To Look At Me…
It’s Mental Health Awareness Week, so - deep breath - I’m sharing this little story I wrote 3 years ago originally for a feature on the BlackDog Outdoors website. All dates are therefore 3 years old. I’m also happy to say that I haven’t experienced major depression for a few years, which I will attribute mostly to starting working as a climbing instructor.
To look at me, you wouldn't know I suffer from depression.
It's a pretty common occurrence, it turns out, particularly with high functioning depression. The number of times I've either alluded to it, or outright admitted it, to new friends, only to be met with a knowing acceptance and understanding, is both surprising and reassuring in equal measure.
I find it impossible to talk to old friends about my depression. The ones who knew me 'before'. I'm not proud of this either, it's partly my reserved British upbringing which precludes me from finding the right words to express my struggles. New friends are more accepting, less bound by any historical notions of what they (and I) think I should be.
My depression started around 7 years ago. I was a new parent, finding the new way of life extraordinarily difficult, lurching from hitherto unknown boundaries of love, to tears of frustration at the loss of control and independence. I didn't allow myself to admit how badly I was coping; instead I punished myself for my despicable behaviour as a mother, and thus the guilt and shame settled in.
I was desperate to find an outlet. Years of trying different things dissolved in disappointment. Counselling helped, but I grew exhausted from the constant talking and soul-baring.
It was a Saturday in February 3 years ago.
The usual, spending time with close friends. Except this time these friends took me to a climbing wall, where they'd been going as a couple for a few years. I can almost recall now the sense of excitement and exhilaration I felt when I tied in & top-roped my first climb. The adrenaline, concentration, body movement, encouragement, sense of accomplishment. Distraction. Nothing I'd done before brought so many senses together in one crazy ride. I was instantly hooked.
Like many new climbers, I became obsessed, and sought out the positive climb-fix as much as possible. Which isn't easy when you have 2 young kids. But I knew it was a positive outlet, and I was determined to make this happen.
Climbing is one of those rare activities that both capture and release at the same time. The very nature of the focus involved when climbing is, bizarrely, what sets the mind free. Discovering this was like a drug for me; one that didn't seem to have any negative side-effects. Energy gain, clearer mind, a sense of achievement, accepting fear, new skills, encouraging friends...
Three years on, I've never felt happier to be alive than when clinging to a lump of rock, surrounded by my climber friends. This isn't to say my depression has gone. Far from it. But knowing I have something to look forward to, that sets my soul on fire, that brings out the best possible version of me, is what I'm grateful for. I try to remind myself of that when I'm going through my Dark Days.
Happiness is…gritstone on a crisp spring day