So autumn's here again and all the leaves are coming down. I always feel sad at this time of year. I have more split-second, freaky "That's it, I've had it, I'm going to blow my brains out" moments than at any other time of the year. These aren't to be confused with suicidal urges. They're more like momentary expressions of a lousy state of mind. I imagine them as emails from my inner-support team: "Warning, you're not doing well, do something about it!"
This year's no different from any other. Right on cue, as the nights draw in, the telltale signs have formed an orderly queue. My limbs always go first, they turn sluggish, start acting as if I'm making them wade through an endless, vast jar of peanut butter. Then my year-round insomnia goes on holiday. Being able to sleep should be a good thing. But it's not. When I start feeling tired all the time it's usually a sign that my serotonin factory's about to go on strike. Recently, I've been sleeping through the night and taking naps during the day - something I've learned to recognise as a kind of mental-health storm warning. Usually it means a depressive episode is about to blow in.
Then I've been having health anxieties. Recently, I swore off all my sugary playmates - New York cheesecake, Ben & Jerry's - and bid farewell to the dessert trolley. My sweet tooth in cold turkey, I've had a nagging, persistent low mood. On the plus side, I've dropped five pounds in a fortnight, my Pilates and yoga practices are far more effective without a mountain of chocolate-chip cookie dough to sweat through. This is where the health anxiety comes in. Whenever I start shedding pounds, I think I'm terminally ill. This time it's a morbid conviction that I have bowel cancer. There's no reason why I would - I'm not exhibiting any symptoms.
But for some reason, anxiety tells me I do. So I walk around terrified, wondering what will happen to my wife and daughter when I'm gone. It's nothing new. Previously, I've had everything. I've gone to GPs saying, I have a brain tumour and they've shone torches in my eyes and told me not to worry. That's easier said than done. I specialise in worrying. I have a PhD in it. When I was a child, I thought if you rode your bicycle beyond a certain speed, you instantly had a heart attack. So I always lagged behind the other kids. I worry about everything.
Right now, it's weight loss. God knows what would happen if I went on the Atkins diet. I'd probably end up in a psychiatric hospital.
The other big problem is concentration. I'm permanently distracted. I feel like I need more lives, a couple more mes. For instance, the other night, I found myself simultaneously reading a magazine, watching the news, folding laundry, the phone jammed between ear and shoulder as I tried in vain to speak to a human being at NatWest, a mug of calming tea going cold at my feet. And still, I felt unproductive.
Of course, I'm worried that depression is setting another of its treacly traps for me; that soon I'll fall down a black hole the way they do in cartoons. For now, I need to keep a careful eye on my moods. If I slide any more, I'll have to see my GP and talk about going back on a higher dose of antidepressants. In the meantime, I'll try to enjoy autumn. Yesterday, I collected a pocketful of conkers for my daughter and when I got home, we lay on the floor together while I explained what conkers are and why the colour red is so beautiful.
