The Red Mist

I've been angry and depressed this week, but I'm not feeling too bad now. That means I can write about it from an disinterested perch, occasionally nudging a falcon to brag about my neutrality.

I'm not usually depressed. I don't know if my depression is actual depression. I'm probably insulting people with actual depression by putting me in the same boat as them. Maybe my depression is small "d" depression, as opposed to the more legitimate big "D" Depression. (A bit like the distinction between small "c" and big "C" conservatism, both of which incidentally lead to depression of both cases)

Depression (and, having started the sentence with that word, you have no idea which version I'm talking about) is a dangerous adversary. It's self-sustaining and it spreads quickly. It's like a virus. It snowballs. It's like a snowball virus.

You don't just feel depressed about one thing. That would be understandable. If you'd broken up with your husband, or been called ugly by a parrot, being depressed would make sense. Those are bad things, and it's natural to feel bad about them. But depression isn't satisfied with that. It wants more things to consume with its blackness. Totally unrelated things become swallowed up by it.

It may start with the parrot insult, but it spreads to your whole life. Your job is awful. Your house is awful. Your relationships don't work, you're stupid, your DVD collection is full of rubbish films. All films are rubbish, in fact. All art is rubbish. The human race is an awful thing. The black tendrils of depression creep over everything.

Earlier this week, I was hating every single tweet and Facebook status I could see. Even if they were totally innocuous. I thought the sentiments were disgusting and the people spouting them were more so. (I tried to write that as "moreso", and the spell check appropriately wanted to correct it to "morose".)

I hated people for liking things or enjoying themselves, I hated photos of happy people with their families, I hated songs.

At one point, I was actively remembering things so I had more stuff to hate. That's what depression does.

I should say that, for me, depression doesn't usually have an identifiable cause. It's not always black and white like a parrot insult (though it usually is - I need to buy some beak tape for Polly...).

It starts from nothing, and takes over everything.

In tandem with this spread, depression uses the devastating tool of truth.

When we describe someone being angry, sometimes we use the expression "the red mist". It's used in football quite a lot. When a player does something indefensibly stupid and aggressive, they say that "the red mist descended". Anger is a corrupting force that descends from the heavens, or rises from the bowels of the Earth, which obscures the moral vision of a person. They can't see clearly.

But that's only what people say when they are not depressed, or when they're not angry.

When you're actually angry, it's not a red mist at all. You are the one who sees clearly. Everyone else are the ones blinded by mist (probably a happier colour - baby blue, perhaps).

When you're depressed, you think that you're finally aware of the truth. The depression and the hatred are correct. Your assessments of other people and the world are correct. The rest of the time, you've been brainwashed.

How can all these people not see how terrible the world is? The evidence is EVERYWHERE.

Depression doesn't just grab hold of us, it convinces us. It liberates us. It's like a totalitarian dictator, trying to give us freedom through terror, and righteousness through persecution. We're assaulted on all sides by the forces that tell us things are OK. If we concede to them, we're weak and we're being screwed over. (What was I saying about Conservatism again?)

When you're depressed, you're not just feeling it now. The anger can travel through time. It makes you think you were a fool for ever enjoying yourself. All past happy experiences were a sham. All future happy experiences are a lie that must be staved off for as long as possible!

The red mist is nothing of the sort. It's a magnifying glass. It's a microscope. It's tinted spectacles, which are the opposite of rose-tinted. It's those glasses in They Live that allow you to see aliens.

That's what makes it such a dangerous force. That's why people let depression ruin, or even end their lives. It's a terrifying enemy.

As I think about it now, not feeling depressed, trying to remember my anger and yet unable to understand it, I worry that I was right! Maybe the depressed me was right all along! I'm probably hornswoggled and bamboozled right now. I can't see the truth. The world seems like an OK place. My relationships and house and DVD collection seem fine. The human race seems fine.

But that's only because the baby blue mist has descended. In my next bad mood, I'll realise once again how wrong I'm been, and will cling onto the dark truth with my black fingernails: vindicated.

Pretty scary. But, even if my depression is on the same continuum as that of people with severe problems, I'm incredibly lucky. It's quite rare for me to fall victim to these moods. For some, the black fingers are a constant presence. For some, the darkness outweighs the light for the majority of their lives.

And we wonder why they don't listen when we tell them it will all be OK, there's nothing to worry about really. We are blind. They can see.

So... I dunno. Give to some anti-depression charity or something? I hadn't really thought of a conclusion for this. Yeah, give some money. That'll sort it all out.

(I may have lost some dramatic punch with that ending. But screw it. This ain't The New Yorker.)