Feeling blue in the grey and black

October. The sun glistens amongst the sparse, flaming leaves on the trees. The streets are carpeted with a soft, rustling cover. People are wrapped in scarves and topped with hats and they say their final farewell to their dresses and shorts for another six months. Little witches and skeletons, zombies and ghosts appear out of the darkness and come knocking at your door for treats.

November. The sky is alight with stars and glitter, swirls and sprays of sparkle. Small kids twirl sparklers in the darkness, making shapes and writing their names. Young people take photos of their sparkler creations and have Bailey's hot chocolates in the cold night, watching the sky ignite.

A firework display in Sheffield, 2009

Yes, it's true, this time of year is horrendous. Despite our best efforts to try and make it exciting, it is inevitably very tough on the human psyche. The human animal is not all that different from the other great apes, and indeed from many other animal groups. Similarities exist in the need we have to socialise with other humans, form social hierarchies, live amongst nature (looking around at the ficus and the chilli plants that we've slightly neglected to water recently, it's clear that we love greenery in our homes). And as part of nature, sunlight and daylight is essential for the well-being of all of us. And the human animal, in its evolved complexity and intelligence, has also evolved some sun-deprivation disorders.

SAD, or seasonal affective disorder is not uncommon amongst Europe. Scandinavian countries suffer a whole half a year in darkness, and it's not surprising to hear depression is high in that period. But a mere British winter is also enough to dampen anyone's mood.

Not too many years ago, I was struck by depression. The stupidest thing was how long it took me to realise. If I have a cold, my snivelling nose, my scratchy throat and my aching head are clear enough signs that I'm unwell. Not to mention the croak of my voice as I call in sick from work. If I clumsily kick the edge of the table, a huge blue-and-purple bruise and pain every time my leg moves serves as a signal that maybe I'm not okay. Depression is slow and murky and you may easily not realise it's there.

The world was just quite grey. Nothing really excited me or brought me joy. Not going out with my friends, not a steaming takeaway... I was actually not really eating very much at all. I liked the feeling of hunger - that slight pain that you get from having your stomach struggle and churn. That empty feeling that you are completely in control of, and that you can fix whenever you want, it felt a little relieving. And the pain was a real reason to be upset.

My cat, Joey, enjoying a standard, 18-hour nap

To anyone with any sense about them, that sounds a bit wrong and messed up. But not to someone who's very slowly been descending into depression. But the penny finally dropped when I was going home to see my beloved cat, Joey, and feeling completely indifferent... Hang on - not even seeing the cat once made me ecstatic? The cat I begged my parents for? The cat that I've been in love with since he was a palm-sized kitten? The cat who made me laugh by chasing the snooker balls on the screen and try and stalk the computer mouse? Something was gravely amiss here.


Indeed, that was my first inkling that something's actually kind of wrong. I was not just in a semi-permanent state of bad mood, I was actually not very well.

Sitting in the doctor's waiting room, I was twiddling my thumbs and contemplating my escape. Everyone saw me come in and sit down... it would be quite obvious if I just got up and left without going upstairs to the doctor's office... would I look really weird for just going to have a bit of a sit down in the doctor's waiting room and then leaving... But what if the doctor tells me I'm ridiculous? *BEEP* My name showed up on the surgery's screen. I guess I might as well go in and get laughed out of the room, I thought.

The doctor, surprisingly, didn't find it stupid, or funny. He handed me a booklet, several leaflets, several questionnaires, and sent me on my way with homework. He asked if I wanted to speak to someone, but the last thing I wanted to do was talk. So I opted for the DIY, follow-these-instructions-stringently method the doctor gave me.

Exercise at least three times a week, but preferably every day.

Go and socialise even if you don't feel like it.

Eat healthily.









Little make-shift fixes for a life-changing problem. And truthfully, I just could not be bothered. I would rather sit and wallow, cry every evening, not care or enjoy anything. I was used to this life now, I didn't see any difference from day to day, I couldn't be bothered making time for exercise, I couldn't be bothered doing forward thinking with my shopping so I'd eat healthier. I couldn't be bothered plastering on a fake smile and trying to muster enough interest and care to socialise with anybody. It was hard and it felt like it was to no avail.

But every day I would get a phone call from my mum and dad who would ask me what I did that day, they would encourage me to go make dinner and watch something nice on TV, tell me things that happened in their days and tell me what the cat was doing. I was monosyllabic, monotone, mono everything, but they rang every day to speak to their robotic daughter. They sent me books in the post, they paid for me to go to Paris with my sister. And I was still monosyllabic, I was constantly sad and they never got feedback of any success of their efforts.

But whether they knew it, it helped. It helped a lot. They made me feel like I had a safety net, like I wasn't alone. Having them know that I wasn't myself made me feel a bit better, like I had an army behind me to take the slack sometimes, but I was always going to be the driving force. Nobody else could fix it for me.

And very, very, very slowly, through the wintery darkness, the world started to have a little glow of early springtime. Some days were grey and sad still, but other days were slightly better. I bought a guitar on a whim. It cost next to nothing for a guitar, and I learnt an iffy version of the mighty Jeff Buckley's Hallelujah, and a couple of Bulgarian ditties. It was just for me, a little project for me to complete because it took me far away from reality and it brought me pleasure.



I also started volunteering at a cat shelter on the weekends. I had to go in at half past nine, clean a room from top to bottom and then I could spend the rest of the morning sitting with the cats. Wise people say that the dog is Man's best friend. I reckon I'd stretch that to pets are Man's best friends. They become a member of your family and they themselves begin to feel a part of the family.

And best friends, they are. They have an incredible power to bring joy. Doggies have done rounds in the children's wards of many hospitals to raise morale of sick children and give a kind of healing that no pill can provide. Wise people have also said that stroking the soft coat of a kitty is relaxing and unloading. The cats at the cat shelter definitely gave me a little injection of joy that I desperately needed.

Cooper, a Happy Tails therapy dog

In the end it was a slow, persistent, and sometimes almost mechanical, robotic doing of what I knew I had to do: go to lectures, go swimming, go out. It wasn't a race, and every day was a step in the right direction, whether I felt it then or not. On the worse days, I stuck with it, to ease the pressure from my silent, ever-present, ever-supportive army.

The summer holidays came around swiftly. I was in the car on my way home and my heart was pounding. I got out of the car and ran into the house. Joey was sitting on the sofa with his head cocked to one side slightly. I picked him up and cradled him like a baby. He grazed my nose with his. I felt happiness.