I can't actually remember when I first met Mr D.
It could have been when I was in the orphanage for two years (all of which has been blotted from my memory). It could have been during the couple of years after I was adopted and lived in fear that every knock on the door and ring of the bell was somebody coming to take me back to the orphanage. It could have been after a boy at school - I was maybe eight or nine at the time - nicknamed me 'squinty', told everyone that my real parents had dumped me because of the squint and fuelled a crippling shyness which left me unable to make new friendships for years. It could have been after my 'new' grandfather died (he lived at home with us) and I assumed that my 'new' parents would follow him shortly afterwards.
But, as I say, I don't remember the first time Mr D glanced in my direction and nodded; although I do know he has been hovering in the background for at least 50 years now. We've never been formally introduced, yet I always know him when I see him. He never changes. He's always the same. Occasionally I'll notice him further ahead, walking towards me. On a good day - and I have far more of them than I used to have before Kerri and the children - I cross the road and find something to distract me. Sometimes I'll catch a glimpse of his reflection in a mirror or window as he tries to sneak up on me when I'm already having a difficult day. That's when I sit down and write a 'gratitude list' of things that make my life good.
Sometimes, though, Mr D acts like a complete shit. He kicks down the door, storms through the house and envelopes me in a smothering blackness. No light. Not even a chink. Everything becomes pointless. Every aspect of my life seems worthless. I see fault in everything. The gratitude list stops as soon as I try and write the first sentence. The people around me seem like invaders of my space. If I were to drop dead, who would care? What was the purpose of writing anything ever again? Why not just take a walk to the nearest bridge and jump?
I had one of those days on Tuesday. I knew he was there as soon as I opened my eyes; blocking the waves of joy which usually sweep over me as Indy wakes, stands up in his cot and smiles. Blocking happiness is what Mr D does best: that's how malevolent he is. He doesn't give a damn about any successes you may have chalked up in your life, or of how much happiness you have built around you. Indeed, he sees them as a challenge. His job is to hammer and hammer and keep on hammering until he has you on your knees in despair and doubting the value of everything and everyone in your life.
I don't know what triggered this visit and I don't know why he decided to give me such a hiding this time. I've been coping with lockdown reasonably well and tweeting about my daily mishaps (mostly falling out of hammocks and destroying the garden). Tuesday was a long, long, horrible day, but I got through it. It was tough, but Kerri recognised the symptoms and knew that the best way of helping me was by just being there. It can't have been an easy day for her, either, but it was and remains her love which carries me through days like that.
I suspect there were hundreds of thousands of people who had a visit from their equivalent of Mr D on Tuesday. He may still be with tens of thousands of them, because he sometimes likes to move in for a while. Hundreds of thousands of others - maybe millions - will meet Mr D for the first time during this lockdown and it will be a terrifying experience. Even when you're used to him and have developed a personal armoury to fight back, every encounter takes an enormous psychological toll.
Mr D thrives on the silence of his victims. So, if he does visit you, don't keep it to yourself. Tell those close to you and let them help you look for the light. You may think you can't get rid of him, but you can: maybe not defeat him forever, but at least learn to cage him. Whatever you may think - and he wants you to think it - there is always someone who can help you. Be strong. Stay strong.
