an incident … a narrative

I had something happen the other day: the gory details I won’t regale you with here, other than to say it sent Me into Silence.

In that forced silence I found my old friend Depression.

Now she hasn’t made her presence felt with such force, in a very long time. Some of that may have to do with my ability to deny anything that remotely rhymes with ‘Depression’. I guess I detest the connotations that it rumbles up … the misdiagnoses, the ‘mental health’ issues and stigmas, the battles, the misinterpretations and ‘misunderstandings’. Theres not too much more I detest than the ‘look’ that is bestowed upon the Depressed and the tone that is induced in the ‘sympathiser’ when trying oh so very hard to ‘understand the situation’.

I hate it all.

But Depression is the new go-to word and here I am discussing it.

It feels like a heavy shroud, that covers your entire being. It settles in there and everything in and out seems darker, sadder, heavier … than usual.

And as that settled on my shoulders and in my heart the other day, I could feel my throat start to constrict as the silence strangled my larynx and then thorax. I couldn’t breath.

At that moment I wanted to not be here.

Not be anywhere.

Not dead. But not alive.

Forced silence is My killer.

Too long there has been forced silence. And for too long, when there has been a choice to speak, no words have managed to escape.

It’s the private hell of a small child who cannot talk, walk, cry out, move.

And it was in that moment, of depression and flashback, that I felt a familiar unease … with the familiarity, with the vulnerability, with the inability.

It took nearly 24 hours for it to subside … and as it did, I looked back and was able to identify the moment it had taken hold and why.

I was also able to identify that I am not that little child anymore. And as familiar as those things feel … I am Not forced into Silence literally, but instead flash back 40 odd years and hoover there looking for answers that I’ll never find.

I am here.

I am now.

I was there.

And I survived.

Now I have No need to be Silent.

Unless I want to be.

kpm ©


so … major depressive disorder ay

these cunts and their diagnoses’ *insert very large eye ball roll*:

thats the diagnosis the almighty clinical psychologist has tacked onto the awesome pts fucking (d) label because accident compensation fucking corporation require a label aka diagnosis, so they can ‘assist’.

god knows how long i’ve been waiting now, for this awesome ‘assistance’; and aside from the psychologist last year, i am still waiting …. waiting … waiting.but considering, a tidy 7-9% of mdd diagnose-ees end up toping themselves, you think the long wait is a little ironic to say the least!

do i feel like this added title is some kind of ‘sentence’ … nope.

all i can say to the mdd title, and the rest of the twats that diagnose shit, is …

Not fucking kidding!!

try being sexually assaulted, repeatedly … try understanding the ‘whys’ … try making sense of that shit so you can live some kind of life worth living … go on .. try it …

see if you don’t end up a little Majorly Depressive … pfft.

Oh, and apparently ‘they’ can’t know ‘why’ people actually get mdd … oh, and apparently they don’t know ‘how’ to fix mdd … oh, and apparently they don’t really know shit about shit! awesome …


but on the upside … i figure my handle can be updated. Introducing:

Me MD(d), P(ts)D


and thats how i deal with that shit … Majorly Depressive-ly, take the piss!

kpm ©