Words of wisdom in times of trouble
Sir — I would like to share with your readers my description of a depressive episode which made me low in late 1996 and into 1997.
This scourge on the mind affects many of us, it’s every day, really, but is still really unexplained and almost unexplainable. Recent reading of someone’s suffering has prompted me to revisit a piece of poetry which I wrote years ago, one of several in my body of work over the years. It was written originally after my marriage ended.
At the time I wasn’t going to work, I was staying in bed until it got dark, not cleaning or shaving, going to my local pub at night, coming home after midnight and repeating the same pattern for weeks. I dreaded daytime, and bed was the only safe place I knew. I didn’t want to leave it.
I’ve never shared the reality of this depressive curse with which I’ve been afflicted with my family, and I believe that that’s been partly responsible for the breakup of my marriage and my decision to leave the family home. I thought that it would be best to take my troubles elsewhere, away from my children.
Although a long time ago, it has undoubtedly left its scars on us all. I couldn’t express the love that I felt. We’ve all moved on, and through poetry I’ve been able to write my way back to whatever normality is, and survive intermittent suicidal thoughts years ago. Nobody has known this, except Our Lady, who has always seemed to like me. This is my truth. NOCTURNE And so I woke at four o’clock In the bedroom of Gethsemane The stillness, my crucifixion. A jury of empty bottles Littered the guilty floor, The minefield of memory. Leonard Cohen standing there With his own chorus of despair Caressed my soul once more. I lay on, listened to the angel’s bell Ring out beside the edge of hell Waiting for a wishing star. The streetlights would be on soon And the next tormenting moon Would open the old scars But in my refuge bed, my cell Against the threat of dawn Fragmented, I could hide. And I became a boy again At the window, watching the rain Safely by my mother’s side. But as the minutes nightmared by I couldn’t even sleep or cry And so I screamed to pray Please, blind this cursed sight And send the comfort of the night No more, God. No more day.
Sean Brannigan Address with Editor