Someone recently asked me what it was like inside my head when I was living with depression.
I replied: picture Scarborough in mid-November. No neon arcade signs. The donkeys have put their hooves up for the winter. Rain is splashing against the windows of closed fish and chip shops.
That will give you some idea.
I am sure some of my learned friends would prefer to describe my mind as an empty tin of Roses in mid-January. You open it hopefully and find a stray wrapper and a lot of empty space.
I concede, they may have a point.
I've always found self-deprecation therapeutic. I don't particularly mind friends sticking the boot in occasionally and reminding me of my station. I probably need it.
The problem comes when I try to describe depression more seriously. My own limited use of language seems particularly inadequate. A poet or an artist would probably be better placed to do the honours.
Stephen Fry and Andrew Scott have both used 'weather' when talking about depression, and I understand why. Weather captures something of the lack of control. It arrives. You are in it. You cannot argue with it.
It doesn't quite work for me, though, because weather passes.
Mine is probably closer to climate.
I've had periods of depression severe enough that I nearly didn't survive them. I've also had long periods when life is manageable, productive and often very enjoyable. I'm in one of those periods now.
I wouldn't say the depression disappears during these periods. It becomes quieter.
During the quiet periods I can see beyond it. I can work, laugh, become interested in ridiculous things, annoy people, make things, write things and get disproportionately excited about ideas. Depression hasn't necessarily left the building. It has just stopped shouting from the other room.