Galway doesn’t trust me to be alone

Under the early morning sunshine of a deep blue Claddagh sky, Paddy and I chat about what he needs to do to my car, Joey SX. We have a good manly laugh about inconsequential nonsense, and then I walk down the hill towards the river.  Oh my sweet lordy, this is truly a lovely day.

The vivid green of the grass on the piers sings ‘come hither’ to my eyes, so I wander over, stare at lobster pots, faze out to the rush and spritz of the mighty Corrib, and then accidentally sun-dazzle my eyes, by staring up to see if I can spot a cloud anywhere at all.

It’s 9.15am and Paddy said two was the earliest he’d have the car ready for me.

Splendid. Several hours of ‘me time’ ahead, as Life Coachy types might say.

With my back to the city and that cold easterly wind, I call my mum and listen to her tales of London life, as I stare across today’s calm silvery water on Galway Bay, over to the purple hills of Clare.

We talk for ages, and I hear myself laugh on at least two occasions. Being under the influence of a depression doesn’t mean I’m unable to giggle.

Each dose is different, presenting new challenges, upsides and inabilities. Despite this being one of the most powerful funks I’ve ever encountered, I’m delighted that it has not robbed me of my vital energy.

Usually it destroys my desire to walk, but thankfully during this nasty bout I’ve wanted to walk and have walked.

Beyond all the Prozac and mindfulness in the world, putting one foot in front of the other is my most powerful mental medicine. Usually it’s impossible for me to say which comes first: the depression or the lack of desire to go for a walk. Sometimes I only realise I’m depressed after I notice I haven’t walked for three days.

Now in Week Two, you probably wouldn’t notice if you met me on the street. Those who insist on putting a label on everything could describe me right now as a High Functioning Depressive, able to smile and socialise.

To read Charlie’s column in full, please see this week’s Galway City Tribune.