If you have read my first two blogs: my school years and After School, you’ll know a bit about me.
My lifelong struggle with depression had to start somewhere and by going back to my childhood, I thought, would give me a clue. Also, writing about it would be like getting to know me again, as a child and adolescent.
Certain memories I really do not want to revisit as they are a bit too distasteful, and don’t bear any relationship to finding the root cause of depression in my life. If I find that I am wrong, then I will revisit the time.
My earliest memories of being depressed, clinically being diagnosed, was in 1969/70. I had failed in the Army, the Fire Brigade was eventually a bloody disaster: I had to leave because of poor relationships, again, with my colleagues and, trying to get away from them, I applied for a transfer to the London Met. That didn’t work out. My then wife was pregnant with our first child, Karen and we couldn’t get brigade housing, but we would have to rent. It was a no goer from the start, really. Nothing fell into place, so I stayed where I was.
Eventually, circumstances dictated my future. As firemen, to bolster our low income, we did a part-time job, which officially was not permitted, but unofficially the blind eye approach was adopted. Unless someone did something blazon, then we were allowed to carry on. I was caught driving a taxi. It was sods law, really and very ironic. Although I did drive a taxi sometimes for Peter Jones, a chap who ran a business in my Grandmother’s Street, I was driving to a Hospital appointment in Warwick, for myself. Peter, kindly loaned me a car as I didn’t own one at the time.
I was spotted by someone who thought two plus two equaled five and reported me. The next day I was on duty I was called to the chief’s office where I was given a roasting and put on probation for six months. This meant I was being watched so had to rely on my salary from the Fire Service. It was untenable. My decision was, stay in and try to cope or leave and get paid more.
I left to become a delivery driver, then a taxi driver for the main taxi company in town. I did that for about a year, I think, before driving for the Midland Red as a bus driver, which I did for the next four years. From there, in 1968 I worked for a large factory as a Progress Chaser, a job I actually despised. I was bored stiff, with it. There was never enough work to keep me occupied so I would chat to various people around the factory that I got to know. As I always carried a piece of paper around with me, nobody questioned what I was doing or why I was in that department.
I remember sitting on the toilet seat one Friday, trying to sleep. It was that point where I decided to end it all. I Planned to take an overdose of pills on the following Sunday. I did, but it didn’t work. I fell out of chair and then my wife realised what I had done.
The road to recovery was quite long. Various medications ensured I lived like a zombie for two years; I visited the Psychiatrist for my ten minute chat on a regular basis, until I ceased taking the pills. I refused to live in a comatose state any longer and flushed all the pills I could find down the loo. The psychiatrist gave up on such , ‘foolish actions.’
I began to fight back.
So, really, although I can pinpoint the time depression was diagnosed, I think it had been bubbling away in the background for years, probably, most of my life. Recognising it for what it is helps to manage it, but it doesn’t always work that way. There are side effects, issues that tag on to the actual disease.
But more of that to come.
John Sullivan
11th August 2018
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