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SuperDepressed

Tag Archives: depression

15th April 2019

15 Monday Apr 2019

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anxiety, anxiety and depression, depression

I just can’t physically make myself ring my dr’s surgery and get an appointment. The anxiety is so bad… I just can’t make myself do it.

I have a meeting with the people who will decide if I’m disabled enough to get help from the government, this week. I only found out about it today, so it wasn’t to blame for this latest spike in my depression and anxiety and what-have-you, but it’s not helping, either.

It’s too late to ring my dr tonight… I need to do it tomorrow.

I can’t.

Will this ever end.

14th April 2019

14 Sunday Apr 2019

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anxiety, chronic pain, depression, graphic self-harm, intrusive thoughts, mental health, mental illness, self-harm, suicidal ideation, suicide

CW (Content Warning: suicidal ideation, self-harm, suicide):

Yesterday was the first day in a while that I woke up and felt like I wanted to die. It was beyond the feeling of wishing I didn’t exist anymore–that feeling is an old friend, and I try not to let it bother me too much–no, yesterday, I actively felt the urge to harm myself.

I don’t usually go into this much detail, but I need to get it off my prefrontal lobe (I’m out of practice, uni was 2 years ago, but let’s pretend that’s where the synapses for our current thoughts reside). I’m gonna give another content warning here, because this is about to get graphic.

When I woke up yesterday, I was overwhelmed by visions of me stabbing myself with a variety of rusty farming/maintenance tools. I used my own hands to drive wood-handled weapons (they were being used as weapons, anyway) that I don’t even know the names of, into my eyes, ears, neck, stomach, throat. I saw myself in a quiet, abandoned barn, far away from curious stares or offers of help, removing my vision, hearing, and eventually my life, forever. I felt sad (just sad–not depressed, or miserable, or like crying–just a normal, low-level sadness) during the stabbing portion of my thoughts, coupled with a bone-weary exhaustion. There was a flicker of anxiety (when do I *not* experience at least a flicker of anxiety?) that I might be too weak or tired to finish what I was doing, which spurred me on to finish the job.

(Looking back, I am rather taken aback by the undeniable normality of my feelings and responses: sadness at a regrettable event, a little anxiety that actually helps one to complete their task, rather than the debilitating type I typically suffer, etc. Such “normal” responses to such an abnormal situation… ordinarily, it happens the other way around, and I’m crippled by a minor setback that most people would hardly notice. Anyways. I digress.)

As the anxiety sparked a final push of energy, I imagined driving the final blade through my own neck, nearly severing it on one side, I felt such intense relief and even a frisson of pleasure. I saw myself topple to the ground, my body torn and raw in places, bright red blood already drying to the colour of tea stains in the bottom of an old mug (drying on clothing I don’t own, by the way–I don’t know if I’ve ever bought a flannel shirt and a pair of pale, straight-leg jeans). My hair was long, like it was until about 7 years ago (I still mourn my hair–like Jo March in “Little Women,” it was “my one beauty”) and I seemed a little heavier than I am, now.

Parsing through the memories of those thoughts, I suppose I might’ve been looking at me when I was about 17: starting to lose a little weight (which I gained back, never actually hitting a “normal” weight until hyperemesis with my 1st pregnancy) still with waist-length, curly brown hair, wearing some male relative’s clothing, and in a rural community not unlike the one where I grew up. I was near the sea, though. I never lived near the sea until moving to the UK… which I did at 19. 19-year-old me, a little slimmer than I actually was, then? So odd.

This wasn’t a dream–I was definitely awake–but it really knocked me, to have such an intense, self-harming…. vision?… out of nowhere, before I’d even sat up in bed. I was a little off with Hubs, yesterday. I suppose this explains that, to some extent.

I wonder if it’s time to increase my antidepressant. Or change meds, or request some talking therapy. I feel a little flat, a little worn-down, lately, and I’ve had a cold for a week or so… I didn’t think I was getting BAD again, though.

Maybe it’s just April. This is my least favourite month. Or–my chronic pain has been worse, lately. Maybe this is a stress response caused by intense physical pain, and I don’t want to kill myself, I just want to kill the pain/stop hurting. Then again–that’s what most suicides are.

And maybe I should go see my doctor.

Spoons (1st Draft–Sloppy)

14 Thursday Mar 2019

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anxiety, chronic pain, depression, invisible illness, spoon theory, spoons

“Spoons”

They scoop a little energy, like porridge to a waiting mouth.
Invisible, yet rationed—and when we’re out, we’re out.

One spoon might equal waking after 16 hours’ sleep.
Another three might get me bathed; one more, a cup of tea.

To dress my kids? A dozen, on the days their spoons are low.
On other days, just 2 or 3—depletion still, but slow.

I recall the spoons for making up a smoky gothic eye,
Or scarlet lips and glitter blush… those times have passed me by.

Now, at best, it’s a long-sleeved t-shirt, paired with joggers loaned by Hubs,
Add a cardigan as shivers wrack this girl that winters loved.

To leave the house takes courage even more than it takes spoons;
I look a fright, a gruesome sight—I  used to make men swoon.

But agonies of pain and fear, that robbed my carefree ways,
Have left no more than a spoon or two, at the close of my best days.

And today? Was not a good one. I was back in bed by noon,
As the spasms twist, my only wish: let this be over soon.

And I know you can’t all see it—the pit of pain inside,
But I’ve told you how I feel, and there’s no need to be snide.

And if seeing were believing, well: you can see my muscles, taut,
You can see my jawline, tight with pain, hear my breathing, laboured, fraught.

And if you’ve anything to say, oh, I hope it will be kind;
A sarcastic jibe, a diatribe? Those should be left behind.

So be careful of your clever words, your judgments harsh, contrived;
For I’m all out of spoons, today—and all I’ve left is knives.

Sorry!

28 Thursday Feb 2019

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anxiety, asc, asd, austerity, autism, benefits, depression, dwp, foreign national, proof of ID, residence permit, welfare

So… applying for benefits for myself went about as I expected it would:

The government department that pays me 2 separate payments, each month, 1 per child, and has done so for the last 7 years, doesn’t know who I am. I find this unlikely, and just more proof of the lengths this government will go to, to avoid paying vulnerable people enough to live on.

The thing is, I can’t prove my married name–I need a passport in my new name to change my residence permit, and I’ve lost my passport (I’m a foreign national, remember). And do I have the funds to travel to the American Embassy in London to get a new one? Maybe I would, if I’d been claiming the payments I qualify for, for all these years…. c’est la vie.

We soldier on. But I had a pure autistic meltdown (several, actually) in the weeks following my last blog post; I’m sad to say, I did spend a few days contemplating whether it would just be easier and better to kill myself. (I always hope those days are behind me, but somehow, they never are.) I’m sorry I disappeared, but survival is all you can manage, some days.

On the plus side, I’ve stumbled across the autistic Twitter community, and the amount of support I’ve found there is unprecedented. Expressing myself well in 140 characters is a challenge, but one that’s actually helpful, to me–I do have a tendency to waffle on, and a lesson in brevity never hurts. I just wish my brain didn’t reset and send my train of thought every which way when I move to start a new Tweet in a long thread…. I hope I improve at staying on topic, but I’m 35, rather old for the learning and performance of new tricks. We shall see.

I hope you all, my dear readers, are happy and healthy. Thanks for sticking around, erratic as I am–it makes me feel a little less alone to know that I have readers who come back time and time again, to read my musings.

13th January, 2019 (Suicide)

13 Sunday Jan 2019

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alcoholism, bereavement, depression, end-of-life, liver failure, suicide, terminal illness

I was on Twitter, today (never a great idea, when controversial topics are being thrown about…). I managed to read a beautifully written, poignant account of one man’s struggle to keep his friend from committing suicide.

He lost the battle. They both did, I guess–his friend had saved his life a year earlier, and they had leaned on each other for support, but eventually, it wasn’t enough for the older of the 2 men. Despite multiple calls each day, and lots of empathy and talking therapy, this terminally ill, soon-to-die man took the final step himself.

Most people who read the story were concerned for the surviving friend (especially as he’s also a pretty high suicide risk) but there’s always one, isn’t there? One person always stands up and tells everyone else why they’re ALL wrong, and someone did. “How can you all say this is okay? If it had been me,” they glibly Tweeted, evidently without reading any of the actual history between the 2 men, or the surviving friend’s tireless vigil, “I would have done everything I could, to stop this from happening.”

Well, no, sweetheart. You wouldn’t have. You would NOT have been on the phone multiple times a day, risking your job and your own sanity. You wouldn’t have given the unconditional, positive regard that lets people know they can really open up to you, without fear of judgment… the regard that has postponed so many suicides, and prevented some deliberate losses of life forever.

You sure as shit wouldn’t have given the guy a piece of your liver, so that he could continue drinking himself to death slowly, would you? No. Of course not. And if you would have, there’s not a surgeon in the world who would’ve taken those odds and performed the surgery. So… what *would* you have done?

My guess is, you would’ve shouted at this end-of-life liver failure patient to get his life together–about 10 years too late–and then, after screaming at him for 2 or 3 phone calls, you’d have washed your hands of it. All you’d have done, would be make a dying man feel worse.

Shame. On. You.

All the love in the world to the surviving friend, who put his career, his very new romantic relationship, and his own well-being on hold, to figuratively hold the hand of a dying friend who had done the same for him. This is what makes the world a place worth living in… people who can look past their own needs, and the fear of their own mortality, to be there for someone in the most dire of circumstances. This is what makes us special, among the other animals–the ability to communicate gently, with understanding, with compassion and love, in all kinds of extremity. We would be so much less than human, without the ability to love others at least as much as we love ourselves.

Everyone probably gets tired of hearing this from me, but if you need to talk to someone WITHOUT JUDGEMENT:

Samaritans (UK only): freephone 116 123
Samaritans email (Worldwide): jo@samaritans.org

Those are not only numbers for suicidal folk–most of the callers are lonely, anxious, depressed, at their wits’ end, self-harming, or even just old and isolated–but by all means, if you’re suicidal and want to talk about it, rather than being told why you just shouldn’t be, please contact Samaritans. The understanding really helps.

12th(?) January, 2019

12 Saturday Jan 2019

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anxiety, depression, mental health, mental illness, psychology, suicidal ideation, university

I can’t believe I’ve kept writing in this blog–however sporadically–until I now spend more of my time feeling “super” than “depressed”… it’s vaguely fantastical, to think that I can type that, today.

Not that I didn’t have a major episode of anxiety and suicidal ideation last summer; but those are par for the course, with me. The important point is that those are fewer and farther between these days, even if when they come, it’s always the same shit on a different day: sleeping 2-3 hours or less per day; perpetual feeling of terror, of something catastrophic that is imminent and unavoidable; self-harm just to switch my brain off and take a nap; the unshakable conviction that everyone I love would be better off without me; a return to higher doses of antidepressants and, if I’m lucky and have an understanding GP, a round of sleeping pills to reset the internal mechanisms that have sprung so wildly off their tracks… and then several weeks of that fragile, almost newborn feeling: not sad, not happy, but intensively sensitive and at the same time removed, as if I know I’ll never form proper memories of this time, and so I won’t have to contend more than once with anything that happens during it.

I’m thinking of returning to university, later this year. As it turns out, even a 1st class degree in psychology is good for literally nothing, unless you’ve got clinical experience as well (I have not). And aside from the suicide prevention helpline, I’ve not even found a volunteer post that’s related to my field of study… so. It seems I should return to the drawing board, as it were, and go from there. One question remains: do I return to psychology, or my first love–language and literature?

No one ever comments on my blog, but I’d love to hear anyone’s thoughts. Hit me up. And have a good January… I seem to be having one, somehow.

Lonely Holidays and Breaks from Social Media

07 Friday Dec 2018

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breaks from social media, depression, feeling alone, grief, holidays, loneliness, poem, poetry, suicide


Weirdly I have often wondered,
When I let grief steal my thunder,
When the sand surrounds my head,
When I think, “I should be dead,”

Who will miss me? Who will care?
Do they even know I’m there?
A question that will not be voiced–
Those who think it need a hoist,

We are not weak, we are not strong,
Like you we’re trying to get along,
To live, to love, to like, to make it,
But sometimes, god, we just can’t take it.

And those of us who can hide, do,
Sometimes we disappear from view.
Don’t hate us then, don’t hate us now,
We’ll come back once we relearn how.

And those of us who never learn,
Your memories fond, you mustn’t spurn.
It’s not our fault the world turns on greed:
Not our fault, our endless need.

Not our fault, the hurt and pain,
That darken every glad refrain,
It wasn’t we who chose to feel
The torture of wounds we cannot heal.

So if one of us re-joins the fray,
Be joyful we lived for one more day.
Help us fight, see how we strive;
Just help us, please, to stay alive.

November, 2018, 1

04 Sunday Nov 2018

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anxiety, anxiety and depression, buddhism, depression, mindfulness, secular buddhism, stephen batchelor

After my last few entries, I present to you… my efforts to chill dafuq out:

(My next entry may well be a review of Robert Wright’s book on Buddhism, and you won’t understand what he means by “Buddhism” unless you have a basic idea of secular Buddhism, so… here you go.)

https://tricycle.org/magazine/secular-buddhist/

PS: No, I wouldn’t describe myself as a secular Buddhist; I’m not any kind of Buddhist; but understanding more about mindfulness meditation (and actually making the effort to practice it, which is where I usually let myself down…) has me closer to being back on-track than any other thing I’ve done, since my summertime depressive dip.

Mental Health Update, September 2018, 1

05 Wednesday Sep 2018

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anxiety, anxiety and depression, death, depression, existential dread, fear, life, love, misplaced fear

Should’ve written before now.

The thing about looking in the mirror after a bath or shower, is that I can see the smears of black and grey below my eyes, where my mascara and/or eyeliner has melted; the worse thing, is that I’m pretty sure I actually look better with smudged, clownish, day-old make-up gathering in the tiny creases there, than with no make-up at all.

Do I look so old, at 34, that even the half-destroyed remnants of yesterday’s cosmetics look better than my clean, freshly washed face? Where did all these lines–mostly fine, but some not–even *come* from?

When did my high cheekbones and readily-flushed face start to look fat and maybe as if I have a drinking problem, rather than sculpted and youthful? Have I looked like this all along? In fact:

Was I *ever* pretty? I gave up on being beautiful a long time ago–or I thought I had–but now, I doubt that I was ever even genuinely pretty, the way everyone is, before a certain age.

I think these silly, useless, vain thoughts, and I add more wrinkles (I can feel the skin creasing) between my brows, and I laugh, just a little, at myself. I will be 35 soon, and my ex-husband is 39 sooner, and my children are 10 and 12, and my parents are well into (if not past?) middle-age, and one of the four is dead already. My natural grandparents, save one, all died years ago.

This is life, I think to myself. “The slow, inexorable march… to the grave,” as someone cheerily wrote before me (no, wretched brain, I see you evidently will *not* deign to recall where you heard it, nor from whom). No matter. That is what all this is–only a passage from birth to death, and why should I care if my crows’ feet are worse than my mother’s were, at my age?

(Not fair, not fair, she’s smoked 2-4 packs of cigarettes every day of her life since before I was born, I’ve never smoked beyond taking a drag off a friend’s cigarette now and again in my teens and early 20s to confound people who KNOW how anti-smoking I am, why should my skin be mottled with acne scars and rosacea and surgical cuts from boils that had to be excised in a doctor’s office, why should I have lip lines at all, why should a single glass of wine–taken no more than 5 or 6 occasions per year, and most years, less often than that–flush my face beetroot, and stain my teeth, which used to be so lovely and white and are now just pale beige, despite my still brushing them 2-3 times each day… )

Shush, now, I tell myself, trying for the firm, yet somehow still gentle, endlessly soothing tone you would use with a small, slightly hysterical but generally good-natured child, that you love with all your heart. Shhh. It will be alright. You are far from home and you are older every day, but you love, have loved, will continue to love, and you are loved in return. Can you doubt it? 

And even I cannot.

Shhh, there now. It will be alright.

Mental Health Update, August 2018, 6

30 Thursday Aug 2018

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anixety, anxiety and depression, asd parenting, autism, autistic kids, depression, guilt, new school year, parenting, stress, worry

A little dip is to be expected; school starts again soon; ringing about transport (where is the letter we should have received a week ago?) new uniforms, new shoes, and psyching myself up to actually wake before 7:30 each morning, all take their toll.

My sweet babies, my darlings. They’re nervous about going back, as well. Summer flew past so quickly this year, and they lost me for a fortnight of it. Guilt will not help me to parent them any more successfully–rather, it is almost certainly a hindrance.

Breathe, breathe, breathe.

The playground, today. Gabe’s friend remembering us despite the long break, and walking us home, after delighting Gabriel with his antics for the best part of an hour. (What does it say when another child remarks on my boy’s energy levels? He is so ALIVE, he is so beautiful.)

My precious, tempestuous girl, so far into puberty and adolescence now, so much a teenager in every way but actual years, wanting Squeezy, and letting me comfort her.

Being a 12-year-old girl is hard–I know, I remember, I can even now be tripped up by the things that happened when I was her age–I wish I didn’t empathise *quite* so much, some days. I worry that my empathy is sometimes excessive, and makes it worse for both of us… and yet. She let me do Squeezy, today. She let me help, when she was distressed, and she always has, really. Perhaps I’m not so terrible at being her mother.

It is typically easier with Gabriel, provided I have the energy to engage fully… but it’s just as rewarding, special, important, to interact with Naomi. I’m not trying to convince myself of that–I know it, in a way I know few other things–but I worry. If she ever finds this blog, what will she think?

The main thing I know of both my children, is that I love them more than my own life. Do they know it, though?

How many times have I said “worry” (or obliquely referred to my anxiety) in this one post? I should’ve made time for an entry yesterday, mayhap.

Breathe, breathe, breathe.

Go do a mindfulness. Don’t try to get out of your head–that’s where you live, and don’t you know it–but you can try for a little equanimity inside your head. Think (but not too deeply) about 2-3 weeks ago, and be grateful. This is imperfect, but it’s so much better than it was, and it will get even better again.

Breathe, breathe, breathe.

At this point in time, a little dip is to be expected.

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