Hello. By Nick Delvallé

Hello. My name is Nick Delvallé and I suffer from depression.

Mine is not an especially sexy story of depression. There’s no descent into alcohol abuse or drug dependency. There are no elaborate suicide attempts or divine salvation at the end. It’s just a story of feeling really crappy for a really long time. However, as beige a story as this may be, it strikes me that this is probably the case for many of us who have gone through or are going through it, so I hope this helps in some small way.

I’d long held a less than phenomenal opinion of myself but my problems only really started to become debilitating during my first year at drama school. After a few months, I started finding it increasingly difficult to socialise with my classmates. I would still go out to parties and such; I would make myself go out as I did not want to raise any alarm bells about my state of mind. I would then spend the entire evening convinced that people would be having more fun if I weren't there. I still feel that way sometimes. This wasn’t a case of feeling like I had no friends. These people around me were kind, genuine people and I knew that they weren’t solely putting up with me out of politeness (although that suspicion has never disappeared entirely). This was more a case of not being able to understand why they put up with me and of feeling entirely undeserving of their friendship.

I happened to mention to a friend over a cup of tea about my feelings of self loathing. It wasn’t done in a breakdown sort of way (that would come later), it was almost matter of fact. My friend looked at me with puzzled expression and said “You know that’s not normal right? you know that’s not how you’re supposed to feel?”. I didn’t. I’d felt this way for so long that I didn’t bother to question it.

I took his advice and promptly did nothing about it. I was almost physically incapable of talking about this with my friends. I didn’t want to be a burden on them and I was afraid of being looked at differently, either with ridicule or with pity, both of which seemed equally abhorrent. What seems ridiculous to me now is the double standard I was living by. I know (or at least I would like to think) that had any of my friends come to me and told me they were struggling, I wouldn’t have looked at them as weak or mad and would have done everything I could to help them because they are my friends and I loved them. Yet I was utterly unable to apply these rules to myself. My self loathing, inexhaustible sense of guilt and fear of being “found out” (of what I still couldn’t tell you) also conspired to make me feel undeserving of help.

There was also a fear of change. It’s true I felt immeasurably miserable but this was all I’d known to one degree or another for as long as I could remember and as such was completely tied up in my mind with my sense of identity. If you took that away then I’d be left with what?

Yes, I have had suicidal thoughts and still do from time to time. In all honesty, I don’t think I’ve ever had any intention of acting on them. For one thing, the overwhelming guilt at the prospect of how it would affect my family and those closest to me is enough to deter me (and further conspires to make me feel worse than I already do). More than that though, I have no wish to die especially, rather these thoughts stem simply from a desire not to feel this way anymore. I think it significant (and possibly symptomatic of this country’s general attitude towards mental health) that when searching for a solution to an unbearable situation, my brain reached for “suicide” before “talking to someone”.

Eventually the situation reached critical mass and I broke down in another friend’s kitchen. Fortunately for me this was a friend who had gone through similar problems. I knew I couldn’t continue feeling this wretched but was still supremely reluctant to get help. “If you broke your leg, you’d go to a doctor. You’re not weak for needing help and you’re not crazy, you’re sick - go see a doctor”. It seemed so obvious when she said it, or perhaps I was just ready to hear it.

I went to go see a doctor who, in all honesty, I did not find especially helpful. After a few sessions with her, she referred me to an NHS specialist who I found a little more useful but still not brilliant. Incidentally this is fine and from what I can gather quite normal. My friend (in whose kitchen I broke down) assured me that she had gone through 4 or 5 therapists before she found one that she liked. If you’ve been brave enough to make the step to seek help, then please don’t be deterred if the relationship between you and your doctor is not a good fit right away, it can take time. 

Time passed and my day to day circumstances changed which helped me a great deal (getting out of the high pressure environment of drama school was particularly beneficial). I’m still susceptible to crappy days that have nothing to do with my depression just like everyone else. However I now have little alarm bells that go off if I wake up feeling bad for no apparent reason. “Is this just a bad day or am I heading for another black period?” This is one of the few instances where extreme self awareness is useful rather than tedious and demoralising. It allows me to monitor my condition and take any necessary steps before things become unmanageable. I definitely left it too long last time.

It almost doesn’t matter to me that I didn’t find the right doctor for me. The fact that I have got to a point where I can talk to someone else and not berate myself for doing so, has been a huge step for me. I’m not currently seeing a doctor but know that I would be able to make myself go to one if it became necessary and knowing this has left me feeling better equipped to fight any future problems if and when they appear.

I’m not cured; I’m not sure if one ever can be entirely but at this particular moment in time I’m in a good place mentally.

I wish you all peace, love and good mental health. #itaffectsme