Written by Peter Green
I progressed (or regressed) from being a teacher, senior leader, trainer, consultant, HMI before retiring in 2018, but still active in social and educational voluntary work. I write verses and educational articles pushing the boulder of EDI up the hill in the hope of a fair and just society.
Mental Health Week was the week from the 9th to 13th May. Loneliness was the theme. After reading various accounts about others’ experiences, I felt great empathy and I now take the courage to share my own experience. I found writing this verse cathartic.
The expressions of depression
in its many guises and forms
– loneliness, unease – unhinge all norms,
do strange things, weird things.
Even little things
bring big mood swings,
loss of humour and mirth
make living a dearth.
Words of simple intent,
I hear with malcontent,
I keep wondering why
everything seems so awry,
every small job or task
just becomes a big ask.
Little niggles of my life
become the focus for strife:
“The bin’s in the wrong place”,
spoken with poker face
“it’s not on its tile”
said always with a smile,
is now critically carping
followed by more harping
about the doormat,
not smoothed and flat
and not enough care
to make sure it’s square
to the front door
“where there’s fluff on the floor,
finger marks on the light switch” –
treated like snot or snitch –
by the critical tone
of the moan and groan.
In the slough of despond
everything’s wrong,
nothing’s quite right,
life’s just a long fight
to get through each day
keeping the pain at bay
when you’re in that trough
little things are enough
to push you to the edge
of your mental health ledge.
The feigned forced smile
is carefully hidden by guile.
It’s hard to show grace
when in a dark space
you ignore your friends,
when the Black dog descends,
sitting on your shoulder
a heaving heavy boulder.
There’s a grimace of face
for any word/s out of place,
even acts, gentle and kind
trouble a hurting mind.
My thoughts are only of me,
I’m the only one I can see,
in a silo dark and deep,
an endless troubled sleep.
Awareness of time slows,
mis-respect for others’ grows.
Self-pity and ‘the blues’
trigger, blow your short fuse.
Appearance, wealth don’t matter
when the mind is in tatters.
How long can I endure,
where’s help, what’s the cure?
All I want is mental health,
some physical stealth
to walk with a little pride
free from caustic asides
about ‘having the hump’
or ‘being down in the dumps’,
wearing me down drip by drip
‘man up, just get a grip’,
not to battle the stigma
or explain the enigma
of attempting to hide
all the turmoil inside.
It’s bad enough being sad
let alone called crazy, mad,
nuts, looney, or insane
adding to the pain.
But I now feel no shame
in naming its name.
Admission, talk, therapy
was the way out for me,
gave mental wealth to cope
when I almost lost hope.
Walks. The birds. The trees.
Feeling the kiss of the breeze
are now my expressions
to escape from depression.