After experiencing terrible suicidal tendencies, the book's author, Jack Taylor, is determined to break free from the clutches of depression and regain control of his life. Armed with only his running gear and backpack, he walked out of his home in Brighton and embarked on a 3,000-mile hike around the UK.
During the journey, he was healed by the magnificent sights of nature again and again, touched by the kindness and enthusiasm of strangers. He has experienced all kinds of thrilling or interesting stories, met all kinds of people, and produced many life insights. This is both the story of Jack's travels around the UK and the story of how he was able to get to know himself better and eventually find peace and acceptance in his heart.
Out of Depression: A Healing Journey Around the 3,000-Mile Walk, by Jack Taylor, translated by Mengs, Oriental Press, April 2022
Book Excerpts
March 2016.
In the past month alone, I've come up with 9-10 ways to do "that thing."
Stick your head into the oven and estimate that such a result would be the best to clean up; with a knife, I am afraid that I would not be able to swallow a few bottles of medicine, but I did not have so much medicine; although lying on the rails of Stratford could achieve my goal, but leaving so much psychological shadow on the train driver and so many people on the platform, it would be terrible to think about, and I could not bear that responsibility.
For weeks, I lived like a wounded animal, unable to move in pain. I hoped that someone would help me and put an end to this torture: to accidentally eat foods that made me allergic, to be stabbed in the street, to have some kind of undiagnosed heart disease. But of all the ways I can think of dying, the most I think about is jumping from this room on the 4th floor. Bar downstairs. I imagined myself standing on the windowsill looking down, staring into a world I couldn't understand. The world is full of people, but I don't feel like I have any intimate connection with any one person anymore. Suddenly a gust of wind blew through, and the cold wrapped in hostility hit me in the face. I imagined myself finally taking a breath of London's damp and dirty air, and then leaping away from this decadent, fallen life. Moments of fear and a surge of adrenaline penetrated my body, and the next second, I was planted on the sidewalk...
Then, just like that, it was all over, into eternal sleep, no more dreams, no more pain, no more hatred, no sorrow. As long as this happens, it will allow me to escape into the empty world of Elysium.
I was obsessed with death. As time went on, the images of me falling from the sky became clearer and more real in my mind. But I knew that although I had been thinking about suicide, I was just thinking about it. Honestly, I never really wanted to actually do that until that morning.
That day, I left work early. Even for a weekday night, the road in front of the bar seems too quiet.
I agreed to take over the well barrel bar 8 months ago, and that day was the quietest night I've had since I became manager.
It's a bustling pub located north of Red Brick Lane, near the junction of the trendy Shoreditch district and Besna Green, and is known for its food and wine. The bar is tastefully decorated with dark wooden floors and polished copper handles. Crumbling tiles desperately cling to the walls, from the British Regency era to the present. It's a landmark in a sense that truly reflects the history of London society, and it's always been a place where East London's workplace elite and art sellers come together.
Brighton's bars are always bustling, but also a bit dirty. I've been in this business for over a decade, sometimes drinking behind bars and sometimes cleaning up the vomit of drunks. Later, I happily took over the well barrel bar and I loved the historic feel and style of the place.
However, after only a few months, the initial enthusiasm gradually faded, and the excitement of finally finding the "dream job" at the beginning disappeared. I was getting more and more decadent, almost engulfed, but I couldn't figure out where this decadence came from. In short, I felt like something was wrong and something wasn't quite right. And the scariest thing is, I don't know what to do.
That night, after sending off the last few guests, the time was a little earlier than usual. I took the money and enjoyed an after-work drink with the employees as usual. In that old part of the bar, on the other side of the tiled wall, we gathered under three large Victorian portraits with skulls over their faces. I stayed like this for hours, opening one can after another of the semi-cold Camden Hell beer, without speaking, and listening to everyone gossip about customers, friends, or the current affair. But my eyes are always drawn to those portraits, and there's something terrible in them that makes me feel closer to death, and in a way they make me feel the comfort and comfort of death. Maybe I shouldn't think so. Looking at the ceiling and thinking about my room on the 4th floor, I realized that I wasn't really enjoying it all at the moment.
It makes sense that the owner didn't like me staying upstairs at the bar. This blurs the boundaries between my work and life, and I maintain the vigilance that I have to react quickly at work. After work, I spent most of my time in bed, and when there was any movement downstairs, I was shaking, and it felt like a dog was shivering in a storm.
I live just like I am: cold, barren, unattractive, and impersonal. Waking up in this kind of place every day makes me feel that I must be the most humble and depressed person in the world. This room seems to be the same as mine, losing self-esteem and becoming uninhabitable to humans. In the weeks before that, I couldn't talk about personal hygiene, and not bathing at night before going to bed had become commonplace. Just looking at myself in the mirror for more than a second, I feel tortured. Lick your teeth with your tongue, and it feels like you're licking a felt billiard table top.
My physical condition is also terrible, all kinds of bad. Also, I've never felt so lonely.
Author: Jack Taylor
Editor: Xue Weiping
Editor-in-Charge: Zhu Zifen