Coming out of my wardrobe

This is a post that has been rattling around at the back of my mind for months, but it wasn't until I watched the video below that I was finally able to get together the guts necessary to write it. I would really, strongly recommend watching it if you can spare the time - it's a wonderful and sympathetic take on something that, as the speaker points out, affects almost everyone - even if in different ways.

So, I'm coming out of my 'closet'. It is not, as Ash Beckham puts it, a rainbow-coloured one, and as I think it has certain fairly British qualities, I'm going to call it a wardrobe. My wardrobe has the picture of a massive black dog painted on the front of it. I never know quite the right verb to use. I have? I experience? I suffer from? I live with? Whatever the verb, the noun is simple: depression.

I'm not going to write today at any length about how I experience - or deal with - depression, but rather want to discuss why not talking about it became a 'wardrobe' in the first place.

To some extent, I guess it's cultural, in two directions. Internally, I suspect I have a certain amount of the British stiff-upper-lip - or at least the British mental cringe at the thought of doing anything so forward as to declare my emotions publicly, or to bother anyone else with the fact that I'm experiencing difficulties with them. Externally, there's a perception I have that people in general might not be sympathetic to 'confessions' of depression; that there might still be people out there who think I'm just being pathetic, need to get over myself, or am even just making it up to get attention. 

Of course, this perception of an external negative attitude towards depression may also be a symptom of depression. Something that I have increasingly come to realise over the past few years is that, from my point of view at least, depression is a remarkably self-preserving illness. It doesn't want to be found out. Obviously this is a ridiculous statement on some levels - my depression does not, of course, have mental autonomy to scheme against me - but I think it holds a grain of truth. Depression often brings with it strong feelings of worthlessness and shame. If you feel worthless, why should you seek help? Only people with 'worth' deserve aid or care. And if you feel ashamed, why should you speak out - afraid as you are of being judged for what you admit?

And that is why I am writing this post. I am having a good stretch of days in the midst of a bad patch and I'm feeling ready to start trying to train that bloody dog. The lessons might not stick, of course - another truism I'm coming to learn about having depression is that expecting a one-time 'cure' may not necessarily be the best way to think about it - but at least it might retain the memory of them next time it comes back, and be more promptly quietened. So, I am coming out of my wardrobe, and speaking out. Because I am worth something, and having depression is nothing to be ashamed of.

Don't be afraid to step out of your closet, whether you have to fight through prejudice or, perhaps, the metaphorical Hound of the Baskervilles in order to put your hand against the door. It - and you - are always worth it.