Am I only a number?

I am not the lucky one in 13,983,816 who wins the lottery, nor the one in 250 with an IQ over 130, I am not even the unfortunate one in 2.5 marriages which end in divorce. I am the one in three who suffers from a mental health problem and you may judge for yourself whether that is unfortunate or not.

The modern world seeks to turn us all into statistics, to replace our individuality and bunch us together into constricting bubbles. We are bombarded with average earnings and interest rates, percentage reductions and increases, projected growth and rates of unemployment. They tell us we should be content to work from nine to five for a pay cheque every month which rapidly disappears on necessary expenses leaving no sense of satisfaction and no lasting increase in quality of life. We are no closer to achieving the secret dreams that we dare not share in fear of ridicule and we soldier on regardless.

I am further bound by numbers, one of the six in ten who take prescription medication daily, one in ten adults who are non-drinkers, one in three of my age group and circumstance who do not own their own home. I barely have a personality left under the burden of how my failures are defined by people I am never likely to meet. I have begun to believe them; in the deepest corner of my mind my confidence is repeatedly battered by the message that I should have somehow been able to avoid this disaster by being better, prettier, richer or more successful at work.

I cannot deny that I have made choices in my life, it is unavoidable, and I suppose I cannot irrevocably prove that I would have ended up here anyway but my personal feeling is that this was always my destination even if the route varied depending on decisions I made along the way. ‘Here’ is Shropshire, leafy and rural with ancient hills rising up to the south like a half emerged dragon struggling to free its wings from the earth which still holds it. More specifically, ‘here’ is a regular nine to five in an office where the azure skies and stretching, green fields tempt me from outside and where my aching back and hands remind me that mankind was not meant for this kind of sedentary, digital life.

Is it a further measure of my failure that I wish to escape from this? I would like to be able to assert that one could be a success while standing aside from everything that society seems to expect from us but I suspect we would need to redefine success and how it is measured to prove that point.

It comes down to this. Choice is our only freedom but all my choosing seems to have pulled me into a way of life I was always desperate to avoid, I cannot help but wonder if I have made errors which led me here. Please do not mistake my meaning, there are things I value greatly here; friendship and love, music, laughter, companionship and compassion. Life is good but I am always left wondering ‘is this all there is?’ I would not swap the people who surround me but I would change the pressures and necessity of work in a moment, you would not need to ask me twice.

Is it strange that although my position frustrates me I would not change places with another? Perhaps in some strange way I feel that depression was my destiny; a part of my life which, while not defining me, is an important factor in my personality. I have no control over which statistics befall those I love but if my depression saves my sister or another loved one from having to suffer it then I take it on gladly and will not look back.