CHASING THE SUN

I think the term was "Grumpy Fuckwit", when I realised my medication wasn't working.

Sertraline had been great for 18 months. Some days were better than others. This isn't a magical panacea to wipe the depression away. Sometimes you have to work at it, too. I prolonged my discomfort within the latter days of it. Why? Because I didn't want to come across as needy, a nuisance. Not manly. Perhaps a glimmer of hunter-gatherer man still embedded in the codex. But we are fools not to listen to our bodies. If we ignore their alarms the repair is consuming.

They were making feel like shit. I was due to have a review but the circumstances of Covid made that all a bit hit and miss. But at the time I was coping. Getting by. I'm a man, right? Get on with it.

MAN UP.

PISS OFF.

I forgot to take my meds. By accident - or perhaps design, who am I to judge. But I did. Sometimes when you're going about your day you forget the little things. On this day I was in fine fettle. The next day came and certain obstacles stopped me from picking up my meds. The weekend fell, and drifted past and then I realised that the best part of five days had sailed by and I felt . . . fantastic.

I was placed with a quandary within my lap. Do I collect my prescription and carry on trudging through the sludge or perhaps, just, don't. As in stop. I could get up in the morning without swearing. The kids pack lunches were even prepared by half past seven. I even did egg mayo. I cycled, rain or shine, losing weight, filling the body with serotonin and cheeky endorphins. Resistance training in the garden, creativity through the roof. A Zen-like demeanor that cherished this new me.

Had I been made a victim of corporate pharm. Filling myself with pills that worked only on a short term basis. Urging me to see my doctor and get prescribed a higher dose, or another. Was I a slave to the chemical elite? I was now free.

Happy in my job (where is Dom and what have you done with him). Chirpy, a lust for life only ever glimpsed in Somerset 2003 with a lady named Helen. Or maybe Alan. It was a long time ago. But, I was stable, self assured, alert, and able to get up off a chair without sounding like a male hippo. What madness was this? And would it last?

Don't get me wrong, to start with, after I realised what I had done and was about to undertake I had glimmers of doubt. Cycles of dizziness, the occasional headache which lasted for about a week. I concentrated on something, My novel. Something delicious for supper. Hell, even zooming the hoover around. Just to take my mind out of the clarion call of Big Pharma.

I'll be buggered if you were going to suck me in again.

I hadn't felt like this since my mid twenties. Well, possibly. I spent most of my twenties in pubs and music venues. But it was akin to the high experienced back in those heydays. One of enlightenment and happiness. I haven't been able to get out of bed for over ten years without farting profusely and cursing at the ceiling, the day laid bare in my head, work or play, without saying to the cats - 'OH fuck off.' I was slipping from my freshly laundered sheets like Michael Flatley on crack. Dancing through the living room as dawn broke through night's gossamer blouse. Boiling the kettle to some long lost sonnet playing in my mind.

And shit, the dreams. Wholesome, detailed dreams that cushioned the divide between day and night, a cocktail of wellbeing and lithium. The sleep was fantastic. Blissful, nuanced. They should sell sleep in shops. They'd make a mint. Not since being a teenager had I experienced something so profoundly beautiful.

Is this what sleep is? I can't remember it being such a tincture for the soul.

Sleep is important. I am constantly reminded of this, via doctors and therapists, nurses and my mum. But I suppose after raising children and throwing yourself into the gauntlet of the corporate machine of bills and quotas the fundamental meaning slips you by - like childhood and Saturday morning cartoons. It becomes commonplace. Like ham sandwiches and dentist appointments. I'd forgotten how important this was. To slip into black silk and take respite.

For five weeks I was on top of my game. Exercising. Working joyously with colleagues. Creativity on full flow, I drafted two seasons of Doctor Who and sent them to my mates. They thought I was on one - high as a kite. Spiraling, spiraling ...

Icarus.

On week five everything was normal. But gradually as the week progressed something started to move in. A creeping negativity. Only highlighted by moments of duress or stress. Little things. The cost of a grocery bill. A simple mistake at work. I'd asked to go on nights at work. Why the hell would I want to do that? I had just found the Shangri-La of sleep. I wasn't me! Perhaps I was having a bad week. I'm entitled, aren't I? None of us are superhuman.

Then I shouted at my kids. For being kids. Toys on the floor, high pitched cries of innocent delight were making me irritable, almost violent in tone. I was waking up and telling the ceiling to fuck off. Alarm bells were ringing in my head. Fear of turning into a monster.

My wife intervened. Told me to get back on the meds. For my children I did as I was told. For those in the know, starting off on antidepressants isn't actually a picnic. The fatigue became a manifestation of concrete boots. Waking in a bath of sludge and then wading through molasses - with said boots. My poor ceiling was getting a scolding. I was drifting backwards into self loathing and lethargy. My emotions numbed - virtually neutered. Everything had no meaning. No sensuality. No tangibility. No me.

Least the kids were okay. Safe. Good dad.