For the past two years, I have been struggling with depression and levels of mental health. It could go back much longer (which I will refer to in a little while in this post).
In February 2017, one of my closest friends and mentors passed away. Dave H gave me my first proper job (outside of flipping hamburgers in a well known High Street franchise).
At that time (circa 1988) when my parents' marriage was, well, dying - he was like a best friend (even though he had a mullet haircut).
He offered me employment, advice, a shoulder to cry on when I needed it (c'mon, I was 18) but above all, believed in me.
He made me read great books (Jonathan Carroll, Harlan Ellison and Joe R Lansdale). He also, introduced me to great cinema (Argento - Suspiria) and David Lynch (Eraserhead....but more importantly, Twin Peaks - he had the habit of leaving messages singing the Twin Peaks theme on the analogue answering machine in the house I shared).
Like my friend, Pete Cemm who passed away (in 2004) from something that could have been avoided in the hospital he was being treated in, I think about them both everyday. Both of the lifelong friends meant the world to me and I miss their presence, wisdom and most of all, their brilliance. My life would be a lesser place if I never met them.
But, what bothered me was a memory in 2006 when someone who appeared to be a "friend" said to me "Are you happy?" At that time, I had just lost my father and my closest friend and my brain screamed "I am in a deep depression and that has to be the most insensitive and crass thing I have ever heard from anyone who walked this planet". Yet, that person thought it was an appropriate question and from this day, I still cannot believe that they said that.
Is anyone happy? I doubt it - most of the people I know live from pay day to pay day. They struggle with bills, keeping their kids fed and making a living. "Are they happy?". I think not. They survive and endure. Happiness for them might be a good meal or not having to worry about tomorrow's struggle.
Skipping forward, 2017, I have recorded this before but not in this kind of detail. Around Easter in 2017, my mum (Gwen) could not put a sentence together. She had issues with eating, speaking and looking after herself.
After a number of tests (based on nutrition) which were invasive and horrid (MRI, colonoscopies and other horrid things), she had a fall at her home.
I found her, in her bedroom after she missed an appointment with the doctor and she did not answer the phone. The paramedics were amazing and got her to the hospital. Linda and I spent the next many hours in ER with mum. Over the next few days we found out she had terminal lung cancer which was not spotted by her GP. The following weeks were spent with deciding next steps (DNR - do not resuscitate decisions - how could I make that decision?)
Her quality of life was, horrible (she pulled out the needle from her drip in frustration, she screamed in pain at night so she was moved to a private room). When Linda and I received "the call" at 5:40 am, I ran along the corridors only to touch her hand only to find it was cold and lifeless. I called the Doctor and a nurse only to see them go through the motions (open mum's mouth, check pulse, slap her face, check eyes then call the time of death on the chart according to the clock on the wall). At this time, I am slumped in a chair in the corner of the room.
So, go back to 2006. Am I happy? No. Is my mum happy? No. How about the friends who are dead? Are they happy? No.
What I am trying to say is - check your privilege. If you are breathing and are living. Good. If you are in a space where you can judge others without understanding them - not good.
People may not be happy but we're still breathing and struggling. Which is a great achievement, I hope.
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