Anxiety Depression Crash. Part 1. Face your demons, tell the truth and ...

Lambo is my Alter Ego, my twin and my Viking energy.  When not driving me insane, he is lovable and fun.  He is very depressed at the moment, and avoiding his shit.

I think a problem shared is a problem halved. First, tell the truth, be honest with yourself and say it how it was. Here goes...

Fuck, oh fuck, oh fuck, totally crashed and smashed. My wife died six months ago, shock, anger acceptance is needed. Men work and find other distractions to avoid their shit... 

It had been going so well, full on building works, 240 railway sleepers, two retaining walls, three new levels and two bed static for guests to stay and visit Sheila’s gallery and ashes. Full on 0800 till dark. Lambo’s shoulder was very sore but rest of body good.

I have a trust old (31 years) yacht Frangi (Hallberg Rassey 49) last visited with Sheila in September, Portland Marina, just over an hour south of Sherborne Dorset. Its late June and decision made to sell her. Off I go to meet the agent. Me, Colin being practical, Lambo confused, but exited at seeing his remaining love.

We climb onboard, decks looking green and sad, down the companionway steps to see a saloon table with half-finished jig saw. Sheila loved jigsaws. Oh fuck, the tears started as Lambo scraped it, very unceremoniously, into a bin liner. 

Agent arrived, excuse after excuse poured from my lips as to her sorry state. It got worse, much worse. As I walked from the saloon forward, the floor gave way and collapsed. Carpet up, floor up and, fuck fuck fuck, the main structural bulkhead (beam from one side of boat to other) had been crushed. 

Agent said nothing could be done till structural damage had been investigated, rectified and then left.

We sat sobbing in the saloon, looking at the empty table with Sheila’s chakra painting on the wall.

We drove home.  Oh no, we didn't! Lambo drove home via Sainsbury’s (18 box Stella) and his local pub. No alcohol for a long time never once hit his mind. By lunchtime the following day, a Saturday, the pain and shiteness hadn’t moved. Lambo decided, being his fittest in years, a powerwalk up the hill would be the best cure. It was not!

The hill is half a mile, first half tarmac and the second stones. The crunch in Lambo’s knee could be heard for miles. I told him to stop, he ignored me shouting, ‘I need to sweat it out’. By the time we returned home the pain was unbearable. Ice pack and two Tramadol from Sheila’s unused stash. Sunday was a painful daze, more Tramadol and feel total shit. 

Monday starts with a bath, head fuzzy and knee throbbing. A long one, bath filled to overflow. Do some stretching, bend forward, hands on taps and pull head down to knees. The back crunch was more a dull ‘what the fuck was that’ as horizontal, not easy in a bath, became the only position to not scream.

From bath to floor took a while. After speaking with GP the next difficult bit was getting down stairs to Sheila’s unopened stash of Morphine. Shoulder, knee and back screaming in unison.

We crawled to Sheila’s bed on the ground floor, climbed under the duvet and remained there for ten days, the morphine haze was not nice, the pain worse. Panic attacks took over, Valium to the rescue. oh dear. 

Depression, anxiety and one very crashed & smashed Lambo.  

And... 

It gets worse in Part 2. Click here