn't clinically depressed? Would I not be fully me if I was 'normal'? Because I have to say I hate the idea of being normal. How bland. Maybe it's self-fulfilling and my desire to be anything but normal has meant I was destined to be depressed?
These are vomited thoughts, with no conclusion, but to mentally suffer appears to me to be something that contributes to who I am...
