Sharon & Me

Churchill called his depression ‘the black dog.’ Susan Calman, a Scottish comedian who wrote a hilarious memoir about her depression, called hers ‘the crab of hate.’ Seeing as I’m not particularly a fan of dogs or crabs, I won’t liken my depression to a particular animal. Animals, to me, seem like an unobvious choice for personifying depression.

But it’s an interesting way to explain the individual ways in which those with depression actually experience it. Its individualities manifest themselves differently in every single brain that it fights with. Like the final showdown in a superhero film, we find ourselves attempting to confront the shadowy monster in the background, to give it a shape that we can digest and understand.

Meet Sharon. She’s my depression.

Her voice is the culmination of my parents, friends, relatives, teachers, and even random strangers that I don’t particularly know and sits in the back of my head with a box of fancy chocolates and tea, reading self-published Amazon erotica about humans and various creatures. From the moment I wake up to the moment I fall asleep, she clocks in and whenever is completely unnecessary, she makes a comment.

Let me explain. My depression primarily stems from the voice in my head telling me similar derogatory comments about my looks, my weight, my contributions to society, my work and my future, which hasn’t even happened yet. The smallest trigger—particularly when it’s coming from the black hole of social media—can send her into a rant. Sharon is always in the back of my head, waiting. She doesn’t even take Christmas off. In the eyes of the working world, she’s the most productive person out there.

Sharon’s a worrier. And this has then translated into my brain. Before I can even think about a situation, Sharon has already come up with sixty-five eloquent, and often ridiculous, ideas as to why I can’t do the thing I’ve been asked to do. It’s almost like a panic room. The smallest request can seem like the dawn of nuclear annihilation, and in my head, Sharon’s set off all of the alarms and is screaming, running around like a headless chicken, convinced the apocalypse is going to strike in this very specific place.

This doesn’t quite translate into reality. What usually happens is I say, ‘I’ll think about it’ or, ‘Maybe, I don’t know’; non-committal. But I’ll still feel guilty. Because even the nuclear apocalypse did happen at that party-slash-social event-slash-pub-slash-other social activity, Sharon would still be chastising me for not going.

If anxiety and overthinking was instilled in me from a young age, going into the education system didn’t help. I truly believe that was when Sharon, in her all irrational glory, was born. Because in school, it’s a dog-eat-dog system, pun intended. If you fail, you’re being set up for a life of bad luck and consistent disadvantages. One test could be make or break for you.

Now, we know this isn’t true, but to me and obviously to Sharon, it was the end of the world.

Much like dominoes toppling down on top of each other, if I didn’t pass a test it meant I wouldn’t do well, which would then result in me getting bad grades, not going to university, not getting a degree or a good job, not having enough money to live on. Not being happy. Sharon was determined that I would be better than good. I would be great. Good was not good enough, because if I wasn’t intelligent then I wasn’t good enough.

Sharon taught me to equate my grades and performance to my self-worth and it’s something I still struggle with today. It’s self-destructive and painful to deal with. If I wasn’t doing well, then I wasn’t doing enough. I had to work harder, more often, keep pushing until I finally got the grade that would mean so much to me.

During secondary school, I was very lucky to be in a friendship group filled with creative, intelligent, interesting and fun young women, all of whom were very gifted at their work. And that made me push even harder. It followed me through GCSE’s, A Levels, and two-thirds of my degree. After receiving a 2:2 on a short film I’d put my heart into, I fought back tears in front of my tutor, went home and sobbed. Because Sharon was telling me I’d failed. That I should give up all hopes of being a writer or director or even having anything to do with film because I was stupid and I couldn’t get anything right.

And that’s the power of Sharon. The tiniest thing can make her vomit up a tirade of angry, pessimistic, degrading statements that will swirl around my head until it’s all I can hear. Depression blocks out any rational thinking or common sense you might have and locks it in a cupboard. It isolates you from your friends and family, can make people treat or view you differently, plays with your emotional and physical health, and can make getting out of bed seem like climbing a mountain.

It’s so complex that my writing about it in one essay cannot even begin to scratch the tip of the iceberg. So, as an introduction, I wanted you to meet Sharon. She’s the cause of all of this.

But, with the right help, I can change both our ways of thinking.