Being depressed is a terrible hindrance to projects such as these. I mean, I’m meant to be cooking dinner, seeing friends and climbing a bloody mountain, but here I am on the couch with nothing more going on than Breakfast at Tiffany’s on the TV.
To be fair, there is little which is time better spent than watching Breakfast at Tiffany’s, but it wasn’t exactly the plan. I’m rather addicted to plans, you see, they allow you to live in a shiny and shimmering future which is full of ideas and visions that you will soon (but not now) live out in all their bright light.
Making a plan is like daydreaming about something which will come true. It exists in the world of images, hopes and ambition and you can fill it up however you like. Up until I became sick, I was really good at executing my plans. I had such drive, I could make all sorts of things happen, my whole life in London was made through wishful thinking and persistence and determination. I thought it into being, and then I lived the idea.
Now however, there is something in the way which is very complex and yet so simple to explain. It is simple like this: it’s depression. Then it is complex in the way depression is complex, different and intricate in each case, filled to the brim with personal twists and turns and sets of conditions and historical contexts.
Right now I am stunned by it. Stupefied, dazed, befuddled, shocked. I can hardly move without feeling crippled by the pressure in my chest. And so I can’t see a friend or cook a meal. I couldn’t even get up by ten o clock, which was one of my very simple goals.
I have managed one goal: I have brushed my teeth and washed my face and taken my medication, every morning and evening since I set that goal. So I will count that small victory, leave the other goals for another day and for now just watch Breakfast at Tiffany’s with the beautiful, beautiful soundtrack of Moon River sung by the lovely Audrey Hepburn, and that will just have to be enough for now.