If ever there was a ‘one off’ it was Mo: her spirit was so huge, her passion for life an example to all who knew her and the gap she has left in the lives of all who knew and loved can never be filled. I also know that she will haunt me – deliberately, she was that sort of a girl – and as I sit writing this with tears streaming down my face – I know exactly what she would say. ‘I want you cry, I’d be most insulted if you didn’t but enough is enough so pull yourself together, open a bottle and get over yourself.’ Life goes on but in my present state of depression I really wish it wouldn’t. I think everyone who survives the vicissitudes and slings and arrows of outrageous fortune with grace and acceptance is destined for sainthood. Alas, I am not among their number. I scream, shout, stamp my feet and generally behave appalling. I rail against my fate, tell God exactly what I think of Him - not that He gives a monkeys but it makes me feel better – and view the ‘gift’ of life as an inhuman struggle to survive in world gone mad.
The most valuable tool in my survival kit is my sense of humour which unfortunately at this moment in time appears to have gone awol. Robin Williams that wonderful comedian committed suicide yesterday. Like so many comedians he was a depressive, humour is their way of coping with a reality that is so harsh and violent they can only survive the experience by laughing at it. But Robin Williams was no longer able to do that, reality intruded to an unbearable degree as it did with the late, great Tony Hancock; both of them men who made millions laugh but whose pain and despair caused them to forfeit their own lives. Tragedy masquerading as comedy.
I know my present depression will pass; I am by nature an optimist but I am angered by and resentful of these depressive episodes which have claimed all my adult life and most of my adolescence. I’m also feeling very sorry for myself for which I make no apology; self- pity is a particularly unattractive quality and I admit to saturating myself in it right now so feel free to vomit.
It isn’t Mo’s death that triggered this current depression although it did enable me to admit to it; I loathe these episodes so much that I’m always in denial as I descend into one, because I convince myself that it will never happen again, that each one is the last one I will ever experience, and when I find myself falling once again into the well of despair, I clutch at the sides, blindly groping for something, anything that will break my fall but the sides are too slippery to assist me and I fall screaming with terror into the blackness of the abyss.
Believe it or not I can feel my sense of humour pushing its way to the surface of my distraught mind to which I can only say, ‘thank fuck!’ I hope my angst hasn’t transferred itself to any of you guys; it is transient but when depression hits, it’s impossible to recall ever feeling happy, and equally when I’m happy it’s impossible to recall ever feeling depressed.
Mo is dead and I’m really pissed off at her for being so and believe you me, when I catch up with her, which I surely will I shall tell her in no uncertain terms how selfish and inconsiderate she was to fall off her perch and upset us all so much. Bloody cheek! Who does she think she is???
You’re part of me Mo whether I like it or not and I have to confess I do; always there, always accessible. Thank-you my dear friend, my love for you is a living thing. R.I.P