Today I'm giving zero fucks about... things feeling the same

Dear Zero Fuckers,

Firstly, I hope you are all well - I bet you weren’t expecting to hear from me today! I am well and life is treating me well.

Now, the important stuff.

If you’ve followed me for a while, you may know that every year I celebrate my depression anniversary on 1st July. It was a big one this year because I was, unfortunately, depressed (again) for most of 2023. I’m so very pleased to say that I am now happy and thriving.

You can read more about what my depression anniversary is in the piece that follows. But, before we jump into that, I wanted to let you know that - as far as I can see, for now - this newsletter will raise itself up and out of obscurity, and into your inboxes, just once a year. It’s a chance for me to reflect on my journey, connect with all of you who followed this newsletter and my work for so long (some of you are here from the Salomé magazine days, even!), and write publicly again (rather than just sending my pieces to my therapist, ha). So, here’s my piece, as always, written along the walk that I do to mark/celebrate my recovery journeys (and also reflect on the times I’ve been depressed too).

One last thing before I go. You may have read the last newsletter, which shared the very exciting news about my publishing deal - an illustrated self-help guide on depression! I’m going to be posting more in that newsletter, under the name of My Sketchy Head from now on (the instagram is here; I’d love a follow), so if you’d like in, please sign-up below. You’ll get book updates and also some exclusive content and sneak peaks into the book, that others won’t.

Now, without further ado, my piece, written from my paddock in Hertfordshire…

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1st July 2024

The Trees Will Always Grow.

I’m back, sitting in the small paddock, a short way round my depression anniversary walk that I do every year. It’s to celebrate or, at the very least, mark the many recovery journeys I’ve been on in the “adventure” that I call my mental health. Those of you who have been following me for a while will know that I aim to do this walk every year (and I always do when I’m well) and I always stop in this paddock along the way. It’s a small, enclosed, grassy area called Woodhall Spinney, in Shenley, Hertfordshire, and it has been planted with trees. 

The first year I came here, when dragging myself round my almost daily depression walks (somewhere secluded and nowhere near my home, of course, so I wouldn’t stand a chance of bumping into anyone I knew), the trees were merely tiny little saplings. Newly planted, they clung to the bamboo stakes that held them up, their small, frail, verdant, vibrantly green leaves reaching upwards to the light. 

The woodland around my paddock seems unchanged, at least to my eye. Trees, hundreds or thousands of years old, stand strong and wise, their bark as wrinkled as the face of the sagest of women anyone could ever hope to meet. The air, the energy it holds, stays the same, feels the same on my skin, is warm in the sun and cooler in the shady dips, as always. Sometimes everything feels the same and I can’t decide if that is reassuring or not. 

Except the trees in Woodhall Spinney; they will always grow.

I never know how I’m going to feel. But, as I wandered along the path that takes me between fields and through shady woodland, I couldn’t help but feel heavy this year. Sometimes I really do feel like nothing ever fucking changes. Another year of celebrating my recovery journeys on my depression anniversary walk. But, this time, another year of remembering the depression that all but wiped me out last year, that I had really hoped I’d not have to see again - or, at least not so soon. 

I used to be able to say “two years free,” that freedom being from the depression that sometimes (often) feels like my worst enemy. I never got to be able to say “three years free,” and if I think about it, that’s kind of heartbreaking. Maybe one day I’ll make it to three, I dream, but then I don’t want to get ahead of myself.

As I walked with purpose along that path, I wondered what would happen if life were a zero sum game. Do the countless times I walked this walk when I was depressed get subtracted from the good handful of times I have done it when well and ‘celebrating’? If so, I’m starting from a negative, not even zero. Does every time that I take my selfie at the start of the walk with a smile on my face and gratitude in my eyes get cancelled out by all the times that a smile felt like too big an ask because every day felt like I was cruelly dragging my face along the floor? Do the times I stand at that same view point and look out across the fields, the leaves of the trees framing nature’s effortless beauty in the foreground, not matter if, once, all I could do was pull myself quickly past, without so much as a glance? Those days, weeks and months when this walk was just something “to get done” because I Should. 

Were all that true, where would that leave me?

At zero. 

The highs, invisible because the lows had erased them. Some people may see it like that - life’s great balance sheet - because the good times can sometimes feel hard to truly appreciate when we feel like a total fucking failure. Luckily, I have never lost sight of the highs, even if failure can feel like a familiar friend of mine.

I don’t suppose this walk will ever feel easy. Last year, when I was depressed, it felt too difficult to do at all - so I didn’t. I know it will never feel easy but it will always feel like a triumph, even when I hold space for the sadness I feel for that version of me that I am learning to love. She didn’t mean anything by it; it wasn’t her fault. 

This year, I arrived at Woodhall Spinney to find a few workmen in orange high vis jackets, cutting the grass and pruning the young trees. Ever since 2021, when I came to my paddock and found the bench I would normally sit on overgrown with a tangle of foliage, making it impossible to get to, I have wondered what state I’ll find the bench in. This is only the second year after that one that I haven’t been able to sit on my bench. The workmen are taking breaks to sit down as they tend to the ground, plants and trees around it.

That first time the bench was overgrown felt symbolic; I was depressed again. But, unlike 2023, I had managed to drag myself on the walk. I’d hate myself if I didn’t. This time, there is a new symbolism that has gathered tears in the back of my eyes ever since it dawned on me earlier along this walk. Those men, they’re caring for the land of Woodhall Spinney. They are giving Mother Nature the helping hand she sometimes needs to keep things in order. Care. 

I don’t think I’ve ever cared so well for my mental health as I am doing right now. I may get frustrated at myself, feeling like it’s taken me far too many years to get to this point (twelve since my first breakdown). But I am here - with my metaphorical rake, wheelbarrow, and strimmer - mowing and pruning and trimming. Not only that, I have some of the most wonderful people around me who know my history and my story, they accept all of it, and will do whatever they can to care for me too. After all, sometimes Mother Nature needs a hand in all her infinite power and wisdom.

This paddock deserves care and so do I.

Sometimes everything really does feel like it stays the same. Except, like the trees in Woodhall Spinney, I never stop growing - even if that is sometimes hard to see.

As I reach the end of this piece, I’ve noticed that the workmen have finished up and have left the paddock. So, if you’ll excuse me, I have a bench to go and sit on, where I’ll look out at the never-changing view of the treetops, blowing in the breeze against the sky, and feel thankful that everything is always changing - whether we can see it or not. 

Seven depression recoveries down.

Happy anniversary to me. X

Forever giving zero fucks (about things that just don’t matter) and imploring you to do the same,

Jacs x

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