Tag Archives: depression

Mental Health Update, August 2018, 5

27 Monday Aug 2018

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Better again, today, overall. The shadow of How I Felt Yesterday And The Day Before and the Day Before That, etc, is humming a sly, mocking tune under its breath, and I will have to stop and listen at some point (I know by now that it will trip me up, if I go too long without acknowledging what it has to say) but for now, I am safe. For now, I can breathe a little, and just take a day or two to feel like “myself”–the myself that is, for the most part, relatively content.

One good thing, I will write One Good Thing: Naomi and Gabriel, the play-acted scene where Spin was arrested. I imagine that makes no sense to anyone who wasn’t there; but I *was* there, and it’s worth a lot of misery and heartache and even some terror, just to hear them playing together.

You see, Amanda? You see. I am willing you to see.

Things always get worse, again–you won’t feel this peaceful forever–but then, they always get better, again.

Did you think, when she was 4 and had lost all her words, and he was 2 and had never so much as babbled “da” or “ma” that they would act out a scene, using full sentences and different voices and laughing with joy at each other’s antics? You didn’t dare hope, and yet, here it is.

It is objectively good, that your children enjoy each other’s company. Even when *you* don’t feel it, even when you’re too lost in your own despairing ruminations and unrelenting terrors to feel anything but pain, their relationship is A Good Thing.

And today, you lucky girl, you *could* feel it.

Mental Health Update, August 2018, 4

26 Sunday Aug 2018

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Better.

Not back to normal–unless we’re taking my “normal” as “moments and even minutes of relative calm, liberally interspersed with minutes and even hours of abject terror” and I hope that’s not my fate–but I *am* better, today.

Oh, ye gods, though. The sick upward spiral of nauseating fear, and the silent scream of despair as you start to come back down. I wish I had the words, just so I could talk myself out of being afraid of the sensation itself.

Still. I went to the mall, today, and it was crowded and awful and I still had fun, in between the moments of really NOT having fun. When the kids returned from their weekend at their dad’s, I kissed my son on the top of his head, and he asked me to tie the drawstring on his shorts which was an easy thing I could do to help him, and he made me laugh, some way or other. It is worth noting that he makes me smile every day, possibly more often than any other person on Earth. My daughter spoke to me (she spoke as her imaginary friend, in not-quite her natural voice) and she was playful and funny; and if I’m tempted to complain about her putting on a persona in order to speak, I should remember that there was a time when we never thought she’d speak at all, and now, she speaks in short sentences, responds to my sentences, and makes jokes. Also, she let me cuddle her, briefly.

My husband has made me laugh at least 3 times, today. I’m the sort of person who laughs dozens of times in a day, when I’m at my best… but 2 weeks ago, I was crying dozens of times in a day, and having panic attacks, besides. Nary a laugh to be seen.

Forward progress is being made, and that’s all we have; the hope that things will be a little better tomorrow, or will stay nice for a little while, when they are nice. I shall be 35, before this year is out. I thought I might not make it that far, at earlier points in my life (not to sound melodramatic, but it’s usually best to be honest) and just the realisation that I have, gives me a little hope and a little peace and a little desire to try a little longer.

Good Lord. Reading back that last sentence, I actually sound worse than I thought I was. The “anxiety,” though… that utter, awful, unrelenting terror of nothing and everything that they call “anxiety”. I do wonder if I’ll lose the battle against it, someday. (Again, I’m just being honest.)

But. But but but. I might lose the battle, but I haven’t today. I know it’s a cliché, but there it is: I am happy I’ve made it through one more day, a little calmer overall, and that’s enough, for now.

Mental Health Update, August 2018, 3

21 Tuesday Aug 2018

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How can it have only been 4 days since the last entry? It feels like a fortnight, and every second of it stressful.

Waiting for an assessment with the mental health team (not to be confused with the crisis team, who already saw me) and hoping for some long-term support. I’ve been so afraid of being thought of as weird for so long, I’ve avoided getting help and to some extent, let myself get to this state; at times, even been smug about it… I’m trying to get it sorted out now, but dear God, the waiting.

Will it always be like this? Will *this* feeling always be just around the corner?

To put it into perspective, though–it has been years since I’ve felt this terrified, for hours and days on end. It lasted about 3 weeks last time, before settling noticeably… awful as this is, I have to believe that if I can hang on a little longer, this, too, shall pass.

My Christian upbringing is showing, again. Well. There’s nothing wrong with that, as long as you don’t let your upbringing turn you into a dickhole.

Always a risk with me, but I’m trying my best.

Mental Health Update August 2018

13 Monday Aug 2018

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Just what it says on the tin.

I was doing so well. Volunteering with a suicide prevention helpline, making tentative plans to see actual people out in the actual world, had a mini-vacation with my husband and kids… now I’m spiralling. Down, not up, but not happy… just anxious.

I got 5 hours of sleep Saturday night, and less than 4 last night, despite being exhausted both nights. The real acid test is this, though: I couldn’t sleep right now, in broad daylight, with another adult in the house, despite being so tired I’ve had a fatigue headache since before going to sleep this morning (it was light outside before I dozed off, despite having been in bed for 5+ hours, at that point). I just can’t switch off enough to rest.

If it makes me feel any better (it does not) I have yet more evidence that social media is the trigger. I joined a large Facebook group about a week ago, and I’ve been more and more cheerful each day–as soon as I got some genuinely negative feedback in the group, eventually getting one of my posts removed (they disliked a pic I shared, despite it being a legitimate reference to the overarching theme of the group) I was ripping at my nails, crying a little bit, starting to hyperventilate, the whole 9 yards. I tried to move on; I engaged in what I thought was going to be a civil discussion on a friend’s FB Wall.

After a few opening comments were made (both by me, and by other people) some random suggested I “find something more productive to do with my time” rather than joining in a discussion between several of my friends, and someone I’ve known for the best part of a decade liked the comment.

The same guy (who has never met me, as far as I know) went on to call me self-righteous, a horrible person, not a real friend of my friend, etc, because….? I genuinely don’t know. I didn’t launch a single ad hominem attack at him, nor at anybody else.

I can’t understand why my “friend” would like me being bullied (that’s what it is, when someone singles just you out, tells you to leave the conversation that’s open to everyone, and then starts hurling abuse at you). I don’t understand what to do about it.

Yes, I do. It’s just hard. Wish me luck.

Robert Wright…

30 Saturday Jun 2018

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…is my go-to, out of a large-ish group of current intellectuals who debate everything from the implications of particle physics, to whether or not religion is good, bad, or indifferent, to the trajectory of society in general.

I’m currently reading his book (shortlisted for a Pulitzer–fancy!) “The Evolution of God,” and I watch one of his talks more or less daily. To date, this is still my favourite Robert Wright talk, not least of all because it covers a subject I enjoyed learning about during my psychology degree… maybe more important to me personally, I think reminders of ways we can work towards a better world are darn useful, when my depression is bad.

Robert Wright’s “NonZero Sum Game Talk”

It’s 20 minutes of your life you’ll be glad you spared–he’s clever, amusing, not bad-looking, and because he himself is not wildly optimistic by nature, his optimism feels more accessible to someone like me.

I hope it’s accessible to someone like you, as well.

Update: Marriage Soon

15 Sunday Oct 2017

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Before I talk about my new guy, a little background:

At the start of this year, I was with a guy who blacked my eye the week before Christmas, who continually made snide comments about my children, who regularly believed the very worst interpretations of my actions, who shouted at me and belittled me virtually every time I had the audacity to disagree with him… I remember lying on his couch, so many afternoons in January and February (because I was too lonely and unhappy to lie in the bed with him at night, so I was trying to get sleep during the day, sometimes skipping lectures at uni to do so) and listening to this song on repeat:

All I wanted, was someone who made me feel that way–someone who would feel that way about me. It sounds macabre, but this was the only song that would settle me, late last year/early this year. It was the only adequate lullaby, for sadness like mine… and you can call that maudlin purple prose if you want, because it is maudlin purple prose–it’s also true.

Then–I swear to all the gods that ever were–in February, on Valentine’s Day no less, my stepdad killed himself. Fella-who-hates-my-kids came to the States to hold my hand and whatnot, and he *loved* my sister’s (neurotypical, or near enough) kids. It just drove the point home, in a way I could no longer ignore–kid-hater didn’t hate ALL kids, he just hated MINE.

Because they’re autistic. Like that’s *their* fault.

I had no idea what to do, or how to feel, to be honest with you. But I came home from the States feeling closer to filling my pockets full of stones and walking into the ocean than I have in years. I spent 2 weeks, again, listening to the Death Cab song on repeat, pining for my kids while I was at uni, and trying not to think about the asshole lying in bed in the other room.

Then–at some friends’ Stag and Hen Night–a miracle occurred.

Back in the Saddle/Blogging for Mental Health

29 Monday May 2017

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So. Here I go again, on my own, etc etc.

If anyone’s been following me, they’ll know that I’ve largely been Missing-in-Action (MIA) for a while, now. If they’ve paid enough attention, they’ll even know the why behind the MIA-ness: I’ve been at university, full-time, and it has been really difficult, as well as extraordinarily time-consuming.

Of course, in what spare time I have had, I’ve been going through men like hotcakes (i.e. I’ve started 3 and finished 2 relationships) as well as neglecting my children wherever possible.

That last bit isn’t true. It’s how I feel, because I’m a bit flat today. If I’ve done anything right, consistently, over the last decade, it’s looking out for those 2… thank all the gods that ever were, they’re such *happy* kids. I was much less happy, during my childhood.

At the time, this may have been something to do with all the shouting and occasional hitting and general instability of my childhood, rather than any intrinsic fault in me–the damage is done now, though. There’s only so much happiness I’ll achieve; and I can say that with some confidence, as I’m coming to the end of a degree in Applied Psychology. What can you do?

Make sure your kids have a better childhood than you did, is the answer. And I have… thus far, anyway. We’ll see how puberty goes, for them. If they can come through that without any major dysfunction, I can die relatively at peace.

Not that I’m saying I’ll cause my own death, or anything like that. Just making the point that when the end comes, it’ll be nice if I’ve got something I can say I actually achieved.

In an effort to encourage more achievement and less wallowing, I’m going to start journaling for mental health (which is a thing, apparently, with some evidence to back it up).

Well, who knew. Letting things out in a neutral environment, rather than holding them in ad nauseam, can be beneficial to your mental health.

The answer is, of course; I did. I knew. And I *still* let myself get so bad, again…

Anyways. Like the title says, I’m back in the saddle, now.

Fingers crossed I don’t fall off.

Is It Me?

03 Thursday Dec 2015

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A weird thing just happened (or it might be me, I really can’t tell)…

I went to bed with someone last night (not for sex, although I was fairly grope-y and stroke-y and whatnot) and me, I just couldn’t really properly sleep, and I was (in my half-asleep state) being what was probably overly cuddly and a bit too talkative.

I can see how they might not appreciate that. Makes perfect sense to me. Seems completely fair, right?

So I ask them, at several points when I think I’m disturbing them, “Do you want me to go in the other room?” and variations on, “Sorry, doing it again, should I stop?”

And they answer with several variations on, “No, it’s fine, just don’t expect me to reciprocate because I’m sleeping,” (fair, I thought) and also, “No, don’t go in the other room, stay here,” and at least 2 or 3 times, “No, it’s nice.”

So, about half an hour ago, I realize I’ve started talking again, and I ask if we can swap sides in bed (I’m now back-achey and wanting to cater to my sciatica) and they do–way too quickly, and I think, shit, for all their naysaying, they are awake, I am keeping them up, gotta be quieter/sleepier/whatever, and so I proceed to do that.

I ask them a question a few minutes later (because I’m starting to drift off, finally, and unfortunately I sometimes start to talk as I’m relaxing into sleep–so do they, come to think of it….) and they give a kind of snappy answer and I think, alright, fair, I get it, but I also make some half-jokey reference to them being like a drug (so, like, I can’t help myself, right?) and which point they really sharply go, “I don’t care,” (as if they can’t tell it’s a joke, maybe? or they’re just not in the mood, which is fair enough too) and then a few minutes later (out of nowhere–I’ve been completely silent since then, I’m again just starting to drift off) they announce, “It really HAS got to stop now, it’s time for sleep,” and I go, “….I’m not doing anything…?”

And they go, “Well I’m going in the other room now.”

“….but…. I’m not doing anything…?”

“Well, I just require coolness and space.”

Giving it’s one way to get it, I suppose.

The thing that makes it all a bit off, for me, is that literally last night–like, an hour before going to bed?–I said to them, “You have to make peace with the idea that I don’t always sleep well, I’m an insomniac, and sometimes, you’ll just have to let me go in the other room, so you can sleep,” and they were all, “No, once we’re in bed you must STAY in bed, I want the cuddling,” etc etc, and I was laughing a little, but I thought they were more or less serious (all the more so, when I kept offering to go in the other room and let them sleep, and they said no repeatedly)….

…so to me, that means they a) perceive being left in the middle of the night as some sort of rejection or slight, and b) they intentionally did that to me, rather than “let” me do that to them…

….and I dunno, I just feel that’s not on. A dozen conversations, more, we’ve had about this, over the last year or so, about it being okay to pet them and snuggle them in the middle of the night, about how they prefer that to sleeping alone, the last of which took place LAST NIGHT RIGHT BEFORE BED….

…and then they stormed out of the room after telling me I was fine, and left me wondering what I did wrong, wide awake (well you would be, wouldn’t you, if you’d finally started to get to sleep and then the person you had your arm draped over–which is often how you sleep with this person, who actually asked you if you’d mind spooning them at the start of the night, rather than the other way ’round–suddenly shot up and snapped at you and huffed out, huffed back in again to retrieve something, and then went to their room) and, let’s be completely honest, crying because I suddenly felt in the wrong… after checking all night (and many times previously) that what I was doing was okay.

What makes it worse is that this person pretty regularly does this (or something like it) when they’ve got something other than me to look forward to (dinner this evening with an old friend, and I have to leave town this afternoon) and so it begins to look like they don’t mind my (admittedly excessive)  levels of attention when they’re alone and without plans, but as soon as they’ve got something on, I’m too clingy/needy/in-your-face…

…I can’t, can I? I can’t be with someone who finds me indispensable and irreplaceable and mostly charming, right up until they have something else to do. As far as self-esteem goes, I’m just asking to have mine gradually eroded.

Aren’t I?

The Amanda Show, Episode 2

01 Sunday Nov 2015

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So. That was said to me, several months ago now, and anytime I feel a little worthless or down, I use that as a stick to beat myself with: “Of course no one’s invited you this weekend, why do you expect them to?–it’s not always The Amanda Show. Of course your semi-friends/acquaintances didn’t recognise you in the shop, even though you recognized all 3 of them, even the one you’ve only met twice–I mean, why should they recognize you, it’s not like it’s The Amanda Show. Of course no one’s replied to your emails about your uni assignment, why should they, they all have lives, and just because you’re doing group work doesn’t mean it’s The Amanda Show.” On and on and on it goes, until I can barely assert myself even when I know… I mean, I’m 90% sure… I mean, I’m fairly certain… I mean, is it even possible I could be in the right? Maybe not. I’ll just stop talking. It’s not always The Amanda Show, after all.

When it happened, I told someone what had been said to me (someone who, at the time, I considered one of my closest friends–someone who I thought loved me) and I’m pretty sure they laughed. (Can’t be completely sure, it was a FB chat.) Last week, we were talking about… oh, let’s call it the differences in our perspectives on morality… and this is how one part of the conversation went:

Me: The point’s not whether or not ____ could stick around forever, it’s that he doesn’t twist everything to be my fault, as if none of the other people involved have any say in it. You try to pretend I’m the one calling all the shots, and it’s just not the case

Them: It isn’t always the Amanda show.
Do those words, from a fairly objective place, not haunt you?

From a fairly objective place. A woman who’s several years older than me, who’s just gained a lot of weight while I’ve lost a bit, who’s very ill and understandably jealous of people who are not, who wants to be up on a stage again but who doesn’t have the energy, who remembers what sex was like and thinks she’ll never have it again (whereas I do, admittedly, have it fairly often with some of my friends)… this is an “objective” place? (She also spends a lot of time chatting to my friends, including some of the ones I sleep with, but not really to me, so… she’s not even possibly going to be “on my side” really, is she?) First of all, who could see her opinion as “objective”?

And secondly, how can that even be an objective thing to say? “Your own life is not about you. Stop living it as if it is. Don’t…” (well here I get stuck, since I genuinely don’t know what it is I’m supposed to do–sleep with fewer people? Do it, but don’t be so open about it? Don’t talk when I’m in a group?–although the very person who said it, once *also* made the statement, “I can see why people fall for you, because I’m talking absolute drivel right now, and you’re looking at me like I’m the most fascinating person in the world”–so I’m guessing I do an alright job of listening to other people talk…)

Objective, huh? In the vernacular of Inigo Montoya, you keep using this word, but I do not think it means what you think it means.

I’m uploading pictures from a night out, right now. It was meant to be my early birthday (because I’m in lectures on my actual birthday, and the closest weekend to my birthday, the day after my birthday, we’re going to someone else’s birthday weekend) and every time I go to upload a picture of myself, I stop and think, “Is this too many? Will this one make it too much? Are there other people in the shot with me? It’s not always The Amanda Show, and it wasn’t even *really* my birthday…” (a fact which I kept apologising for, and when someone else had “Happy Birthday” sung to them by the bar staff, one of my friends wanted to have the same done for me, but I begged him not to, because I hate having a roomful of people looking at me and it’s not even my birthday anyway; but I might’ve borne it with good grace and just felt a little awkward, if I hadn’t already been thinking we were spending too much time on The Amanda Show…)

It took me years to get to the point where I could take a selfie and upload it, like, without taking 50 and picking the best one (I still do a bit of weeding out the worst ones). Getting to the point where I didn’t die of embarrassment to see my make-up smudged, or a little belly bulge, or my hair looking a bit dirty… that took years. I’m still not comfortable having my picture taken–but I’m *also* not comfortable with the fact that, most of the time, I feel utterly out of place and far from home and as if one of these things is not like the others/one of these things just doesn’t belong… I’m trying to ground myself, trying to put myself into some sort of group, trying to form some sort of attachment to my surroundings, trying to make a habitat where I feel like I can live and grow and be happy, and now, I feel like I’m completely in the wrong for that.

In the end, I took fewer pictures of everyone than I normally would. I usually always have my phone out, I’m constantly getting group shots and selfies with people, and I DID have a few bursts of that, but… I just couldn’t do it, last night. Not like I usually do. I mean, someone had set up a tabletop game for me, and it wasn’t even my birthday. Someone else wanted to get the bar staff to sing to me, and it wasn’t even my birthday. Someone else bought me a drink, and I tried to refuse, because it’s not even my real birthday (in the end he said, “Aye but we’re celebrating your birthday now, what’re you having?” and I did)… and I had a good night, because lots of my friends got up and sang, and they were all surprisingly good (except one of our friends, who we all know has the voice of an angel, no one was surprised by her bringing the house down) but I was also constantly talking myself down, reminding myself that it’s not all about me (we were meant to be out for my birthday, I repeat again…) and if I thought people didn’t want pictures or video taking I just stopped, I didn’t ask for clarification or go take a photo of someone else or whatever, I just put my phone away.

And I tried so hard to smile and be friendly and go along with everyone else, and when a drunk acquaintance kept wanting to kiss me I’d give him a hug and a peck, and when my friends were onstage I cheered and danced (so nervous dancing in public!) and when another friend was sat down with back pain I offered her some painpills (non-prescription) I had in my bag… and all I can think now, while trying to get the pictures on FB, is how many can I upload, before it looks like all I do is take pictures of myself? How many of my own face am I… allowed?… to add, before it’s The Amanda Show, and all I care about is myself?