For nine weeks now, since I wrote that first blog, people have been asking me, “How are you doing?” And I couldn’t tell them anything new. It was the same. Nothing had changed. I was doing miserably.
The week following my last blog, I felt it trying to move. Things still felt the same, but in tiny, incremental fragments, it was changing. Like when you rev the engine and turn the wheel in just the right way, and the car moves a tiny bit further than before. Still stuck, but a shift. I was still unable to do anything, but now getting frustrated at that inability, instead of just morosely accepting. A tiny thing to take encouragement from, but that frustration meant a part of me at least had had enough of this.
A nap crept in. I used to sleep a lot, and nap most days after work as well. For three and a half months this year, I slept no more than four hours a night. Sometimes two. Often not at all. After I started taking pills, over the course of a fortnight that gradually crept up to six. Not much, but a Godsend after so long in serious sleep deficit. And suddenly, I’d slept for an hour in the afternoon again.
My weight increased. I started the year at 90.4kg. Actually quite a bit overweight, for me. After she left, I barely ate at all for the first fortnight of the year. I couldn’t. I’m a big eater. I’m renowned for it – I tell people it’s my superpower. I was the guy who would eat a whole pizza, and then go to rugby training. And probably smash a family pack of fish and chips after. At family gatherings there was a simple expectation that I’d take care of leftovers. So to completely lose my appetite altogether was a huge shock.
I tried. For the first 10 days or so, while I didn’t understand what was going on, I’d cook dinner every night, stare at it for a few minutes, and then throw it away. Then I gave up even trying. By the end of the first week of February, I was under 80kg. I got as low as 76.2, at which I stabilised. My body had nothing left to lose. But still, I wasn’t hungry. I could eat now, but I still didn’t want to, didn’t feel like it. And then last week, over 78kg. Another change. Things were moving.
Monday just gone. Headlines proudly announcing it would be the coldest morning of the year. I don’t know – I didn’t see it. I’d already arranged with Dad to take the day off, and I stayed in bed. Until after lunchtime. I slept most of that time. I got up and lit the fire, and promptly took a nap in front of it. Suddenly I realised what had happened. I’d slept over ten hours. And then napped as well. Not just a tiny, almost unnoticeable shift anymore. This was serious. A big change. I took another nap to celebrate. Oh my God, I can SLEEP again.
Fast forward two days, to Wednesday night. I wandered into town, looking for food, not really interested but knowing I should eat. Fresh rolls at the Four Square. A big selection of deli chickens at New World, and I picked one that looked nice and juicy. I got home and smothered the rolls with butter, filled them with fresh, greasy chicken. And suddenly, I ate dinner because I wanted to. I ate that whole bloody chicken. It was delicious. And I was ecstatic. Not just that I could eat again, but that I wanted to. It was the first thing I had wanted all year. I had traction.
Dad left on Thursday, for a golf trip. It’s been well earned. He’s run this place virtually without me for months. I’ve been very fortunate to have that autonomy, to be able to just take open-ended leave, get myself right, come back when I felt like it and manage my own hours and workload on return. Someone working a 9-5 job without that ability, without an understanding boss, would have had a tougher time of dealing with this. I had plenty of time off accrued – I’d only taken one proper holiday in the last ten years. In hindsight, I’d prefer to have taken a break every year, even if I spent it wishing I was at work, rather than push myself to the point where I broke and had to take it, and never wanted to be at work again.
I’m also lucky I know myself very well. I’ve spent most of my adult life a single man living alone. My self-awareness and understanding is incredibly acute. I know myself, I know what I need, and I know when I’m pushing it too far right now. And I’m prepared to prioritise myself over that. It’s been really good for me to be minimally involved for so long, and see that actually, it can cope without me. The place is still standing. The farm is running ok. We maybe didn’t maximise a few things we otherwise would have, but it’s not the end of the world. And so I’ll walk away now when I feel the stress start building, the head start to tighten, and leave a job until the next day. It can wait. I’m not getting worked up for this.
And so I’ve got two weeks on my own. Nothing urgent, we made sure to take care of that before he left. But I can just take things at my own pace. I can eat. I can sleep. Hopefully, more and more, I can want. It’s not an instant cure. I’m not fixed of depression. The wheels will still spin from time to time, I’ll still need to stop and reassess the path forward from time to time, let the engine cool. It’s full of mud still. But maybe, just maybe, I’m gaining some control of my depression now, getting on top of it. And that feels very good indeed.