A Sense Of Depression

So far I have never had to deal with suffering from any kind of major depression in my life. Like most people I've had my share of intensely low moments, but not too many all told. The closest I've come to an extended period featuring a few symptoms commonly associated with depression was early in my career when I was struggling to be something close to a half-way competent teacher. That period lasted a brief four months and even then things were never genuinely bleak since it wasn't difficult to imagine quitting for another job.

So far I've been lucky. My guess is that I've inherited no predispositions to depression (a conjecture based on the evidence for the heritability of the condition.) Even though a number of my interests steer dangerously close to the dark waters of depression I've so far found it easy to keep to the sunlit surface. For example, I'm entirely gripped by the work of Sam Beckett and, let's face it, it doesn't get much darker. Yet reading Beckett and watching his works on the stage generally makes me feel oddly cheerful. I can watch King Lear knowing every word is true, especially words like nothing and never, and feel refreshed two hours later. In my agnostic phase - which lasted many years - I could face the notion of a meaningless universe without getting overly worked up. Actually, this is why I'm pretty sure my faith doesn't function as a crutch: I don't need one, not because I'm terribly brave, but because I'm temperamentally pretty cheerful.

Fortunately the brief but painful glimpse of depression my early career afforded me, and the one genuine panic attack I experienced in hospital in 1995 as a result of a reaction to the medication I was given, have allowed me a tiny insight into what the real thing might be like. My admiration for those who cope with the condition is boundless, and extends to those who've done their damnedest to cope but couldn't manage it in the end. Perhaps especially to those.