Yes, I know, this wasn’t all wrapped up in the time I originally planned. I was initially planning to call it the DISABILITY DECADE CELEBRATION WEEK, so thank goodness I didn’t promise that much. Did I actually say that it was going to be a week though? I can’t remember. Let me ask my subeditor.
Thirty four images that little conversation. Why don’t more people read my blog? I’m wearing a Great Khali t-shirt this time though, so that outta push this post over the top.
I just wanted to end this DISABILITY DECADE CELEBRATION with a little addendum. I’m calling it the final truth about my condition, and about my life.
I may have made numerous references to my ‘recovery’ since that event a decade ago. And in many ways the word has been used appropriately. In physical terms, my recovery over the past years has been pretty incredible. I shiver at the idea of calling it ‘inspirational’ or any synonymous trite phrases because nobody needs that inspiration, everyone is capable of incredible things just because of dumb human survival instincts. But, yes, give me flowers if you want, whatever, I am an absolute hero, whoop-de-fucking-whoo. On the mental side I have spoken of how I am in a much better place than I was ten years ago. I have given thanks to sobriety, to psychedelics, to actual medication, and (most importantly) to Old Town Road and Miley Cyrus. I have spoken in positive terms in both my recollections on this blog and in that Kitty Aurora interview (assuming that’s actually been posted by this point [EDIT: It has!]). And it is positive. Isn’t it?
I wanted to finish on a realistic note though. Perhaps inspired by reading through the traumatic psychotic depression of my 2015 memoir, I feel I need to put things straight. I am better, yes. I am ‘well’. I just wanted to explain what ‘well’ to me is.
I haven’t cured my depression. Because I don’t believe that’s possible. At this point in scientific and medical advances, curing depression is like curing someone of being a Red Hot Chili Peppers or Muse fan. You can hide it, sure, but it’s always there. You can be 100% convinced a person is cured, but just play that riff from Supermassive Black Hole or start doing that dumb dance that Anthony Kiedis does in the By the Way video and watch them turn into monsters. I haven’t taken my black dog outside and put a bullet in its stupid face, but, I dunno, I’ve bought it one of those rope things to chew on, which keeps him quiet a lot of the time.
Oh, sorry, I didn’t elaborate: I don’t believe my depression is curable because I don’t think it’s actually a disease. I might have not elaborated because I am aware how ridiculous this might sound to the normies.
I don’t think there’s any chemical imbalance in my brain. It isn’t even an anatomical issue. It’s a sociological one. I think the people who psychotically have no issues staying happy despite knowledge of the insane and cruel contradictions of Capitalist society are actually the people with a mental problem. I think what is colloquially referred to as ‘depression’ is actually a direct reaction to the strains and compulsions of neoliberal capitalism. I accept that some people like me struggle under these strains, but I also strongly believe that people who don’t are fucking bonkers for just happily accepting how this system works without a problem. I believe this depression is a rational reaction to being forced to live without any control over your own life, without any possibility of even sleeping in a bed that isn’t rented from the owners of capital (when even ‘owning’ a home is just serfdom to banks instead of landlords), to submitting yourself to the idea that you will need to justify your own existence for the rest of your life by somehow earning enough to survive while making the ruling class richer. And that’s even before you take into account that you’re statistically one of the lucky ones worldwide, that there a whole nations of people working themselves to death just for the upkeep of your sad struggle of an existence. I understand how antidepressants help me, and although I keep fighting the reality I accept how essential they are to my survival. But I also believe that they only help me my making me forget the reality we live in. The rise of antidepressants is a lovely little cause and effect: capitalist pharmacy companies making a profit by subscribing to help people deal with the very structures they’re profiting off. I’m ‘better’ now because I’ve agreed to ignore the horrors a little bit. I gave up, yes, but I do think the antidepressants help my work with the Communist Party so, I dunno, overall good.
I’m completely aware of how insane this might sound. But I do honestly think it’s other people who have the problem. My ‘disability’ is actually the fault of the wider world refusing to be structured for people like me (of which there are billions) and medicalizing a social dilemma – a social crisis – by drugging me so that I can at least participate in the economy. Sure, the world is dismal, but then I did just spend £65 on the new AEW video game, so thank God I’m still able to participate in meaningless consumption. All ‘cures’ for depression aren’t aimed at making you a better person. They’re just to ensure that you’re still a participant.
No, you’re psychotically paranoid!!
And then, the last elephant in the room: will I ever attempt suicide again? Honestly, that’s impossible to say. I’ve attempted it three times, with differing degrees of seriousness and consequences. It’s difficult to commit suicide though, so maybe not, I dunno. I will just leave you all with the fact that suicide is the one form of protest open to everyone that is guaranteed to make a serious change in your situation. It will leave untold trauma in its wake for the people left behind, even as it puts an end to all the horrors. Selfish? Kinda. But should we force people to endure unimaginable suffering just for the taboo of seeming ‘selfish’? This is capitalism, people do selfish stuff all the time. Hell, the only way to survive is by putting yourself first! Can’t I be selfish too sometime? Aren’t I supposed to be looking out for number one?
And suicide is the ultimate way of putting yourself first. It’s the perfect embodiment of neoliberalism. And my final message is to either do it or make efforts to prevent it.
We need to stop. I need to stop. When you make your neurodivergency your central character trait and only defining issue, you’re just playing into neoliberalism by still ensuring that, at the end of the day, your self and your own identity are the most important thing. Shut up. There are systems and structures that are causing your depression, and you have three choices: either make moves to combat the wider issues that are behind everyone’s depression, or shut the fuck up about it/only share with your therapist. Oh, and therapy?! Please, for the love of God, stop praising the importance of therapy and how good a person your therapy has made you. I can’t afford a therapist, not can I really afford to wait for the insanely overbooked and underfunded NHS therapy. Praising therapy is privileged bullshit unless you’re also fighting to ensure that it’s available to everyone. Yeah, I need therapy. Everyone needs therapy. But you know what I need more? A house that I can afford and food not to cost so much.
Hmm? What’s that? I said they were three things you could do? Yeah, you can always kill yourself. That’s an option, and it solves everything.
Suicide though? Mega cringe, mah dude. What is this, 2017? You’re pretending you’re Mark Fisher, bro? Seriously, I am so embarrassed for you right now. That’s so pathetic. We need a revolution and you’re whinging about the boo-hoos and hanging from your ceiling fan? How the fuck are we supposed to enact change when you’re more concerned with adding to capitalism’s death list?
You can’t change your depression. But you can change the causes of it. And we need all the people we can get.
Necessary Evil 
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