Outside Shutdown

I was crossing a railway bridge when I realised that something was very wrong. 

This is how it seems to me, anyway. In truth, I had suspected for some time. The outside, however, is where it begins; around five years ago I was on my way home from a walk with a friend somewhere in Berkshire. It wasn't tedious or long. It promised to be pleasant. It crossed parkland and woods, and ran beside the Thames. The first few miles were perfect. Amiable chat. Beech hangers like cathedrals. I thought about the ghost orchid, which is said to exist in these parts, and where I might find it. 

After a few hours I lagged behind. It is hard, at this point, not to resort to weather metaphors. So often we describe ourselves as under the weather, or imagine a cloud above our heads, or a foggy mind. Our thinking becomes muddy. As someone who attempts to write, I don't want to be use cliché. In school we were taught about the 'pathetic fallacy', wherein inanimate objects are personified so that skies can smile and storms can rage. Descriptions like these stick out. They're empty, over-used, and lazy. So, here I will try something different.

Outside

(in)

There is no way

(out)

Inside

Imagine the mind as an estuary. It is filled with channels and rivulets along which the seawater runs. Twice per day (or four, depending on where your estuary is), with the tides, it is inundated. This healthy waxing and waning can be seen as the mind interacting with its environment normally. On this particular walk, I finally understood that there was a blockage. Water was not flowing. That's not to say it was empty. In fact, it was full. Thoughts that had accumulated over weeks and months crowded for space. Nothing new was flowing. The thoughts were disabling. They were exhausting. They told me things that I had often wondered, but this time they convinced me. It's pointless, they said. You can't do it. Nothing is worth anything. Give it up. 

About five miles into the walk I wondered if I could go on. Stone-like thoughts were so heavy that they made my legs feel weak. It hurt to look up. There was too much light, too much green, everywhere. I wanted to stop, find somewhere dark, and cover myself with bracken. Eventually, perhaps, I might take root in some moist dell where moss could cover me, and there be still. My head lolled as if on a thin stalk. I was tired beyond imagining. I couldn't talk. I couldn't even pretend to be interested in the villages we passed. Another small anxiety sprung up: how could I explain it? But I couldn't, and didn't. I let my friend go on ahead. I made no attempt at catching up. Perhaps he was too polite to question my sudden lethargy and sullenness. When we got to the car I pretended to sleep. Back in London, I half walked, half stumbled across the railway bridge. A small thought saw its chance. Jump off, it said. It didn't explain itself further. 

I got myself to the smallish double room that I was renting at the time, and climbed into bed. I knew that the word for whatever was happening to me was, beyond doubt, depression. I suppose I also knew that I should concentrate on the things that were outside my mind: the sea of things that now meant nothing. I listened to the boards creak as the heating came on. I listened to my own measured breathing. I tapped the windowsill, and listened to that. 

I remember the jay. So sudden, so unexpected. It came to the window and perched on the sill for a second, perhaps less. Nothing in its beak. Magpie-sized bulk of metallic blue. Pupil framed in orange. It cocked its head and left for the sycamores at the end of the small, stony garden. Then the blue tit. Or was it coal? It came each morning, tapping at its shadow in the glass. Bird alarm. A charming patch of white on its nape. 

The outside had betrayed me. I felt something similar a few months before, while identifying sedges in Wicken Fen. Again, I was with a friend, and again I wanted more than anything to be alone. Every plant around me was mocking. I didn't know what they were, and there was not enough space in my mind to think about them, much less apply any kind of botanical knowledge. You'll never be good enough. You'll fail. Ever since, 'fail' has been the stone that weighs the most, that cracks into hundreds of fragments which accumulate in the estuary. It comes with something desperate, as if each failed opportunity deprives me of a chance to succeed. 

I won't call it the black dog. Dogs, in all their moods, are welcome company. Depression is not a beast, but nor is it a permanent weather system. It is not a thing in itself. It is an invisible force which acts on things. It sucks and saps. It brings stones together and fills you with them. It creates dams and blockages. It stops the outside getting in, and keeps the inside from getting out.