Depression? My story....

(this is a relevant photo)

Strangely enough, am not going to talk much about depression in this post.
Fuck depression.

I AM going to tell you about my personal story, that led to my depression.
We all have our story.

What I hope it will do, is to inspire people to see it all a bit differently.

Differently than how our self indulgent, decadent west (and big pharma), has taught us how to see something that is just a human condition.

A condition we will all have in our lives, to some degree or another.

It ain't special. It's life.

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I had just broken up with my long term girlfriend. My soul mate, my life.

In the depths of the pain of the break up, I ended up in a serious motorbike accident

I can't tell you anything about it, as I was too drunk, and had too much MDMA in my system to remember.
I DO remember waking up in the hospital bed, with two of my lower leg bones protruding at very strange angles, into the air.

I also remember the doctors having to reset my bones, without giving me any morphine, due the massive amount of narcotics already in my system.
Passing out from the pain, was a blessing. Coming to consciousness again, wasn't. Passing out again was.

This all happened on a small tropical Island. The hospital was rudimentary, to say the least.

I then had the pleasure of a three hour boat ride, in the back of a ambulance, to a hospital on the mainland. Without any painkillers.

Once at the hospital, I was told I was going to need more surgery, to reset my bones, and make them stable. (By an exterior metal frame, screwed into my bones. I forget the name of the appliance).

After waking up from the surgery, I was then told if my wound got infected, they may have to amputate. (approximately 9 inches x 6 inches hole in the side of my calf muscle).

I decided it would be a good idea to return to the UK, cooler climates (for infection reasons), and get fixed up at a UK hospital.
I then had 3 flights to endure. (they would not allow me morphine on the flight. Aspirin and Ibuprofen.)
I was booked onto three flights, cattle class. One of those rare journeys when every seat was occupied.
Crammed full, back to the UK. Still with my metal framework in my leg in place.

I had to sit with my legs to my chest for 17 hours, basically.

On arriving home from the Airport, I found out my dad had emphysema (one decent lung), and prostrate cancer. And my mum was now in a wheelchair, with multiple sclerosis.

Why Am I telling you such a happy part of my life?

For sympathy?

No. My situation was entirely self inflicted, and deserves non.

And sympathy is wasted energy anyway.

It achieves nothing and only condones self pity.

I am telling you as a backdrop to my perspective on depression, and purpose.

Both are inexorably intertwined.
I stayed at my mum and dads for a year or so.
I had a further 3 operations on my leg (including a bone extraction from my hip to put into lost bone in my leg. – that twinges, like a bastard, sometimes.).

I looked after them while on crutches. I could cook. They were no longer in a position to.
My dad had been cooking for my mum for a year, but he wasn't Gordon Ramsay, shall we say.
I was a very good cook, so it made sense for me to do.

It is very hard jumping around a kitchen on one leg, preparing meals, I can tell you.

After a year, I got my own place, a mile down the road. I cooked for them every day, to make sure they were looked after in that regard.

After another couple of years of this, and my Dad was deteriorating, and was getting admitted into emergency frequently. - 3 times in one week, frequently, kind of thing.

After 6 months of trying my best, my Dad insisted on being admitted into a nursing home.

He hated me having to be there for him, day and night, - although to me, it wasn't a problem at all – obviously.

They went into a nursing home, where they were well looked after, and I visited them everyday.
My Dad's health improved for a while. I think mainly, was because he wasn't stressing about me having to look after them.

He was like that.

That's when depression hit me – big time. I had nothing to do, in a place I didn't want to be.

My purpose in life had gone.

Real purpose, not a dreamed up concept of what your purpose is.
Making sure your parents lived, kind of purpose.
(I'm not a parent, but I'm sure it must be same, if not greater, for parents, with their kids).

I hated living in the UK ( not a new phenomenon - I never liked it. One of my reasons for traveling anywhere in the world. It wasn't the UK).

Eventually, my dad told me to 'fuck off.'... He was like that.

He could see how unhappy I was, and he knew I was staying there just for Him, really.

We said our goodbyes, tearfully.

We both knew this 'was it'. I wouldn't be seeing him alive, ever again.

My dad was the only family member I was ever close to. (The rest are wankers)

And off I went ,with a very heavy heart, and thoroughly miserable.

Three weeks later, I was getting drunk in Thailand, and forgetting about things back in the UK.
I was starting to feel back to myself again - for the first time, in a very, very, long time.

'Getting my skin back', is the best description I can give you. I was raw.

When I heard he had died, (from a text message – did I tell you my family are wankers?) I cried.
A lot.

Then I went and got drunk - and drank to him, all night. And then I stopped.

Why am I writing about such a cheerful part of my past?

Because everyone has their story.

Everyone has their own shit to deal with.

Wallowing, and navel gazing is not dealing with your shit. It's wallowing and navel gazing.

It can lead to self pity – the most destructive of all emotional states.
It's a emotional black hole to yourself, and to everyone around you.

Do whatever you need to do.(every single one of us is different)

There are no rules - no 'you should do this, or you should do that'.

Do whatever YOU need to do, to start looking outwards again, on the world.

Only you know what you need to do.
And lot of the time, it won't fit neatly into what your peers, your family, or your society, expects of you.

Fuck them.

Finding a real purpose is everything, I think.

A purpose real to you, irrelevant of how it looks to others.

Me, right now ?

Life is good, and I have a reason to get up every morning. Why?
Because I constructed it to be that way.
(I'm not telling you how I did this, that’s my business - For now, anyways).

But I will tell you what put me on the road, to where I am now.

Making model stone walls, for wargaming.
Tiny, real stones, built up-one by one, to make ' real' walls for tabletop wargames.

Why would this lead me on my road to a purpose, you might be asking?

Well you see, the thing is, my dad was a farmer, and an exceptionally talented dry stone waller.
He was paid very good money, in his time, to build walls for other people.

Making model stone walls, and getting paid for building them? He would have pissed himself laughing. (even before the prostrate trouble).

My road to finding purpose again....

It started with doing something that would have made my dad proud.

And laugh.