My mind broke and I became lost on a battlefield. There are no guns no enemies, except for thoughts. I write this listening, appropriately to Comfortably numb by Pink Floyd. A song that tells of the despair of Pink lost in a floating miasma of thoughts. He is restored, temporarily by drugs. I have no such remedies. Now I battle demons in the dark corridors of my mind.

My youth was fun. Night and day were extensions of each other. Time was meaningless. All time was an opportunity for fun and mischief. I never had to fight my thoughts or seize control of the decadent decay of my mentality. I should have seen the collapse coming. It’s not as though it leaped out of the dark and yanked me in. No. It is a subtle creature that has learned its art over centuries. Often disguised as a comforter, someone who comes along to give strength and meaning to your gnawing doubt. But all they want is to impress someone that they care, are compassionate. Do I sound cynical? I guess so, but if I’m going to take you through the thought process of depression and anxiety, you need to see the incremental steps of the journey. For it is through choice that we end up at the bottom of a dimly lit stairwell with no visible exit.

There are inciting incidents, of course, there are. I’m not one to blame others for my mental health, that is the construct of my life choices. We live in a world that seeks offense. People are getting offended at everything, usually on behalf of someone else. A fragment of a section of a speech is taken out of context and cast before the piranha-infested waters of social media. The ocean of false anonymity where outrage is the fuel and truth a victim of convenience. The actual truth is silenced beneath a blanket of fear. And this stifling fear is the food of depression. When an individual, who is trying to share their experience, their real life, is shouted down by the offense police and the experts known only as They.

They, of course, are experts. People will tell will that They say on the internet … But no one can share the link, has checked the facts, or investigated the truth. Instead, they fuel the fire. If you type ‘social media and depression’ in just .53 seconds Google finds 385 million articles. Everyone from crackpots to top scientists has something to say. Lost among those reports are the victims who do not realise the dangers of a toxic follow. This phenomenon is the same beast in a new coat. The best description I can find of this is in the New Testament where Peter describes the method of Satan: ‘Be sober-minded: be watchful. Your adversary the devil prowls like a roaring lion, seeking someone to devour.’1 While many will dislike and disagree with the use of scripture, I don’t care. You see, you are playing to an archetypal trope. We all do. This is where our opinions become the unspoken truth, the kind that harms others by eroding their voice and replacing it with yours. You are, at this moment one of the They.

They, would rather I called upon scientific analysis to get my point of view over in a more socially acceptable academic tone – be professional about it. But if my profession were in any way ecclesiastical then it would be wholly professional. I, however, do not think science has a better description. There is probably a chemical deficiency that makes me susceptible to depressive, fearful anxieties. Or just something that happened in childhood that disposes me to cower and be submissive to external controlling influences. I think, personally, it is all of the above. As I said earlier, it’s a long journey of incremental steps. I remember teaching, or at least, attempting to teach my children how to stand and walk. They put their hands in mine, a total trust, not a time to introduce fear games. Tiny children can be so easily frightened. Their trust damaged and the seeds of doubt sown. Trust is so fragile, it splinters, and those splinters stick in the mind where they are coated with years of forgetfulness until they are tweezed later in life.

Perhaps I should illustrate my hypothesis with a story.

The final year of Primary school. Bullies are everywhere, and most of us have been one. We wouldn’t consider ourselves to be a bully, after all, it’s only words. Though in this case, it was physical too. I was a small child, I’m no giant now, Mr average – except for the waistline. Back then, I was small, stick-like, a pipe cleaner without the fluff and freckles to die for, or was it from? And here you already see a defense mechanism coming into play. Humour. 

I had this teacher, Mr. Redgrave. An officious man, tall and threatening. He never got down next to the children, he would loom over them and stab a meaty finger at their exercise books. His onerous tones piled on the pressure. He also had a short fuse and a quick hand. I don’t remember what I said to him, but I do remember the infantile shouting and smack of his hand against my face. I remember the stunned silence, thirty children frightened to breathe. Sixty eyes staring their desks as the demon moved among us in a swirl of dust motes. 

On a later occasion, in stamp club, he would help himself to any stamps he fancied, exchanging them for worthless nothings, ten year old children were no challenge to his authority.

Summer could not come soon enough.