**Author looks at the date of the last blog post, winces, looks again.**
Nearly four months since my last update.
OUCH.
I won't apologize this time. I've previously documented the combination of factors that leads to this kind of massive gap. There is another contributing issue, however, which I have not discussed. Ironically, it is precisely what I had intended to make this post about when I jotted down the notes for it way back in July.
"Ambition and Perfection and Depression and Inspiration"
Hello, my name is Aethelfled, and I am a perfectionist.
I have difficulty writing anything, even something just meant for myself, that I am not completely happy with. I rehearse phrases in my head to make sure they sound clever before I speak them aloud or put them to paper. In school, I took pride in the fact that my "rough drafts" were polished enough to pass as final papers.
The problem is, that kind of perfection is fleeting. It relies heavily on inspiration, which is just the luck of having the right kind of thought at the right kind of time. It requires spending hours on just a handful of ideas, because the sentence that you used at the end of paragraph three works much better at the beginning of paragraph five, but now there's no clear flow through paragraph four. Cut that one into pieces and wedge a key phrase into paragraph five and another into three, and take that last sentence and make it the beginning of a new paragraph you will now insert between two and three, because you just thought of a clever metaphor that the rearranged blocks of text now seem to be explaining.
Even worse, perfection of any kind takes work, and lots of it. And the longer the piece you want to write, the more ambitious the topic you want to tackle, the harder it is to make it perfect. Especially when you keep smothering your inspiration with the demand that that it be perfect in the very first draft, interrupting your ideas to improve their polish.
Depression makes anything that feels remotely like work much, much harder, so when I demand perfection of myself, I actually hamstring my ability to produce the kind of writing that I want to create.
And I am ambitious. I look at the works of Neil Gaiman and I weep, not only in reaction to the beauty of his words, but with admiration and envy. I yearn to create works that move and inspire people the way his move and inspire me. I want to write novels, and television shows, and movies, and comic books, and short stories, and everything else under the sun. I want to create works that catch the attention of Neil Gaiman and Tamora Pierce and Diana Gabaldon and all the other authors I admire and whose creations I enjoy.
Days like today, I believe that those ambitions are within my grasp, if I'm willing to buckle down and work for them. But, today is a green day. I know that tomorrow may be yellow, or orange, like yesterday was. And one thing is crystal clear.
I will never fulfill my Ambition while I cling to Perfection.
Friday, November 3, 2017
Monday, July 10, 2017
Anhedonia
As I have mentioned before, writing this blog has allowed me to make deeper connections with friends who struggle with depression. Often, I did not know that they had mental health problems until they reached out to me. Sometimes, those discussions lead to "ah-ha" moments, as I discover that some previously unexplained aspect of my life that is actually connected my mental illness.
Such a moment occurred several weeks ago when a friend introduced me to the term "anhedonia."
Merriam-Webster defines anhedonia as "a psychological condition characterized by an inability to experience pleasure in normally pleasurable acts." In my case, this is not a gradual disenchantment with an activity, but rather a sudden and inexplicable aversion to something I used to enjoy. Often, I will try to force myself to continue participating, because if I am just having a Code Yellow day, interacting with people enjoying my hobby will sometimes (though not always) help me to feel better about it. Unfortunately, if I repeatedly force myself into an activity without getting the pleasure of it, I start to actively dislike it.
As a result, most of my hobbies operate in a "feast or famine" mode.
When I am enjoying something, I throw myself into it completely. I binge a new show on Netflix, play a single video game exclusively for hours every night for a week, or devour every book in a series. And then, when I find I am not interested in the activity, I stop. Even if I am in the middle of an episode of a show, or three quarters of the way through a book, I simply don't return to it. I move on to something else.
For years, I described this pattern to other people by saying "I have cycles of interest. Right now I am doing [hobby]." Occasionally Jerk Brain would berate me for being 'fickle,' especially when I would abruptly leave a community and endanger tenuous friendships I had built there. In light of my new understanding that my anhedonia is a symptom, not a personality trait, I realize that my 'cycles' are actually a coping mechanism. If I stop engaging with an activity immediately, I can return to it after one or two others have run their course. If, on the other hand, I push myself until I experience an active antipathy to my formerly pleasurable hobby, it dramatically lengthens the time before I can enjoy it again, and may even prevent me from returning at all.
Hopefully, once I am receiving professional help for my depression, I won't need to trick my brain just to enjoy my hobbies.
As a result, most of my hobbies operate in a "feast or famine" mode.
When I am enjoying something, I throw myself into it completely. I binge a new show on Netflix, play a single video game exclusively for hours every night for a week, or devour every book in a series. And then, when I find I am not interested in the activity, I stop. Even if I am in the middle of an episode of a show, or three quarters of the way through a book, I simply don't return to it. I move on to something else.
For years, I described this pattern to other people by saying "I have cycles of interest. Right now I am doing [hobby]." Occasionally Jerk Brain would berate me for being 'fickle,' especially when I would abruptly leave a community and endanger tenuous friendships I had built there. In light of my new understanding that my anhedonia is a symptom, not a personality trait, I realize that my 'cycles' are actually a coping mechanism. If I stop engaging with an activity immediately, I can return to it after one or two others have run their course. If, on the other hand, I push myself until I experience an active antipathy to my formerly pleasurable hobby, it dramatically lengthens the time before I can enjoy it again, and may even prevent me from returning at all.
Hopefully, once I am receiving professional help for my depression, I won't need to trick my brain just to enjoy my hobbies.
Wednesday, July 5, 2017
Quantifying Depression
Early in the life of this blog, I realized that describing a day as "normal" or "average" or "ordinary" is not very useful.
My experience of ordinary is skewed by years of living with depression, most of them without acknowledging that I was depressed. Additionally, the effects of my depression are not always simple, nor are they necessarily obvious. Even trying to quantify how much it is affecting me is difficult when one of my primary symptoms is apathy or lack of motivation. How do you measure the intensity of numbness?
With help from my amazing, supportive mother, I realized that the answer is you don't. Instead, you note the presence or absence of other factors. With her help, I have worked out a color code that I hope will help me track my depression - the frequency of my good days, and the intensity of my bad ones. By recording simple notes about what color I am feeling at various points during the day, I hope to spot patterns, and eventually track whether and how much the medications I take affect those patterns.
Code Red: This is for the worst days. The times when I can't shut out Jerk Brain. The periods when everything seems hopeless, and I feel like a useless drain on the ones I love. I can feel emotions, but typically only negative ones. Self-loathing and attempts to undermine my own mental and emotional supports are common.
Code Orange: These are the days that I simply can't do anything. Restless energy fails to translate into action, and tiny tasks seem to take more effort than I can muster. Time drags on, leaving planned deadlines in the dust, and I can't even bring myself to care. Apathy drowns most emotions, and I tend to avoid human interaction lest their lack be noticed.
Code Yellow: I suspect this is where I live most days. Truly urgent tasks can be accomplished, albeit with what often feels like herculean effort, but very little else. I recognize that I should be doing more, but somehow I never seem to have the will to get much more than the bare minimum done. Emotions are muted, but not totally absent, and I can fake stronger feeling well enough to pass as "normal" in most situations.
Code Green: The goal. These are the days that I don't have to force myself to finish simple chores. The periods when I can simply think of a task and do it. The times that my emotions come freely and naturally. Green days are not always happy (menstrual cycle induced mood swings were a defining aspect of my green day yesterday), but they are mentally easy. I don't have to consciously calculate how much energy it will take to complete a task, or assess in the back of my mind whether I am expressing the appropriate emotion to the appropriate degree in conversation. Everything just comes naturally.
Code Blue: I hesitated over whether to include this label in my system. This would be for the days when I feel like a barrel runner on top of the world; days when I am driven to create lists of tasks just to cross them off, and relaxing doesn't feel like a viable option. While not strictly a symptom of depression, periods of euphoria or mania like these can point to something more complex than "simple" clinical depression. I am honestly unsure whether I have ever had a Code Blue day up to this point, but until I am formally diagnosed by a doctor (and probably even after), I think I should probably try to be aware of periods like this, just in case.
My color code is just another tool to try to understand my mental health, but somehow, it makes me feel that much more in control of myself.
My experience of ordinary is skewed by years of living with depression, most of them without acknowledging that I was depressed. Additionally, the effects of my depression are not always simple, nor are they necessarily obvious. Even trying to quantify how much it is affecting me is difficult when one of my primary symptoms is apathy or lack of motivation. How do you measure the intensity of numbness?
With help from my amazing, supportive mother, I realized that the answer is you don't. Instead, you note the presence or absence of other factors. With her help, I have worked out a color code that I hope will help me track my depression - the frequency of my good days, and the intensity of my bad ones. By recording simple notes about what color I am feeling at various points during the day, I hope to spot patterns, and eventually track whether and how much the medications I take affect those patterns.
Code Red: This is for the worst days. The times when I can't shut out Jerk Brain. The periods when everything seems hopeless, and I feel like a useless drain on the ones I love. I can feel emotions, but typically only negative ones. Self-loathing and attempts to undermine my own mental and emotional supports are common.
Code Orange: These are the days that I simply can't do anything. Restless energy fails to translate into action, and tiny tasks seem to take more effort than I can muster. Time drags on, leaving planned deadlines in the dust, and I can't even bring myself to care. Apathy drowns most emotions, and I tend to avoid human interaction lest their lack be noticed.
Code Yellow: I suspect this is where I live most days. Truly urgent tasks can be accomplished, albeit with what often feels like herculean effort, but very little else. I recognize that I should be doing more, but somehow I never seem to have the will to get much more than the bare minimum done. Emotions are muted, but not totally absent, and I can fake stronger feeling well enough to pass as "normal" in most situations.
Code Green: The goal. These are the days that I don't have to force myself to finish simple chores. The periods when I can simply think of a task and do it. The times that my emotions come freely and naturally. Green days are not always happy (menstrual cycle induced mood swings were a defining aspect of my green day yesterday), but they are mentally easy. I don't have to consciously calculate how much energy it will take to complete a task, or assess in the back of my mind whether I am expressing the appropriate emotion to the appropriate degree in conversation. Everything just comes naturally.
Code Blue: I hesitated over whether to include this label in my system. This would be for the days when I feel like a barrel runner on top of the world; days when I am driven to create lists of tasks just to cross them off, and relaxing doesn't feel like a viable option. While not strictly a symptom of depression, periods of euphoria or mania like these can point to something more complex than "simple" clinical depression. I am honestly unsure whether I have ever had a Code Blue day up to this point, but until I am formally diagnosed by a doctor (and probably even after), I think I should probably try to be aware of periods like this, just in case.
My color code is just another tool to try to understand my mental health, but somehow, it makes me feel that much more in control of myself.
Tuesday, July 4, 2017
Good Days Are Hard (To Write About)
At the end of my last post I mentioned that I started a new job a week ago. That is the main reason that there was a week-long silence between posts, but not for the reasons you might think.
You see, starting work with my new employer led to an immediate and drastic improvement in my mood and general sense of wellness.
I am more energetic, and my baseline stress level has dropped considerably. I no longer dread leaving for work in the morning, nor do I retreat to the isolation of my bedroom the moment I take my shoes off at the end of my shift. My roommates commented on the very first day that I was happier and more relaxed when I got home than I have been in months.
Writing about the good days is difficult.
They often don't feel remarkable, so I have trouble describing them. Partly, this is because of my tendency to minimize bad days in retrospect. Mostly, however, I think it is that (unless I have urgent tasks that were delayed by my depression) good days are just days that I can feel and act normally. I think of tasks that need doing and I do them. There is no psyching myself up, no mental workout to determine which of several chores is most essential or most complex, in case I cannot get all of them done. When I do notice how much easier a good day is, instead of celebrating it, Jerk Brain has a tendency to divert my thoughts to self-recrimination for not being able to "pull myself up by my bootstraps" and just power through my bad days.
Even worse, a string of good days (or even easier days) often makes me doubt whether I even have depression.
When you have a string of good days while treating cancer, you still have constant physical reminders of the disease, in the form of surgical scars or hair loss from chemotherapy. When you have diabetes, you regularly measure your exact blood sugar levels and have direct control over how much insulin you administer to keep them stable.
But when you have a mental illness, you don't have that kind of physical reminder. You don't have that direct, measurable evidence of how your illness or your medication is affecting your body. I think that is why there are so many stories of people deciding to stop taking their medication, often to tragic effect. I know it is one of the reasons I was able to remain in denial for as long as I did.
I refuse to fall into that trap this time.
You see, starting work with my new employer led to an immediate and drastic improvement in my mood and general sense of wellness.
I am more energetic, and my baseline stress level has dropped considerably. I no longer dread leaving for work in the morning, nor do I retreat to the isolation of my bedroom the moment I take my shoes off at the end of my shift. My roommates commented on the very first day that I was happier and more relaxed when I got home than I have been in months.
Writing about the good days is difficult.
They often don't feel remarkable, so I have trouble describing them. Partly, this is because of my tendency to minimize bad days in retrospect. Mostly, however, I think it is that (unless I have urgent tasks that were delayed by my depression) good days are just days that I can feel and act normally. I think of tasks that need doing and I do them. There is no psyching myself up, no mental workout to determine which of several chores is most essential or most complex, in case I cannot get all of them done. When I do notice how much easier a good day is, instead of celebrating it, Jerk Brain has a tendency to divert my thoughts to self-recrimination for not being able to "pull myself up by my bootstraps" and just power through my bad days.
Even worse, a string of good days (or even easier days) often makes me doubt whether I even have depression.
When you have a string of good days while treating cancer, you still have constant physical reminders of the disease, in the form of surgical scars or hair loss from chemotherapy. When you have diabetes, you regularly measure your exact blood sugar levels and have direct control over how much insulin you administer to keep them stable.
But when you have a mental illness, you don't have that kind of physical reminder. You don't have that direct, measurable evidence of how your illness or your medication is affecting your body. I think that is why there are so many stories of people deciding to stop taking their medication, often to tragic effect. I know it is one of the reasons I was able to remain in denial for as long as I did.
I refuse to fall into that trap this time.
Monday, July 3, 2017
An Apology and Some Extra Context
I need to apologize to my readers.
Even though this is a public blog, intentionally left open to whomever might find it interesting or helpful, I have a tendency to write individual posts as though they were going into my personal, private diary. Normally, this is a good thing. It helps me to express myself openly and write with a level of vulnerability that I might not achieve if I constantly remembered the public nature of my medium. However, my last entry made it clear that this approach also makes it easy to leave out details that change the way my readers interpret an incident compared to how I experienced it.
Particularly when I allow a week to lapse between entries, this can be a VERY BAD THING.
My last post described a particularly bad depressive episode with very little in the way of context for what happened afterwards or how frequently those episodes occur, and I know that several of you were quite worried about me. I want to reassure you that while that kind of negative spiral is not new to me, it is infrequent. While I do have bad days (when Jerk Brain is particularly loud), the severity of the episode I documented last week (where it actually took over) is rare enough that I have to think back roughly eighteen months to recall another. Even on the occasions when I have not had immediate support for these episodes (of whatever severity), my thoughts do not typically turn to physical self-harm, but rather push me to undermine myself mentally and emotionally, such as the efforts to push my partner away I documented in my last post.
I am sorry that the lack of crucial context in my writing caused unnecessary worry for those who love me.
I don't mean for this apology and explanation to mitigate the severity of what I experienced. I know that these incidents are not normal or healthy, and I am working toward getting professional help, including antidepressants. I started a new job last Monday, which offers health insurance. As soon as I know what company that plan will be through, I intend to start looking for a doctor/therapist that will accept both my current insurance and my new insurance (when it kicks in near the end of September).
Thank you all for your love and support as I feel my way, slowly but surely, toward better mental health.
Even though this is a public blog, intentionally left open to whomever might find it interesting or helpful, I have a tendency to write individual posts as though they were going into my personal, private diary. Normally, this is a good thing. It helps me to express myself openly and write with a level of vulnerability that I might not achieve if I constantly remembered the public nature of my medium. However, my last entry made it clear that this approach also makes it easy to leave out details that change the way my readers interpret an incident compared to how I experienced it.
Particularly when I allow a week to lapse between entries, this can be a VERY BAD THING.
My last post described a particularly bad depressive episode with very little in the way of context for what happened afterwards or how frequently those episodes occur, and I know that several of you were quite worried about me. I want to reassure you that while that kind of negative spiral is not new to me, it is infrequent. While I do have bad days (when Jerk Brain is particularly loud), the severity of the episode I documented last week (where it actually took over) is rare enough that I have to think back roughly eighteen months to recall another. Even on the occasions when I have not had immediate support for these episodes (of whatever severity), my thoughts do not typically turn to physical self-harm, but rather push me to undermine myself mentally and emotionally, such as the efforts to push my partner away I documented in my last post.
I am sorry that the lack of crucial context in my writing caused unnecessary worry for those who love me.
I don't mean for this apology and explanation to mitigate the severity of what I experienced. I know that these incidents are not normal or healthy, and I am working toward getting professional help, including antidepressants. I started a new job last Monday, which offers health insurance. As soon as I know what company that plan will be through, I intend to start looking for a doctor/therapist that will accept both my current insurance and my new insurance (when it kicks in near the end of September).
Thank you all for your love and support as I feel my way, slowly but surely, toward better mental health.
Monday, June 26, 2017
Surviving the Storm
Last night was... difficult. I honestly don't know if it was part of my depression or something else, but I think I need to document it. Unlike the overwhelming numbness, apathy, and sense of isolation I normally associate with bad depressive episodes, this was a perfect storm of all my most negative emotions and self talk. I could feel, but I felt as though everything was horrible. I felt that asking for help was manipulative of and unfair to those around me, and when help was offered it seemed to me that it could not touch what I was feeling or solve the problems I perceived.
For at least the better part of an hour, Jerk Brain took full control and refused to budge.
It actually started a few hours before Jerk Brain's hostile takeover. I had been at a game with friends, including my wonderful partner. It was our second get-together of the day, and concluded around eight or nine in the evening. Some time on the drive home, I began to feel grumpy when my partner talked about things in which I was not directly involved, but I put it down to my social energy being drained by the day's events. Therefor, when we arrived home I pleaded tiredness and immediately retreated to the bedroom while my boyfriend engaged our roommate in small talk.
Perhaps an hour later, I realized that my bad mood was not dissipating. Since my partner has an excellent track record for making me smile no matter how irritable I am, I messaged him, asking for cuddles whenever he finished his conversation. A relatively short time later, he obliged, and at first it seemed that - as is often the case - his presence would soothe my emotions without much effort.
Unfortunately, that proved not to be the case.
The chime of a notification on his phone interrupted us, and I told him (honestly) that I didn't mind his pausing to deal with it. Shortly after his attention was diverted, however, my negative emotions came roaring back. Hovering barely above the threshold of conscious thought, Jerk Brain whispered that I wasn't important enough to keep my boyfriend's interest and attention, that asking for the attention I wanted and needed was selfish and manipulative, that he deserved better than my neediness. Before long, I rolled over and curled myself into a miserable knot, convinced that I didn't deserve any help to feel better, simply because I needed help to feel better.
Luckily for me, the man I am dating is both perceptive and determined.
I don't remember all the details of what we said to each other, nor do I particularly want to relive them. I do know that I spent most of the next hour (if not more) crying and alternately clinging to my partner and trying to reject his help. I was irrationally convinced that if I just explained properly how this meltdown was my fault, he would abandon me and find someone "less broken." I wanted him to do it, because I was convinced he deserved better, and I loved him enough to want that for him, even though it tore me apart to even think of him leaving.
I also know that he met all of my hysterical, irrational arguments with kindness and respect, and a gentle but implacable determination to see me though the storm. I remember at one point I told him I couldn't kiss his mouth right then, and he stopped initiating those kisses, but never stopped reassuring me that he loved me. I remember being frustrated at his obstinate refusal to see that I did not deserve his love and his support. He told me, repeatedly and in as many different ways as he could think of, that he wasn't going anywhere. That he didn't expect me to be perfect and that he was going to stick it out with me.
And then, even faster than it began, the storm passed.
It seemed as if, between one breath and the next, Jerk Brain lost its grip on me. Suddenly the oppressive certainty of my unworthiness lifted, and I could think clearly again. I saw my irrational thoughts for what they were, and felt overwhelming love and gratitude to my boyfriend for standing by me and refusing to let me push him away. Now, twenty four hours later, I still don't know why it happened or how to prevent it.
But at least I know that I can survive the storm.
For at least the better part of an hour, Jerk Brain took full control and refused to budge.
It actually started a few hours before Jerk Brain's hostile takeover. I had been at a game with friends, including my wonderful partner. It was our second get-together of the day, and concluded around eight or nine in the evening. Some time on the drive home, I began to feel grumpy when my partner talked about things in which I was not directly involved, but I put it down to my social energy being drained by the day's events. Therefor, when we arrived home I pleaded tiredness and immediately retreated to the bedroom while my boyfriend engaged our roommate in small talk.
Perhaps an hour later, I realized that my bad mood was not dissipating. Since my partner has an excellent track record for making me smile no matter how irritable I am, I messaged him, asking for cuddles whenever he finished his conversation. A relatively short time later, he obliged, and at first it seemed that - as is often the case - his presence would soothe my emotions without much effort.
Unfortunately, that proved not to be the case.
The chime of a notification on his phone interrupted us, and I told him (honestly) that I didn't mind his pausing to deal with it. Shortly after his attention was diverted, however, my negative emotions came roaring back. Hovering barely above the threshold of conscious thought, Jerk Brain whispered that I wasn't important enough to keep my boyfriend's interest and attention, that asking for the attention I wanted and needed was selfish and manipulative, that he deserved better than my neediness. Before long, I rolled over and curled myself into a miserable knot, convinced that I didn't deserve any help to feel better, simply because I needed help to feel better.
Luckily for me, the man I am dating is both perceptive and determined.
I don't remember all the details of what we said to each other, nor do I particularly want to relive them. I do know that I spent most of the next hour (if not more) crying and alternately clinging to my partner and trying to reject his help. I was irrationally convinced that if I just explained properly how this meltdown was my fault, he would abandon me and find someone "less broken." I wanted him to do it, because I was convinced he deserved better, and I loved him enough to want that for him, even though it tore me apart to even think of him leaving.
I also know that he met all of my hysterical, irrational arguments with kindness and respect, and a gentle but implacable determination to see me though the storm. I remember at one point I told him I couldn't kiss his mouth right then, and he stopped initiating those kisses, but never stopped reassuring me that he loved me. I remember being frustrated at his obstinate refusal to see that I did not deserve his love and his support. He told me, repeatedly and in as many different ways as he could think of, that he wasn't going anywhere. That he didn't expect me to be perfect and that he was going to stick it out with me.
And then, even faster than it began, the storm passed.
It seemed as if, between one breath and the next, Jerk Brain lost its grip on me. Suddenly the oppressive certainty of my unworthiness lifted, and I could think clearly again. I saw my irrational thoughts for what they were, and felt overwhelming love and gratitude to my boyfriend for standing by me and refusing to let me push him away. Now, twenty four hours later, I still don't know why it happened or how to prevent it.
But at least I know that I can survive the storm.
Wednesday, June 21, 2017
Two Weeks Is Too Long
It's been a while since I have updated. Far longer than I ever meant to wait between updates. I fell prey to a persistent fault of mine - once I fall behind on something, I am strangely reluctant to take it up again. And this applies to all kinds of projects. It's as if I think that by ignoring it I fall less behind. Or maybe I simply feel, somewhere in the back of my mind, that if I never get back to it, I can claim I abandoned it on purpose. Whatever the reason, my two week silence has nevertheless been eventful. I attended a new weekend-long LARP, and the very next day accepted a new job.
Most importantly, I got a curiously objective view of what my depression does to otherwise good days.
To provide context for those who may not know, I had been unhappy at my job starting about four months after I started there. The situation failed to improve, and even deteriorated somewhat, and I have been actively seeking new employment since the new year. Shortly after my last post, I submitted an application which ultimately led to my accepting a job offer last Monday. I gave my notice the next day, and at the end of the workday Thursday was told to pack up my gear and leave.
I should have been happy to be leaving a work environment that nearly drove me out of my chose field. I should have at least been relieved to no longer have that stress hanging over me. And when I was told I need not stay through the end of my notice period, I should have been joyful at having an unexpected vacation.
Instead I felt nothing.
I put on a good show to most everyone else. The depression hadn't sapped too much of my energy for me to go through the motions of excitement, and I have years of practice from denying even to myself that depression was an active influence on my life. But I couldn't hide from myself the odd sensation of feeling nothing when I achieved a long-sought goal. I couldn't hide from my partner that the elation he felt on my behalf was not matched by equal enthusiasm on my part. What should have felt like a heavy burden lifting off my shoulders instead felt no better or worse than any other day.
Depression makes my good days ordinary, my ordinary days exhausting, and my hard days nearly impossible.
And yet, there are moments, even days or weeks, that my depression does not seem to touch. And I wonder, is it really that the depression has left those moments unscathed, or is it that those moments are so bright, so good, that they penetrate the numbness? If my depression casts a pall on everything I feel, what must it be like to experience those moments without it?
I want, more than anything, to find that out.
Most importantly, I got a curiously objective view of what my depression does to otherwise good days.
To provide context for those who may not know, I had been unhappy at my job starting about four months after I started there. The situation failed to improve, and even deteriorated somewhat, and I have been actively seeking new employment since the new year. Shortly after my last post, I submitted an application which ultimately led to my accepting a job offer last Monday. I gave my notice the next day, and at the end of the workday Thursday was told to pack up my gear and leave.
I should have been happy to be leaving a work environment that nearly drove me out of my chose field. I should have at least been relieved to no longer have that stress hanging over me. And when I was told I need not stay through the end of my notice period, I should have been joyful at having an unexpected vacation.
Instead I felt nothing.
I put on a good show to most everyone else. The depression hadn't sapped too much of my energy for me to go through the motions of excitement, and I have years of practice from denying even to myself that depression was an active influence on my life. But I couldn't hide from myself the odd sensation of feeling nothing when I achieved a long-sought goal. I couldn't hide from my partner that the elation he felt on my behalf was not matched by equal enthusiasm on my part. What should have felt like a heavy burden lifting off my shoulders instead felt no better or worse than any other day.
Depression makes my good days ordinary, my ordinary days exhausting, and my hard days nearly impossible.
And yet, there are moments, even days or weeks, that my depression does not seem to touch. And I wonder, is it really that the depression has left those moments unscathed, or is it that those moments are so bright, so good, that they penetrate the numbness? If my depression casts a pall on everything I feel, what must it be like to experience those moments without it?
I want, more than anything, to find that out.
Tuesday, June 6, 2017
The Best Laid Plans
I have had a series of good mental health days - the longest stretch of them since I started chronicling my experiences on this blog, in fact.
I have spent much of the last week finishing more of the things that I have needed or wanted to do for weeks or months. I filled out job applications, worked on props for my LARP next weekend, paid bills, and finished books. I cooked, and cleaned, and played games with my friends. Often, the sense of accomplishment I would normally gain from completing these projects was overshadowed by a vague dread that the next day would be a bad one. In the back of my mind hovered the thought that I needed to do everything immediately, lest my depression steal away my motivation. Thankfully, I recognized this as the recipe for burn out that it was, and paced myself. And then, on Friday, something that still feels slightly miraculous happened:
I abandoned most of my planned projects to spontaneously consume entertainment, and I didn't feel guilty about it.
The novelty of that decision, and my (lack of) reaction to it, still has not worn off. I cannot remember the last time I changed plans spontaneously without feeling either guilty or frustrated that I had not completed the originally scheduled tasks. As I write this now, it occurs to me that planning out my day in detail has been a coping mechanism to manage my depression; guilt over failing to hit my self-imposed deadlines has kept me functional. Even if I don't (for example) pay my bills a week early, missing that deadline triggers Jerk Brain to berate me for being lazy, and the guilt from that tirade gives me the extra bit of motivation I need to get them paid before they are overdue.
I would feel clever for harnessing Jerk Brain in that way, if I had been at all conscious that I was doing it.
Friday, June 2, 2017
Memories
The last few days have been good days.
Today, despite the longer than average work hours, was a very good day. I accomplished several things on my "To Do" list, both short and long term goals, and I remembered to pace myself so that I don't burn out before I can finish the rest.
The odd thing is that on my good days, it's hard to remember how awful the really bad days are.
Even when they are recent. Even when I have a written record, like my last post, of exactly how deeply affected I was. Even when those around me at the time express concern and follow up for days to make sure I am back on my feet.
When I re-read my own words, there's an insistent impression (not even a full blown thought) that the depressive episode wasn't that bad. Even when I am reminded that at one point I literally could not speak to my boyfriend, part of my brain doesn't believe it. It really is like remembering a bad dream. I understand, intellectually, what I felt and why I reacted the way that I did, but there is no emotional impact to the memory.
If memories are color photographs, the images of that time are all out of focus and in shades of grey.
It makes me wonder how often I have minimized my suffering, to myself and to others. It certainly explains why it has taken me so long to recognize what a pervasive impact depression has on my life. I can only guess that it is a product of internalized cultural prejudices against mental illness, combined with my tendency to hold myself to a far higher standard than that to which I hold my loved ones.
Maybe now, with this blog as documentation of my struggles, I will start learning how to be kinder to myself.
Today, despite the longer than average work hours, was a very good day. I accomplished several things on my "To Do" list, both short and long term goals, and I remembered to pace myself so that I don't burn out before I can finish the rest.
The odd thing is that on my good days, it's hard to remember how awful the really bad days are.
Even when they are recent. Even when I have a written record, like my last post, of exactly how deeply affected I was. Even when those around me at the time express concern and follow up for days to make sure I am back on my feet.
When I re-read my own words, there's an insistent impression (not even a full blown thought) that the depressive episode wasn't that bad. Even when I am reminded that at one point I literally could not speak to my boyfriend, part of my brain doesn't believe it. It really is like remembering a bad dream. I understand, intellectually, what I felt and why I reacted the way that I did, but there is no emotional impact to the memory.
If memories are color photographs, the images of that time are all out of focus and in shades of grey.
It makes me wonder how often I have minimized my suffering, to myself and to others. It certainly explains why it has taken me so long to recognize what a pervasive impact depression has on my life. I can only guess that it is a product of internalized cultural prejudices against mental illness, combined with my tendency to hold myself to a far higher standard than that to which I hold my loved ones.
Maybe now, with this blog as documentation of my struggles, I will start learning how to be kinder to myself.
Tuesday, May 30, 2017
The Roller Coaster
Today has been a roller coaster day, full of ups and downs.
During the ups I felt like my normal self: I could focus on the things I enjoy, and I even engaged in a spirited philosophical debate with my roommate. But the peaks have been frustratingly temporary, giving me brief moments of perspective before I plunge into a new low.
And the downs have been the worst I can remember in quite some time. As I write this, I find I am struggling to communicate verbally. I can't even hold eye contact with my boyfriend, and his is currently the only presence that doesn't make me profoundly, physically uncomfortable. Even the minor support I managed to ask for from him (to come sit next to me rather than trying a new game in the other room) has prompted Jerk Brain to rage in the forefront of my mind.
How selfish, you can't even be alone for half an hour?
You have no right to ask him to stop doing something fun to take care of you.
You're being a clingy girlfriend again. Why can't you accept comfort from your roommate who wants to help you, instead?
Not that you deserve comfort. You focused enough to read the last third of your book, earlier; you're just making excuses for being bored and lazy, now.
The fact that I know Jerk Brain is lying to me, that my boyfriend has directly countered some of these thoughts, doesn't exactly help. When the depression is this bad, recognizing it actually makes me feel guilty for being unable to ignore it.
I don't know what else to say. I just... hope that tomorrow is better. I want to go to sleep and wake up to find out this has just been a bad dream.
Tomorrow has to be better, right?
During the ups I felt like my normal self: I could focus on the things I enjoy, and I even engaged in a spirited philosophical debate with my roommate. But the peaks have been frustratingly temporary, giving me brief moments of perspective before I plunge into a new low.
And the downs have been the worst I can remember in quite some time. As I write this, I find I am struggling to communicate verbally. I can't even hold eye contact with my boyfriend, and his is currently the only presence that doesn't make me profoundly, physically uncomfortable. Even the minor support I managed to ask for from him (to come sit next to me rather than trying a new game in the other room) has prompted Jerk Brain to rage in the forefront of my mind.
How selfish, you can't even be alone for half an hour?
You have no right to ask him to stop doing something fun to take care of you.
You're being a clingy girlfriend again. Why can't you accept comfort from your roommate who wants to help you, instead?
Not that you deserve comfort. You focused enough to read the last third of your book, earlier; you're just making excuses for being bored and lazy, now.
The fact that I know Jerk Brain is lying to me, that my boyfriend has directly countered some of these thoughts, doesn't exactly help. When the depression is this bad, recognizing it actually makes me feel guilty for being unable to ignore it.
I don't know what else to say. I just... hope that tomorrow is better. I want to go to sleep and wake up to find out this has just been a bad dream.
Tomorrow has to be better, right?
Friday, May 26, 2017
Days Like These
Yesterday was the last viewing for my grandfather. Today is the funeral. I am grateful that while my grief has been overwhelming at times, I have had only one bad day with my depression. The difference has been surprisingly stark, mainly because grief doesn't take away my ability to focus on productive or thought intensive tasks to distract myself. The following is a brief list of the things I have accomplished while grieving heavily, that I could not do while heavily depressed.
In the past three days I have:
In the past three days I have:
- Sorted through and purged my e-mail inbox, including 750 unread e-mails and hundreds more marked as read but never deleted. These e-mails stretched back more than five years.
- Claimed Kickstarter rewards on Steam that were inaccessible to me for several years because I did not have a working computer.
- Laundered all my sheets, blankets, and pillow cases.
- Read two 500+ page books, and half of a third.
- Made tentative travel plans for major events in June, July, August, and September.
- Organized a carpool to a weekend-long event next month.
And this is all in addition to working normal shifts Tuesday and Wednesday, writing my last post on Tuesday, and attending the viewing last night.
The more aware I become of how depression affects me, the more I realize I need to get help for it. Because despite my grief, I want more days like these.
Tuesday, May 23, 2017
Grief and Depression
Just over a week ago, the same day I published my last post, I found out that my grandfather had been diagnosed with late stage lung cancer. The initial assessment was that, with treatment, he might survive up to another year, but that his remaining time was more likely to be measured in months, and not many of those. I spent most of the rest of the week trying to pretend I did not know that my grandfather was dying, and the rest of it attempting to wrestle my emotions into tidy, easy to explain boxes. I did not write for the blog, in part, because doing so would force me to confront the fact that I was failing at both of these tasks. And that the day I came closest to succeeding was the worst day, in terms of my depression, I had all week.
Two days ago, less than a week after hearing that diagnosis, I woke up to the news that Grandpa had passed away.
I still can't fit my emotions into tidy boxes, but now they are to big to even pretend to ignore. At work today I spent a lot of time thinking about the differences between grief and depression. The following poem is inspired by the spoken word poem "OCD", and it is the closest I have yet come to describing those untidy emotions.
People think Grief and Depression are twins,
Either identical or fraternal, depending who you ask.
They are wrong, Grief and Depression are only kissing-cousins
Who are inseparable at the family reunion.
Grief, is a thousand serrated scalpels carving open my ribs,
Depression, is an anesthetic overdose stretching icy fingers towards my heart.
Grief and Depression are both an open hole in my chest:
Grief, aches. Depression, echoes.
Grief is my guilt and self-directed anger
That on my unexpected day off,
Depression would not let me pick up the phone
To call my dying grandfather.
Grief is my rage and despair
That I could not ask his forgiveness
For the stupid grudge I should not have held
So long that now he will never know I even kept it.
Grief is wild and painful and alive,
Fighting to be known and expressed,
In every moment of every day,
Like a beast gnawing off its paw to escape a trap.
Depression is a still and silent tomb,
Promising that the pain will go away,
That everything will be the way it was,
As soon as I can quiet my aching heartbeat.
When in the throes of Grief I sleep,
Because it is exhausting to cram so much living into so little time.
When Depression grips me I sleep,
So that my mind will be as empty as the heart that has forgotten how to feel.
Two days ago, less than a week after hearing that diagnosis, I woke up to the news that Grandpa had passed away.
I still can't fit my emotions into tidy boxes, but now they are to big to even pretend to ignore. At work today I spent a lot of time thinking about the differences between grief and depression. The following poem is inspired by the spoken word poem "OCD", and it is the closest I have yet come to describing those untidy emotions.
People think Grief and Depression are twins,
Either identical or fraternal, depending who you ask.
They are wrong, Grief and Depression are only kissing-cousins
Who are inseparable at the family reunion.
Grief, is a thousand serrated scalpels carving open my ribs,
Depression, is an anesthetic overdose stretching icy fingers towards my heart.
Grief and Depression are both an open hole in my chest:
Grief, aches. Depression, echoes.
Grief is my guilt and self-directed anger
That on my unexpected day off,
Depression would not let me pick up the phone
To call my dying grandfather.
Grief is my rage and despair
That I could not ask his forgiveness
For the stupid grudge I should not have held
So long that now he will never know I even kept it.
Grief is wild and painful and alive,
Fighting to be known and expressed,
In every moment of every day,
Like a beast gnawing off its paw to escape a trap.
Depression is a still and silent tomb,
Promising that the pain will go away,
That everything will be the way it was,
As soon as I can quiet my aching heartbeat.
When in the throes of Grief I sleep,
Because it is exhausting to cram so much living into so little time.
When Depression grips me I sleep,
So that my mind will be as empty as the heart that has forgotten how to feel.
Sunday, May 14, 2017
Ten Days Later
NOTE: This was written yesterday, May 13th, but due to technical difficulties I was unable to post prior to now.
Ten days ago, I began this blog project.
I did not quite know what I was hoping to achieve, or what reactions I was looking for from my friends and family. I just knew that talking about my depression scared me, and I needed to face that fear. The fact that it would be a regular writing project where I would always have something to write (about no matter how boring it seemed) was an added bonus.
Ten days is not a long time. I certainly did not expect to be making a post reflecting on the project's impacts so soon. However, I have already learned a great deal that is probably not readily apparent to my readers. In the interest of maintaining the transparency that is the purpose of this blog, I want to share some of those lessons today. In the interest of making sure I have something interesting to write about tomorrow, at least one of those lessons is going to get it's own, separate blog post later.
Lesson One: Posting the Link Is the Hardest Part
I have gone back and forth every day that I posted about whether to share the link on Facebook. Writing about my depression is hard, but putting it out for people I know and love to see is harder. I alternate between fearing the vulnerability, or feeling like I am just looking for attention. Contradictory emotions, but both make me reluctant to share with people whose opinions I respect.
Lesson Two: Sometimes Support Is Difficult to Accept
My reaction to expressions of support, both online and in person, have varied widely depending on how I feel at that particular moment and how the support is couched. I know that the people who have reached out to me want only to make me feel loved and (in many cases) express their admiration for my courage in sharing my experiences. Nevertheless, about a quarter of the time, when I see a comment (even as simple as a reaction on my Facebook status announcing the post), I cringe and want to hide. As far as I can tell, it has very little to do with the comments themselves and far more to do with the conflicting emotions I mentioned above.
Lesson Three: I Am Vicious to Myself
By far the most difficult sections that I have written have been translating the half-conscious prods of Jerk Brain. By externalizing those thoughts into written words, I have come face to face with precisely how merciless and antagonistic my own thoughts can be. Sometimes I am literally crying as I document Jerk Brain's attacks on my self-esteem. The process is painful, but ultimately helpful, as it shows me in no uncertain terms how unreasonable and self-defeating those thoughts are.
Lesson Four: There Are More of Us Than You Think
Since beginning to document my depression, a number of my friends (many of whom I had no idea struggled similarly) have approached me to share their own experiences with the illness. By opening myself up, by taking that first step, I have created an opportunity I never expected, to connect with others like myself. We are reaching out, despite pain and fear and often overwhelming feelings of isolation, to hold each other in the dark times. We are finding and supporting each other on our paths, so no one needs to walk alone.
Ten days ago, I began this blog project.
I did not quite know what I was hoping to achieve, or what reactions I was looking for from my friends and family. I just knew that talking about my depression scared me, and I needed to face that fear. The fact that it would be a regular writing project where I would always have something to write (about no matter how boring it seemed) was an added bonus.
Ten days is not a long time. I certainly did not expect to be making a post reflecting on the project's impacts so soon. However, I have already learned a great deal that is probably not readily apparent to my readers. In the interest of maintaining the transparency that is the purpose of this blog, I want to share some of those lessons today. In the interest of making sure I have something interesting to write about tomorrow, at least one of those lessons is going to get it's own, separate blog post later.
Lesson One: Posting the Link Is the Hardest Part
I have gone back and forth every day that I posted about whether to share the link on Facebook. Writing about my depression is hard, but putting it out for people I know and love to see is harder. I alternate between fearing the vulnerability, or feeling like I am just looking for attention. Contradictory emotions, but both make me reluctant to share with people whose opinions I respect.
Lesson Two: Sometimes Support Is Difficult to Accept
My reaction to expressions of support, both online and in person, have varied widely depending on how I feel at that particular moment and how the support is couched. I know that the people who have reached out to me want only to make me feel loved and (in many cases) express their admiration for my courage in sharing my experiences. Nevertheless, about a quarter of the time, when I see a comment (even as simple as a reaction on my Facebook status announcing the post), I cringe and want to hide. As far as I can tell, it has very little to do with the comments themselves and far more to do with the conflicting emotions I mentioned above.
Lesson Three: I Am Vicious to Myself
By far the most difficult sections that I have written have been translating the half-conscious prods of Jerk Brain. By externalizing those thoughts into written words, I have come face to face with precisely how merciless and antagonistic my own thoughts can be. Sometimes I am literally crying as I document Jerk Brain's attacks on my self-esteem. The process is painful, but ultimately helpful, as it shows me in no uncertain terms how unreasonable and self-defeating those thoughts are.
Lesson Four: There Are More of Us Than You Think
Since beginning to document my depression, a number of my friends (many of whom I had no idea struggled similarly) have approached me to share their own experiences with the illness. By opening myself up, by taking that first step, I have created an opportunity I never expected, to connect with others like myself. We are reaching out, despite pain and fear and often overwhelming feelings of isolation, to hold each other in the dark times. We are finding and supporting each other on our paths, so no one needs to walk alone.
Friday, May 12, 2017
Catching Up
It has been longer than I intended since my last post. I suspect that I have been fighting a cold or something similar, but all I know for sure is that I did a lot of sleeping the last few days, and yesterday in particular. The main intent of this post is to record what happened when I wasn't sleeping. The next post will share some reflections on what has changed (or hasn't) since I started writing this blog.
Tuesday was a fairly normal day, not particularly good or bad. Only one thing of note happened: I had a mild anxiety attack at work.
I was alone, working on my last dog. The bather had already left for the day and the owner was out of town. I didn't recognize what I was feeling at first, attributing my clenched stomach to hunger and my tight chest to inhaling hair or dander. Only when my extremities began to feel the tingly, jittery sensation I associate with an adrenaline high did I realize what I was experiencing. With little other choice, I narrowed my focus to the task immediately in front of me (thankfully, I was down to nit-picky detail work that lent itself well to this) and worked through it, praying that my hands didn't start shaking from the adrenaline. About forty minutes after I noticed the first symptoms (twenty minutes after I recognized what was happening), they faded.
I still don't know what triggered the attack. I was able keep my "customer service professional" facade in place to check out my client during the last ten minutes of the attack, but only barely. If the customer had returned for their dog even five minutes earlier, I don't know if I would have been able to hide my symptoms. If I cannot pinpoint the trigger, I cannot avoid or prepare for it in the future. I don't frequently have anxiety attacks, but I have never had one at work, either. I have had significantly worse anxiety attacks in other settings in the past. It worries me that I might have another without warning, possibly worse than this one was, while at work.
I'm trying very hard not to think about that possibility.
Wednesday was uneventful. It was a very slow day at work, so I told the bather not to bother coming in and spent a lot of time cleaning. Afterwards, I met my boyfriend for a movie (Guardians of the Galaxy Vol. 2 - well worth the watch!) and a meal out.
Thursday (yesterday) was more stressful. The owner was back, but not feeling well. Unfortunately, neither was the bather. He texted her asking to leave a few hours early so he could see his doctor (she was not at the shop yet), and in a fit of pique she sent him home immediately, not even letting him stay to help me until she arrived. On top of this, she then grilled me about why I was at the shop so long the day before (two of the four dogs on Wednesday paid for daycare and were not picked up until late afternoon), implying that I was sitting around being paid to do nothing (she denied this is what she meant when I called her on it). Despite all of this, I was feeling reasonably good, emotionally, when I got home, and assured my roommate that our planned shopping trip was still in the works for that evening. Unfortunately, this is when my body decided it had a different plan, and I fell asleep. With a few brief exceptions (anywhere from five to twenty-five minutes of wakefulness at each of three different points), I slept until my alarm woke me up this morning.
Which brings me to today. A busy day at work, but average where my mental health is concerned. The usual stress of a job that I would quit in a heartbeat if I could afford to do so, but nothing out of the ordinary. This evening has been spent catching up on minor tasks like responding to e-mails.
It's nice when minor tasks feel minor.
Tuesday was a fairly normal day, not particularly good or bad. Only one thing of note happened: I had a mild anxiety attack at work.
I was alone, working on my last dog. The bather had already left for the day and the owner was out of town. I didn't recognize what I was feeling at first, attributing my clenched stomach to hunger and my tight chest to inhaling hair or dander. Only when my extremities began to feel the tingly, jittery sensation I associate with an adrenaline high did I realize what I was experiencing. With little other choice, I narrowed my focus to the task immediately in front of me (thankfully, I was down to nit-picky detail work that lent itself well to this) and worked through it, praying that my hands didn't start shaking from the adrenaline. About forty minutes after I noticed the first symptoms (twenty minutes after I recognized what was happening), they faded.
I still don't know what triggered the attack. I was able keep my "customer service professional" facade in place to check out my client during the last ten minutes of the attack, but only barely. If the customer had returned for their dog even five minutes earlier, I don't know if I would have been able to hide my symptoms. If I cannot pinpoint the trigger, I cannot avoid or prepare for it in the future. I don't frequently have anxiety attacks, but I have never had one at work, either. I have had significantly worse anxiety attacks in other settings in the past. It worries me that I might have another without warning, possibly worse than this one was, while at work.
I'm trying very hard not to think about that possibility.
Wednesday was uneventful. It was a very slow day at work, so I told the bather not to bother coming in and spent a lot of time cleaning. Afterwards, I met my boyfriend for a movie (Guardians of the Galaxy Vol. 2 - well worth the watch!) and a meal out.
Thursday (yesterday) was more stressful. The owner was back, but not feeling well. Unfortunately, neither was the bather. He texted her asking to leave a few hours early so he could see his doctor (she was not at the shop yet), and in a fit of pique she sent him home immediately, not even letting him stay to help me until she arrived. On top of this, she then grilled me about why I was at the shop so long the day before (two of the four dogs on Wednesday paid for daycare and were not picked up until late afternoon), implying that I was sitting around being paid to do nothing (she denied this is what she meant when I called her on it). Despite all of this, I was feeling reasonably good, emotionally, when I got home, and assured my roommate that our planned shopping trip was still in the works for that evening. Unfortunately, this is when my body decided it had a different plan, and I fell asleep. With a few brief exceptions (anywhere from five to twenty-five minutes of wakefulness at each of three different points), I slept until my alarm woke me up this morning.
Which brings me to today. A busy day at work, but average where my mental health is concerned. The usual stress of a job that I would quit in a heartbeat if I could afford to do so, but nothing out of the ordinary. This evening has been spent catching up on minor tasks like responding to e-mails.
It's nice when minor tasks feel minor.
Monday, May 8, 2017
Self Medication
So, about half of this was written last night, but since I literally fell asleep sitting up, with nothing to lean against and my fingers on the keyboard, I guess I'm doing another two-day post.
Yesterday was a much better day. After writing my last blog, my amazing boyfriend cuddled me until I fell asleep, which all by itself helped to push away the numbness. I slept in until nearly 8am (oh for the days when waking before 8 was an early day), went to game with friends at 11:30am, saw a play (Romeo and Juliet) with those same friends at 2pm, and joined other friends at 5pm to watch American Gods. Overall, lots of time spent with good friends, good food, and good conversation.
Best of all, I was able to engage and enjoy all of it.
This is what I refer to as my self-medication. I am not using drugs, alcohol, or other mind altering substances, but large doses of social interactions seem to help stave off the worst of my depression. One of my first symptoms is usually a sense of isolation, so I tend to pack my days off with as many activities as I can stand.
When I first discovered this trick, I was seeking the company of others because I did not wish to be alone. More accurately, I did not trust myself to be alone, because I had already had one very elaborate self-harming fantasy. In college, surrounding myself with my friends as much as possible was a defense mechanism, a way to keep myself from following through with the fantasies. Once I had gotten out of that initial pit, I discovered that regular doses of social interaction (anything from cuddles with my significant other to watching a movie with friends) stabilized my mood noticeably and kept me from drifting too far into negative spirals.
As much as social activity can overwhelm me when my depression is bad, it is also one of the most useful tools I have to remain functional.
Today, thanks in part to the high I am still riding from yesterday, I was able to give my roommate a ride to a convenience store before taking her to work, take my partner to the doctor's office and help him manage his phobia of needles while he got blood drawn, and make two important phone calls I had been putting off for at least a week each. These may seem like minor things, but the fact that I could do all of them in a single day (even a day I don't work) feels like a major victory. Especially when last Monday a short trip to the DMV (I literally only waited in line long enough to get to the service counter and find out that I needed to track down another piece of paperwork) was almost more than I could handle and triggered two minor anxiety attacks.
Part of me is terrified to realize that it takes a "good day" for me to be able to handle a normal number of tasks for a functioning adult, and what that means for how deeply and frequently my depression is affecting me. Part of me is triumphant that I can still get to this point at all, that I have not given up the daily struggle. And then there's Jerk Brain, trying to convince me that this dichotomy is a sign of a fundamental personality flaw, that I am worthless trash who doesn't deserve to celebrate the good days because I should be able to function this well every day.
As usual, I try to ignore Jerk Brain.
I am lucky that this is the form of self-medication I stumbled upon. I have heard far to many stories of people with mental illnesses trying to self-medicate with alcohol, or tobacco, or any of half a dozen illicit drugs. I am eternally grateful to all my friends and relatives who simply by their presence have helped me to keep afloat for so long.
Thank you all, for walking this path with me.
Yesterday was a much better day. After writing my last blog, my amazing boyfriend cuddled me until I fell asleep, which all by itself helped to push away the numbness. I slept in until nearly 8am (oh for the days when waking before 8 was an early day), went to game with friends at 11:30am, saw a play (Romeo and Juliet) with those same friends at 2pm, and joined other friends at 5pm to watch American Gods. Overall, lots of time spent with good friends, good food, and good conversation.
Best of all, I was able to engage and enjoy all of it.
This is what I refer to as my self-medication. I am not using drugs, alcohol, or other mind altering substances, but large doses of social interactions seem to help stave off the worst of my depression. One of my first symptoms is usually a sense of isolation, so I tend to pack my days off with as many activities as I can stand.
When I first discovered this trick, I was seeking the company of others because I did not wish to be alone. More accurately, I did not trust myself to be alone, because I had already had one very elaborate self-harming fantasy. In college, surrounding myself with my friends as much as possible was a defense mechanism, a way to keep myself from following through with the fantasies. Once I had gotten out of that initial pit, I discovered that regular doses of social interaction (anything from cuddles with my significant other to watching a movie with friends) stabilized my mood noticeably and kept me from drifting too far into negative spirals.
As much as social activity can overwhelm me when my depression is bad, it is also one of the most useful tools I have to remain functional.
Today, thanks in part to the high I am still riding from yesterday, I was able to give my roommate a ride to a convenience store before taking her to work, take my partner to the doctor's office and help him manage his phobia of needles while he got blood drawn, and make two important phone calls I had been putting off for at least a week each. These may seem like minor things, but the fact that I could do all of them in a single day (even a day I don't work) feels like a major victory. Especially when last Monday a short trip to the DMV (I literally only waited in line long enough to get to the service counter and find out that I needed to track down another piece of paperwork) was almost more than I could handle and triggered two minor anxiety attacks.
Part of me is terrified to realize that it takes a "good day" for me to be able to handle a normal number of tasks for a functioning adult, and what that means for how deeply and frequently my depression is affecting me. Part of me is triumphant that I can still get to this point at all, that I have not given up the daily struggle. And then there's Jerk Brain, trying to convince me that this dichotomy is a sign of a fundamental personality flaw, that I am worthless trash who doesn't deserve to celebrate the good days because I should be able to function this well every day.
As usual, I try to ignore Jerk Brain.
I am lucky that this is the form of self-medication I stumbled upon. I have heard far to many stories of people with mental illnesses trying to self-medicate with alcohol, or tobacco, or any of half a dozen illicit drugs. I am eternally grateful to all my friends and relatives who simply by their presence have helped me to keep afloat for so long.
Thank you all, for walking this path with me.
Saturday, May 6, 2017
A Bad Day
Well, so much for posting every day.
Most of yesterday was spent at work. Despite the long hours (nearly twelve of them elapsed between leaving home and returning), I was in a fairly good mood when I got home. I took about an hour to decompress and give my aching feet a rest, then was surprised with the offer of a sushi dinner, which I accepted. However, by the end of the meal, I could barely keep my eyes open (thankfully, I wasn't driving), and I fell asleep shortly after 10pm.
Today was... not as good. Despite a good night's sleep and a much lighter workload than yesterday, by the time I punched out (early), my eagerness to start my weekend had disappeared. Instead, I felt - feel - like a wet rag that has been wrung out and hung to dry. On my drive home, I caught myself thinking that I don't love grooming anymore, only some of my clients. I know this probably is not true. But it's a bad day.
On bad days I genuinely cannot imagine enjoying the things that I otherwise love.
It's not just my job. Books I want to read (or am in the process of reading!) bore me, movies or television series on my watch list cannot capture my interest, and my creative projects overwhelm me. I end up spending hours idly scrolling through Facebook, trying to find something, anything, to settle the restlessness. Usually, when I have seen everything in my feed at least twice, I end up closing the window and trying to engage in something I know, intellectually, I wanted to do. Occasionally I can enjoy something on Netflix this way, even if I had previously been unable to settle myself enough before. More often, I give up and either return to Facebook (now bored and disgusted at myself but unable to stop) or go to sleep.
These are the days when Jerk Brain is most likely to sneak up on me.
It is far too easy to label myself as lazy and unmotivated, and to chastise myself for my lack of creativity or discipline. Often, I hardly notice that I am doing so until and unless my unkind thoughts have driven me to the brink of tears. And worse, in some ways, are the days that I don't feel Jerk Brain's jibes at all. Those are the days that I simply feel hollowed out, as though all my ambitions and hopes and joys have been carved away. Those are very bad days.
Today is a very bad day.
Most of yesterday was spent at work. Despite the long hours (nearly twelve of them elapsed between leaving home and returning), I was in a fairly good mood when I got home. I took about an hour to decompress and give my aching feet a rest, then was surprised with the offer of a sushi dinner, which I accepted. However, by the end of the meal, I could barely keep my eyes open (thankfully, I wasn't driving), and I fell asleep shortly after 10pm.
Today was... not as good. Despite a good night's sleep and a much lighter workload than yesterday, by the time I punched out (early), my eagerness to start my weekend had disappeared. Instead, I felt - feel - like a wet rag that has been wrung out and hung to dry. On my drive home, I caught myself thinking that I don't love grooming anymore, only some of my clients. I know this probably is not true. But it's a bad day.
On bad days I genuinely cannot imagine enjoying the things that I otherwise love.
It's not just my job. Books I want to read (or am in the process of reading!) bore me, movies or television series on my watch list cannot capture my interest, and my creative projects overwhelm me. I end up spending hours idly scrolling through Facebook, trying to find something, anything, to settle the restlessness. Usually, when I have seen everything in my feed at least twice, I end up closing the window and trying to engage in something I know, intellectually, I wanted to do. Occasionally I can enjoy something on Netflix this way, even if I had previously been unable to settle myself enough before. More often, I give up and either return to Facebook (now bored and disgusted at myself but unable to stop) or go to sleep.
These are the days when Jerk Brain is most likely to sneak up on me.
It is far too easy to label myself as lazy and unmotivated, and to chastise myself for my lack of creativity or discipline. Often, I hardly notice that I am doing so until and unless my unkind thoughts have driven me to the brink of tears. And worse, in some ways, are the days that I don't feel Jerk Brain's jibes at all. Those are the days that I simply feel hollowed out, as though all my ambitions and hopes and joys have been carved away. Those are very bad days.
Today is a very bad day.
Thursday, May 4, 2017
Introducing Jerk Brain
Today was not, quite, a good day.
By this I mean that it had all the pieces a good workday should have had, but my emotional reaction to it was not a good mood. Instead, it felt thoroughly average.
I got up for work with minimal effort when my alarms went off. Yes, that was alarms, plural. Since I have to be at work by 7:15am, I try to leave the house by 6:45am, which means dragging myself out of bed absolutely no later than 6:30am. I am never happy to be awake so early, but I manage it by setting my first alarm for 5:45am, snoozing until 6am, then getting up somewhere in the snooze cycle of my 6:15am alarm.
Today I was fully awake by the time I snoozed the 6:15 alarm the first time, and even got out of bed in time to shower quickly before leaving for work. I also grabbed something moderately nourishing to eat on my drive, another unusual feat, as normally I skip breakfast entirely due to time constraints and my body's stubborn refusal to desire any food less than two hours after I wake up.
Despite slightly heavier than normal traffic, I arrived at work on time. I then discovered that I had a very light workload for the day, and that thanks to a last minute cancellation, no clients were scheduled to arrive until 9am. I spent an hour and a half doing light cleaning tasks around the salon (for those who may be unaware, I am a dog groomer), was able to finish my dogs early, and avoided most of rush hour traffic to get home.
I should have been in a good mood. As I read over this write-up of my day, I would have expected that I would be eager to work on my ongoing creative projects, excited to start reading the next book in my queue, and motivated to tackle chores. I certainly remember thinking about the first two while I was at work. Instead, I wandered around the house aimlessly for the remainder of my afternoon, had a small meal, talked with a roommate for an hour or so, and then started on this post.
In short, I accomplished few of the things I contemplated all day, despite having the time to work on them, because I simply lacked the impetus to do so. And this despite having a day that, as nearly as any workday could, should have set me up for success.
And now, having recognized this fact, I must fight my own mind directly.
As soon as I realized that I "should" have been in a good mood, that by any outside metric I had had a good day, the internal voice I have named Jerk Brain started whispering to me. Jerk Brain is perhaps the most insidious aspect of my struggle with depression, because it sounds like me. I have gotten better at identifying it, but all too often it sneaks in without my noticing.
"How lazy," it snips. "Did you do anything you didn't have to do today?"
I struggle to come up with a response, but even as I raise the example of picking up my roommate from work, Jerk Brain is attacking from new angles.
"If you can't be bothered to work on your goals on days like today, how can you possibly expect to achieve anything?"
"No wonder you are always the outsider, if this is all the effort you put into your own life."
I know these to be false accusations. I know that I am my own worst enemy here. Even as I write this I am reaching out to the people closest to me to reaffirm that they see me more kindly than I see myself. I try to ignore Jerk Brain as it whispers that I am manipulating them to make myself feel better.
I don't have an eloquent conclusion to share here. This struggle is real, and active, and ongoing. I don't know how it will ultimately resolve. I don't know how to shut out Jerk Brain's poison.
I just know that I want to see myself the way my loved ones see me.
By this I mean that it had all the pieces a good workday should have had, but my emotional reaction to it was not a good mood. Instead, it felt thoroughly average.
I got up for work with minimal effort when my alarms went off. Yes, that was alarms, plural. Since I have to be at work by 7:15am, I try to leave the house by 6:45am, which means dragging myself out of bed absolutely no later than 6:30am. I am never happy to be awake so early, but I manage it by setting my first alarm for 5:45am, snoozing until 6am, then getting up somewhere in the snooze cycle of my 6:15am alarm.
Today I was fully awake by the time I snoozed the 6:15 alarm the first time, and even got out of bed in time to shower quickly before leaving for work. I also grabbed something moderately nourishing to eat on my drive, another unusual feat, as normally I skip breakfast entirely due to time constraints and my body's stubborn refusal to desire any food less than two hours after I wake up.
Despite slightly heavier than normal traffic, I arrived at work on time. I then discovered that I had a very light workload for the day, and that thanks to a last minute cancellation, no clients were scheduled to arrive until 9am. I spent an hour and a half doing light cleaning tasks around the salon (for those who may be unaware, I am a dog groomer), was able to finish my dogs early, and avoided most of rush hour traffic to get home.
I should have been in a good mood. As I read over this write-up of my day, I would have expected that I would be eager to work on my ongoing creative projects, excited to start reading the next book in my queue, and motivated to tackle chores. I certainly remember thinking about the first two while I was at work. Instead, I wandered around the house aimlessly for the remainder of my afternoon, had a small meal, talked with a roommate for an hour or so, and then started on this post.
In short, I accomplished few of the things I contemplated all day, despite having the time to work on them, because I simply lacked the impetus to do so. And this despite having a day that, as nearly as any workday could, should have set me up for success.
And now, having recognized this fact, I must fight my own mind directly.
As soon as I realized that I "should" have been in a good mood, that by any outside metric I had had a good day, the internal voice I have named Jerk Brain started whispering to me. Jerk Brain is perhaps the most insidious aspect of my struggle with depression, because it sounds like me. I have gotten better at identifying it, but all too often it sneaks in without my noticing.
"How lazy," it snips. "Did you do anything you didn't have to do today?"
I struggle to come up with a response, but even as I raise the example of picking up my roommate from work, Jerk Brain is attacking from new angles.
"If you can't be bothered to work on your goals on days like today, how can you possibly expect to achieve anything?"
"No wonder you are always the outsider, if this is all the effort you put into your own life."
I know these to be false accusations. I know that I am my own worst enemy here. Even as I write this I am reaching out to the people closest to me to reaffirm that they see me more kindly than I see myself. I try to ignore Jerk Brain as it whispers that I am manipulating them to make myself feel better.
I don't have an eloquent conclusion to share here. This struggle is real, and active, and ongoing. I don't know how it will ultimately resolve. I don't know how to shut out Jerk Brain's poison.
I just know that I want to see myself the way my loved ones see me.
Wednesday, May 3, 2017
Something That Scares Me
"Do one thing every day that scares you." ~Mary Schmich
This may be one of the most commonly repeated pieces of life advice I have ever heard. It is also one that I have never been able to follow. After all, the things that scare me on a daily basis are things like vulnerability and the fear that I am, in the grand scheme of things, irrelevant. This blog is my attempt to do something that scares me every day.
Or at least, I am fairly certain that I do. I have never been formally diagnosed. Nevertheless, I am setting out to document my experiences. Whether writing about the good days, or especially the bad ones, I am going to try to put my thoughts and feelings in some kind of coherent order. Why? Because I want the perspective. Because I want to see if there is a pattern or a trigger for the bad days.
Because the idea terrifies me.
Talking or writing about depression as a real, active presence in my life is one of the scariest things I have ever done. It is much easier, feels much safer, to talk about having had depression. But lately I have realized that I do myself a disservice when I pretend that I am just lazy when cancel plans, or fail to accomplish goals.
No matter how small the first step or how important the journey, some days I just can't bring myself to do it.
I am slowly starting to undo years of self-blame that convinced me that my bad days are evidence of a moral defect that my good days cannot redeem. I have a wonderful, loving support system of friends and relatives and an amazing partner who are all rooting for me and helping me to recognize that my depression is a thing that I live with, not a thing that I am.
I'm scared, but this is the first step. Will you walk with me a while?
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