by avaiki news agency editor jason brown
"Oh. So, he's crazy."
A Tahiti mate is reading through an analysis of another mate, describing his years-long struggle with depression.
An analysis written by one crazy guy about another, example of blind leading the blind.
CRAZY
I was a little offended at the time.
"No, he's not crazy, really, just suffering from depression."
Huh, said my mate, still reading my rough, Google translation.
TRUTH
Truth is, he was right.
Depression, quite literally, leaves a mate crazy. Robs them of reason, perspective and ability to pull socks up, or even get out of bed, most days. Winston Churchill described depression as a black dog that gets fangs round the throat and won't let go, no matter how many gasps of "nice doggy."
John Kirwan was an All Black on a world-beating rugby team, later confessing publicly to depression. A mate asked him: "got that black dog on a leash yet?"
ILLUSIONS
As a journalist, I have felt personally, totally overwhelmed by weight of profession.
I made the mistake of reading history books to gain perspective on my own situation.
The most depressing book was called Illusion of Victory, an entertaining in-depth look at participants of World War One. In the last chapter, the author, ????, made links between events of the "war to end all wars" and the second world war, between that war and today. Same oil, same family dynasties, same countries: the United States of America, and the disunited states of Arabia.
PARIS
I remember a taxi ride into Paris, from the grey concrete awfullness of the Charles de Gaulle airport, and felt no joy, no romance, just deep sadness.
Maybe I was just tired.
After all, I had just spent five days working almost around the clock, and was coming down from the incredible high of meeting, briefly, Nelson Mandela and Bill Clinton, in the same room, at the same conference, with a close friend as their guest speaker. Bit hard to live up to that, but I still believe, from then to now, that Paris is a city of secrets, hiding endless anguish.
INSANITY
One of the worst things about mental illness is that, when you start to recover, you start to recognise signs of insanity, in nearly every one.
All sorts of 'normal' people, all stressed, barely able to keep a conversation going for 30 seconds, builders and bureaucrats, gingerly slurping take-out coffee, exhibiting early symptoms of mental breakdown.
This is not comforting.
TIME
Best, biggest picture I've seen of mental illness was a two page graphic in Time magazine.
Either side of an allegedly 'normal' middle, a spectrum of symptoms, alarming numbers of human stories, of sliding into insanity for seconds, minutes, lifetimes.
Ever stared, eyes wide open? For a few minutes? Like, at your desk? Or at the wheel? That's called "losing it" - a momentary absence of presence so deep, so complete, a driver cannot even remember the last five kilometres, or fifty.
WOW
Yeah, exactly.
So a driver says "wow" and shakes awake, learns a lesson.
Mental illness is exactly like that, except it can go on for hours, days, months, years, decades, you get the picture. The Time magazine graphic gave context, giving comfort.
TIPPING POINT
Few times, against a railing high above the ground, I just felt like reaching a tipping point, leaning forward, letting go.
Not particularly sad, nor angry, just exhausted.
Exhausted from the endless stupidity of my own mind, thrashing out ethical conundrums, emotional turmoil. Churn, churn, churn, I was in every way a 'churnalist' - rehashing bad propaganda from my own personal Ministry of Misery.
GUILT
Guilt.
Guilt, guilt, guilt.
Head-in-hands guilt, stay-in-bed-three-days guilt, trembling, shivering and whimpering guilt, not for murder most foul, or even much sauciness, or silliness, much, just mostly neglected responsibilities, fatherhood, family, business, friends, all beningly dismissed night-after-night, hitting the piss.
TOMORROW
Warm glow of whisky, easing the guilt, assuring oneself of the possibility, however remote, of making it all alright, tomorrow.
Apopo.
And one drink slides deliciously into one year, then a decade, or two, or three, even more.
GIVE IT A GO, MATE
My mum is famous for ambling anecdotes - Aunty Anecdote one friend nicknamed her - and I fear I am no different.
I remember, quite vividly, one day about ten years ago, my host in Apia pulling her SUV up to a slow stop at one of the capital's few pedestrian crossings. A blind man was leading a blind man across. They knew it, tap-by-tap, these blind men, natives of Samoa, holding hands in a world of darkness and sound. They weren't crazy, but they looked it.
Remarking enthusiastically, I joked to my host about an expression, a phrase, a euphemism coming alive in front of our eyes, and she laughed. Give it a go, mate, I wondered, awed.
. . .
