It’s been nearly 3 weeks on the Prozac and I’m feeling pretty disappointed. Perhaps I have been expecting too much, but nothing has really changed. When I saw the doctor last Thursday, he was a little surprised that I wasn’t feeling ‘much better’ – he seemed to think that 2 weeks was enough to start feeling the beneficial effects and was mildly concerned that I wasn’t. I know that many people say that it takes longer – 4-6 weeks even, but surely I’ll be feeling something by now?
Although my mood is not black, I still have no interest in anything, I am constantly fighting lethargy, work bores me, I have no desire to socialise, I am still unable to find anything to look forward to, I am still in a creative void and life is generally flat and dull. Nothing interests me, I have no energy, I constantly feel like I want to sleep.
I have to wait a month before the therapy starts, so in the mean time I have to somehow try to find or create some positivity. So I’m going to talk about something that I believe could be the source of my problems… what I think could well be at the root of my depression.
I’m pretty certain now, that a large part of the problem are my issues with my homosexuality, the fact that I’m only sexually attracted to older guys, the fact that I feel that a relationship is impossible because of the incompatibility of the age difference with those that I am attracted to, the fact that I am not attracted to people my own age or younger (or women), the fact that the older guys I am attracted to are nearly always straight / married / unattainable. I seem to only be attracted to ripened forbidden fruit.
So what the fuck is all that about then? Why?? Well delving back into my past, there is one event which would seem most relevant: When I was about 16 years old – an impressionable age – I developed a crush on a teacher. Nothing unusual about that right? Well the problem was, it went way beyond a crush. I fell in love. Absolutely, completely, hopelessly, desperately in love. My heart would leap out of my mouth every time I saw him, I would obsessively think about him, do anything I possibly could to be in his presence without drawing attention to myself. I was in the sixth form, he was one of my teachers for one of my subjects and he was the head of sixth form – I couldn’t avoid him (not that I wanted to), and unfortunately for me, forced circumstances just worked to feed my obsession. Also unfortunately for me, he was very heterosexual and very happily in a relationship – but that fact didn’t alter the way I felt about him. I was under his spell and I was helpless to resist it.
It went on (and grew) for 2 difficult, heartbreaking years until I left school. During that time I had managed to manoeuvre myself into a position of trust and friendship with him, I had been on a school ski-trip that he also went on, there had been a couple of staff/6th form weekends away… I’d managed to get a lift home from him a couple of times (by conveniently being in the right place at the right time)… I look back on it now and the depths I sunk to make me cringe with mortification and embarrassment. It was bad. Really bad. But amazing as it may seem, I managed to keep my feelings and my pain hidden and secret.
Unsurprisingly I suffered my first major depression during this time. The pressure of keeping my secret, and the strength of my feelings quickly became unbearable. I couldn’t talk to anyone about it – I was so ashamed of my feelings. I learned during those 2 years how to walk out with a smile on my face whilst being torn to pieces inside. I think the depression I had (which lasted about 2-3 months) was almost more like a cry for help. I wanted him to notice that I was upset… I wanted him to be concerned about me, to comfort me… I even started to question whether I was actually really depressed or whether it was just another shameless tactic to get his attention – I still don’t know the truth to that question. All I do know is that it was all-consuming and terrible. Unrequited love, forbidden love, impossible love. It slowly, agonisingly ripped my heart in two.
Even when I left school after my A-Levels it didn’t stop. I stayed in touch, went on another ski-holiday, then when I went to University I wrote to him. When I left Uni and joined the band, I even managed to get him to come & watch a gig. In fact that gig was the last time I saw him – I suppose it was probably 1994 /1995. I think after that I realised that I had to try and move on – to let time try and heal the deep wound and gaping hole in my heart, so that I could move on with my life. It’s now 2011 and I am beginning to realise that I never really got over it. Time did manage to stop the bleeding, but the wound was too deep – the damage too extensive. To look back on my life at the age of 41, and know that the only person I have ever been ‘truly’ in love with was my teacher at school, is grim knowledge.
If I hadn’t been so bloody terrified of death back then, I would have probably committed suicide to be honest – it was such a hopeless situation, and it was all so out of my control. I was trapped in a horrible confusing nightmare and I couldn’t wake up from it.
There was one time during my big depression, that he called me into his office and indeed expressed his concern that I seemed to be very depressed and he asked me if I wanted to talk about it… and as desperately as I wanted to, and as perfect as this opportunity was, I just couldn’t do it. So I didn’t, and my heart tore just a little bit more. I do wonder what would have happened if I had told him. Would it have enabled me to get through it, get over him? I suppose a lot would have depended on how he handled it. All I knew was that I would never have been able to look at him again if I had told him the truth. The shame and humiliation would have been utterly intolerable… too much for me to have been able to bear. It quite possibly would have done me a lot more harm than good. Who knows.
So there you have it… the story of my broken heart.
I suppose it isn’t surprising that whenever I hear anyone utter the words “oh it’s just a schoolboy/schoolgirl crush” I want slap their face and explain to them just how serious, and how utterly devastating and destructive ‘just a schoolboy crush’ can be.