Literary Gamer

Earlier today I saw a tweet about a freelance games writer who had, sadly, ended his own life. What struck me about the testimony from those that knew him was that it was a complete surprise to most, who had absolutely no inkling that his suicide was on the horizon. Blog posts have already been written, in very elegant terms, to remind people that depression is dangerous, toxic and often secretive. A stigma still exists that makes sufferers feel the need to hide their illness, and that’s the greatest tragedy of all.

So, on this blog site that very few read, I’ll share my own perspective. I’ll say it up front, I’m not suffering from clinical depression, nor have I genuinely contemplated ending my own life. With that clarified, I feel a certain level of empathy for those that do, as I often feel that I’m in a strange limbo; not depressed, but certainly not content or particularly happy. It’s hard to explain, as some may say that what I have is called “real life”, and that I’m being a ridiculous cry baby.

I don’t think that’s the case. I think it’s only because I have a loving family that care about me with such devotion that I’m this side of depression. If I had to phrase my psychological state, I’d say it’s a temperamental melancholy. It’s a side of me that only my immediate family knows about, as far as I know, as I put on a front with friends and work colleagues. I think, and self-perception is often wrong, that most see me as a pretty shy, unassuming person who makes rubbish jokes and generally gets on with life. Maybe that’s not what people see, and I’m happy to be enlightened if I’m wrong.

The real me, and the side of me that my wonderful family tolerate, is a person that goes through serious mood swings. There’ll be occasions when I’m happy and chirpy, before I rapidly descend to a state of melancholy, typified by a short temper and an overwhelming desire to be alone; to be blunt, I can be a narcissistic jerk. I don’t think my family would put it that way but it’s how I see it, and they do observe, which breaks my heart, that I have long spells (often many weeks long) of being downbeat and unhappy. I don’t want to be that way, because I know they worry about me.

Part of my problem is that I can be a sponge to the cruelties and disappointments in life, absorbing them rather than brushing them off. I dwell on personal regrets and failures, and sometimes external events or images stick with me, following me around at the forefront of my mind. It makes me introspective, quiet and probably terrible company, yet at least I’m comfortable enough to be that way around family, rather than showing them the pretend-me that everyone else sees.

It’s not depression, but that’s only because my circumstances mean I have a strong and loving support base that keeps it at bay. If I was living alone and with no close family around, I don’t know whether it would become a full-on illness. But what’s clear to me is that I don’t address these problems enough: I don’t talk about it, and I’m too afraid to share that side of myself with friends and colleagues. Why should I, could be one argument, why not just show my best side to the world?

That’s the problem though, if friends are all you have but you hide your true feelings, only trouble lies ahead. Maybe the key is not bullshitting the world, but showing what we really are.

I have mood swings, flashes of temper, extended periods of melancholy and anti-social periods. I make bad jokes to mask when I’m feeling narcissistic and full of self-pity, and I often feel like a failure. I am unhappy, within myself, a lot of the time, but get on with life because that’s what it’s all about. I’m still grateful for what I have and feel lucky in many ways, but that negative part of me is always there.

That’s me, not the bullshit pretender.

Comments are disabled on this site due to awful spam, but I’m on Twitter: @ThomasBW84