Curiously, my worst Christmas ever was also 1995 in Bradford. It was Boxing Day. It was awful.
Maybe it was coming down to earth after a rollockingly good Christmas Day. Maybe there was a bit of a hangover involved. Maybe it was waving goodbye to my housemates as they went off to family while I was still in Yorkshire for 24 hours. I went for a lurch and I watched a documentary on the Muppets and I saw Dead Poets’ Society. But at some point the whole thing went pear-shaped.
Muppets: how many can you name?
Basically, Boxing Day 1995 was the first time I came close to acknowledging the big black moods that can sweep down on people who endure depression from time to time. It would be another year and a bit before I'd admit that the word "depression" had anything to do with me.
It was gloomy. I've known bits of homesickness. I've known rainy November days when it was hard to get going. This was in a different league. The Muppets had been fun. Dead Poets' Society was inspirational. But in-between there was this awful yeurgh, like - The Shack describes - a concrete duvet wrapped around my soul, pinning it down, sucking out all the hope. J.K. Rowling's Dementors are a good personification of depression.
What do you do with your worst Boxing Day ever? I leafed through my address book (this was before texting, dear reader) and found reasons why I shouldn't call anyone. Just because I'm having a terrible time, there's no reason to drag anyone else down. They'll be with their families. It's rude to intrude on Christmas with depression and misery. The Samaritans have better things to do, legitimately upset people who need help. All that.
Texting is brilliant. You can text even when you can't speak. You can send a sad face out and your friends know to text something back, know you can't talk, and somehow you've broken the conspiracy of silence about depression that goes on in your head.
That's what depression can be: a conspiracy of silence, where all the conspirators are in your own head. A year and a bit later, a lovely middle-class friend went with me to the doctor's. The class is important because as a working class boy, why would I be bothering a professional with my rubbish moods? These days, I'm better at talking about it. Text and e-mail mean I can shout for help even when I can't muster a whisper. But the temptation is still there to keep quiet: they must be bored of my depression by now… this feels like talking about me me me… why would I bring anybody else down?
People feel depression in different ways.
The first time I blogged about depression, I got a complaint. There was no point to such admissions, I was told. Nobody wants to read this. Keep your problems private.
Anyway. That Boxing Day, I phoned Andy. It took a while. I didn't have the words or much of the voice to explain things, but that didn't matter. He kind of knew, kind of understood, kind of offered to drive a bit tipsy across Yorkshire's glaciers to get to me (I said no, obviously). It got better. It returns intermittently. Even this year I feel I've been discriminated against on the basis of my dodgy mental health, which is odd. It's my dodgy mental health - and being gay and other things - that fuel my ministry.
Just not Boxing Day 1995.
Where is this going? Search me. Just remember that Christmas can be sad. The holiday season makes depression twice as bad. Isolation bites deeper when everyone else is wishing it could be Christmas every day. And pop in on someone who may be alone or whose mental health suffers ups and downs. Nobody rang my doorbell that Boxing day, but that's probably my fault for being so chipper on the surface, so resolutely single and independent, and living in Yorkshire.
And if it's you - and it is some of you - give a shout. Don't be part of the conspiracy of silence in your own head. Text. Get a buddy who'll check in with you. You won't spoil my Christmas if you call. You might spoil my new year if I find you've spent Christmas being really miserable and thought I wouldn't want to be bothered!
But if Christmas is going to be hard, make a plan. It's harder to make it as dusk falls on Boxing Day and you're convinced you're not worth bothering the world with.
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