I don’t answer my phone because I wouldn’t know who I am, let alone who they are. Nothing is working except my eyes, which dart around the room. I notice they designed it to make sure there’s nothing you could hang yourself from. There are no faucets in the sink, so water squirts from the wall. How do you hang yourself from a faucet? But I’m not thinking about killing myself. I just wish my life would stop. It hurts so much.
There’s a constant stream of nurses coming in to see me. Some take blood, some hand me little cups filled with multicoloured pills, some come to check I’m still alive, some to bring me food which tastes like Styrofoam.
My too-short orange curtains are permanently closed because the sunlight burns my eyes as if I am a vampire. If I peek out of the window, I see a main street with normal life going on. Everyone outside seems to know where they’re going, whether it’s appointments, jobs or lunches with friends. It seems unimaginable that I once knew where I was going too. They’re so lucky: they still believe they live in some kind of reality, whereas I’m not too sure there is one. I can’t tell if something is taking a few minutes or hours, my mind is white noise.
Today I have to do a corporate gig where I talk to a business over Zoom about breaking the stigma around depression. This gig was booked two months earlier and I didn’t want to cancel, even though Ed [Bye, her husband] tells me it’s insane to do a talk to 700 people online when I’m insane. Do I listen to him? Never. Before it starts, I try to put makeup on but my hand is shaking too much. When I check, I see there is mascara on my lower lip.
I try to adjust the camera so no one can tell I’m in a mental clinic, but a large hospital bed might be a giveaway. Somebody online introduces me, and for a second I don’t know who I am. Then I talk for an hour about stigma and why we should break it, while leaving out the elephant in the room. That’s me, who has depression, and isn’t mentioning it.
At one point during the Q&A someone asks: “How do you know when someone has depression?” I should have shoved my face in the camera and said: “It looks like this,” but I didn’t.
I’m Not As Well As I Thought I Was is published by Penguin Life (£18.99). To support the Guardian and Observer order your copy at guardianbookshop.com. Delivery charges may apply
