Recently I had a strange feeling of falling into depression. It started with an eye infection (following the logic of getting a heart attack starting with a pain in toes) and attacked all of my surroundings from shoppings bags to two watermelon printed glasses on my coffee table.
- I am seriously getting tired of your imaginary mental health problems- said Mr Frank browsing a Guardian page on his iPad (he has an iPad, i don't).
But this time, believed, it was serious. Fearfully I looked through all of the available all over the net descriptions of depression symptoms. It was clear.
-Sleeping disorders. Yes, definitely. I am having these strange dreams about getting to Panama and when I land there it is not the same country. Then I wake up late, overwhelmed by the daydream.
-Tiredness. Oh yes, an awful one. When I try to get up of a chair first I move my legs, while my back stays in the same place.
-Pain. Hundred percent yes, you see, that eye infection. And those shoes some other day were so uncomfortable.
-Helplessness. Oh I am so, so wasting my time.
-Suicidal thoughts. Oh for God's sake, is that necessary? Can I skip that symptom please.
As I indeed can skip all of the other symptoms in my head, I successfully diagnosed myself with depression.
Of course, I can't afford leaning on that and complaining, so I decided to focus on solutions. There it was- a perfect thing for me. According to uncle Google, it focuses on the way you perceive things: your thoughts, images, attitude and beliefs. It tries to break through a negative pattern in your behaviour. Patients are supposed to benefit from the therapy not only after coming out of depression, but also in much longer term in their lifetime. In my life I tend to call it wishful thinking. Here it gets a much better PR: it's called Cognitive Behaviour Therapy, or rather CBT.
Joyfully I called Frank and informed him, that we commence my CBT immediately. As you can guess, he was rather reluctant.
-You will see unicorns everywhere again and start transforming into a giant tortoise- he kept on complaining while browsing all of the stages of the therapy.- And you'll end up permanently happy like your father.
But I had already decided and closing my eyes, I dedicated myself to the wishful thinking.
At first I saw places I have never been to, amazing green lands with a blue sky full of clouds to fly on. I started flying on a cloud, but then I chose a flying carpet instead, for it was faster, and Berberis and Tezeus, my dear friends living in my mind since childhood, could fly with me running just by my side. Yann Tiersen was playing the soundtrack and down there we could see all of the lands I imagined as far.
We were flying over a busy market street, the very first home of Berberis before he became a cat, but then it suddenly turned to Brick Lane. I was again in London, but I was looking at it in a different way, as down there everything seemed so small. Sometimes it was getting dark and I could notice the lights in windows, filled with people's lives and secrets the lights will never reveal.
I saw Leytonstone High Road and a coffee shop where the time has stopped, and Victoria Park, my park, where I once falled in love but it was not the kind of love to carry on your way.
I saw the corner of the street somewhere in between Hackney and Bethnal Green where an old artist exhibits his old vinyls covered with abstraction only a genius can create.
I saw a long empty beach which used to be beautiful, but then destroyed by dishonest investors, now surrounded by ruins of never built summer houses. That is Panama already.
Then I saw my home, my old living room, the view from the window. It got dark again, and my mum and I could smoke a cigarette in this window, one summer night four years ago.
After that, the silence took it all and the images immersed in a starless sky. On that day I died, and woke up again, not to a new life. To the one I already had.
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