Tag Archives: depression

The Amanda Show, Episode 1

27 Tuesday Oct 2015

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A few months ago, in the middle of what I perceived as a traumatic event (a relationship breaking up, I thought because the other party wanted it to) someone made this statement to me:

“I love you, but you have to remember, it’s not always The Amanda Show.”

The person who said that does *not* love me–she knows me a little, and largely disapproves of my living a life that actually looks a bit similar to hers, but LESS self-centred–but more than that, she doesn’t even know me enough to understand how those words would hit me.

End of 2011, I went through a bad patch. By which I mean, I was past the point of wondering if I should kill myself, and planning it out as carefully as I could. In the end, a few things stopped me (as they always do, for people who genuinely want their pain to stop but don’t manage to do it): 1, I was the primary carer for my very young children, at the time, and although I was *pretty* sure they’d be better off without me anyway, I still held out a little hope that that was just my depression talking; 2, even if I *did* think they’d be better off without me, I didn’t want them to find me (I didn’t think THAT would do their little psyches any good–better for me to just disappear, rather than them finding Mommy unresponsive in a pool of blood); and 3, I wasn’t sure whether I needed to take them with me.

I know how that sounds, obviously. It’s the ugliest thought in the world, but… I mean, they were so little and helpless, and I was clearly their favourite person out of all the other people in their lives, though I couldn’t see why… so yeah, I was struggling with the, “Well it’s wrong to kill them, but they’re SO young to be without their mother, and I’m not sure how much longer I can stick around….?” –and then of course, I started taking some medication (just a basic anti-depressant and an anti-anxiety med) and within a month, less I think, I was looking back at that and thinking, “Oh Jesus CHRIST what was wrong with me, how could I have even…?????”

Fast forward a couple of years, and I’m trying to make up for lost time. On my good days, I take the kids out (sometimes spending more money than I have, further racking up debt I can just about afford to pay off in another 30 years, no I’m not exaggerating there) and we do as much as we can, before I just can’t do any more.

When I’m with my friends, it’s much the same; I will pick up the bar tab, if I can, and cover someone’s meal, if I can, and I will get my partner to give lifts and lend out my sofa and spare room and do whatever is possible, to get as many of us as possible, all in the same place, having a good time.

And for all of it, I am the undisputed *queen* of the camera phone. This year alone, I managed to fill 4 separate folders (kept on my desktop, sloppy I know) all with at least 200 pictures in them, of us all just out having normal friendship days. That’s not counting the folders full of pics of the kids; although there are probably less of those, since I’m happier to push adults to let me take pics, than I am to push my (still semi-non-verbal, autistic) children. In a number of the photos, I am front and centre, grinning a pretty unattractively toothy grin, make-up on, pushed into a good bra and wearing colours that suit me and doing everything I can, to make it look like, on that day, I was happy and I had a good time and there were people around me that love me.

Is that what’s meant by “The Amanda Show”? My admittedly unending need for people to show me signs of affection, and, where possible, to have it documented? “On this day in 2015, from approximately 21:30 to midnight, Amanda was in a pub surrounded by people she knows, who are all smiling and laughing and some are even posing for selfies with her, and even though she’s at the edge of the group and struggles to talk to more than 1-2 people at a time and she’s so drunk she’d have trouble standing if she closed her eyes, hey, she looks happy” (and even though I know that I was probably a little too drunk–I *am* drunk, or I’m not laughing and smiling, in a large group–I still feel a little better, looking at a photo like that)… is that what they mean?

Is it as simple as the fact that if I’m sleeping with someone and they suggest I sleep with someone else, I usually do it? Is that what they mean by “The Amanda Show”? But… I mean… I’m openly polyamorous, so why would that surprise anyone…? And actually, the person who made the comment has had A LOT more dick than I have, and you know what? I think that’s great, more power to them. But unfairness gets to me. I genuinely don’t understand why it’s okay for one person to have multiple lovers but not another–how can someone accuse me of being a narcissist for engaging in behaviour that they themselves engage in?

Also. I am a person who has to be drunk (are you seeing a theme here…) to get up and sing karaoke with a friend (I have literally never sung on my own, in front of people, since reaching adulthood) and this is a person who made their living on stage, for a while (not on a proper stage, I mean they did a sort of entertainer-at-Butlins style job, but even so). I mean. That’s an ACTUAL show. This person left their child with grandparents to travel around singing onstage when the kid was 14 or so–I’m currently suffering the tortures of the damned being away from my kids 3 days a week, to try to get a university degree, to eventually make my kids’ lives better–and I’m the one who’s obsessed with my own personal show?

I just don’t get it, I don’t understand. I mean, I get that the person who said it is unwell (seriously unwell, think of a bunch of life-threatening illnesses and it’s one of those) and may well have been high when making the statement (morphine is not the friend of cognition) and maybe it just sounded glib and amusing in the moment, because I *was* fairly upset over a romance gone wrong (and I have a long-term partner, and it was not that relationship that was going wrong, and polyamory is not widely accepted, evidently, even by people who practice it themselves….).

But for me. For someone who spends every day feeling useless, ill-equipped to deal with life, for someone who’s grabbing onto as many lifelines as she can (because *I* have a life-threatening illness too, it’s just that no one believes depressed people are in any real danger until they actually kill themselves) to be told that, actually, she’s taking up too much space and other people’s time and energy… I mean…

Is it *not* always the Amanda Show–in the same way that your show is the Whatever-Your-Name-Is Show, and everyone is the star of their own show, etc etc–just, how am I supposed to take that? “You have to remember, it’s not always The Amanda Show.”

What does that even mean? It means… stop talking about myself? Stop asking for help with my problems? Stop taking multiple lovers? (I was with 2 men at the time, not a hundred, not that it even matters; but if you’re stuck off uni for a year due to a registration cock-up and both the guys work full-time and your kids go to school full-time and EVERYONE is getting on with their lives except you, for the moment, it’s not inconceivable that you can give a reasonable amount of love and attention to 2 other people.)

I don’t know how it was meant, but I know how I took it. I took it as someone telling me that my entire life (aka The Amanda Show) had run for too long, and should just be taken off the air.

Daft Poetry

20 Friday Jun 2014

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I’m currently sitting here in my under-things. The house is too hot and no one in the Northeast of England has air conditioning (including me) but that’s not really the reason… really, the reason I’m sat here, half-dressed, is because I can’t be bothered to put the rest of my clothes on.

Or do much else.

However, when I woke up this morning (because I just could not do any more sleeping–and may I just say, 12 hours of sleep is ludicrous, both in general, and in the specific) and went to lie down on the couch (I shit you not) this little bastardization of, “Green Eggs and Ham” was bouncing around inside my brain. As far as I know, in spite of all the rip-offs of that poem in the world, this one is mine:

I do not like this wonky brain,
I do not like it in the rain,
I do not like it in the sun;
It is not fun for anyone.

I do not like it with the meds,
They make me less fun in the beds.
I like it even less without,
Without, I rant and cry and shout.

I do not like this panic attack,
It makes me tend to over-snack,
I do not like this mood that lags,
I do not like these crying jags.

I do not like these sleepless nights,
But the sleepful ones just don’t feel right.
I do not like my crazy brain,
I wish that I could just be sane.

And there you have it. What I woke up feeling like, today… while off my meds.

Mood Diary–A Recent Entry!

12 Thursday Jun 2014

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This started out as a mood diary entry from a couple of days ago, but once I got into the swing of it, I altered it a little for public consumption.

The fact that I even need to *do* a Mood Diary tells me a lot about how this individual affects me; I’ve been regulating my moods without the help of a diary for over a year, now. (By the by–I originally began using the diary not long after “meeting” this guy… again, this tells me a lot. Anyways, the entry:

Mood–a 4, maybe. Alternating between wanting to cry, and wanting to strangle someone with my bare hands.

Mostly the latter, to be fair.

I’ve just been advised (by someone who continually paints me as the villain of his entire life, up to the point of blaming me–someone he’s only ever “met” online–for his poor performance at university, his insomnia, his mood swings, etc etc) not to give in to Karpman Drama Triangles, in which he’s cast as the perpetrator, I as the victim, and my fella as the rescuer/hero.

It’s the hypocrisy that gets me with him, every time.

How can someone who’s blamed me for everything from their life-long insomnia to their recent academic performance actually have the gall to accuse me of casting them as a scapegoat?

In fairness, he has an ASD; and since he refuses to talk about it, get coping strategies for it, or even acknowledge it (even to his healthcare providers) I understand that his mind blindness and lack of self-awareness will be at crazy heights. Additionally, his skills at projection are unparalleled–there’s nothing he won’t accuse someone of, if he’s done it himself. And I get it, at least in theory; if you won’t even glance at yourself, there’s no way you can notice the details of what you look like or how you behave. In practice… I don’t get how anyone can be so blind.

Me, I look at him, and I see what I could have become, if I refused to take responsibility for my actions, refused to accept my own social awkwardness, refused to acknowledge that sometimes I get the wrong end of the stick (and if I were blisteringly, eternally angry about my situation, AND thought it was someone’s fault but never mine)… the one good thing about meeting this person is, and always has been, that he illustrates very clearly the potential flaws in my personality, and gives me excellent examples of how not to behave.

(And after this point, I’d realized I was going to post:)

That, and sometimes he’s so ridiculous, you can’t help but laugh at him. My sense of humour has saved me from despair more times than I can count.

Anyways, I think I’ll be posting about this guy a few more times. In the interests of protecting his privacy (he once threatened to sue someone because they’d told me he has an ASD) I’m going to give him a pseudonym. Henceforth, in my blog, he shall be known as “Peevin’ Larvae”.

That’s because he’s always peeved about something, and he’s emotionally stunted, ergo, a larva; but he has mood swings so often, the plural makes more sense. So. Peevin’ Larvae. More on him to come soon… I might do a comic strip, if I can figure out a way to condense one of his 2-page-long monologues into 4 or 5 sentences.

And if I learn how to draw. Lol.

PS In a Karpman Drama Triangle, I’d cast myself as the rescuer, just for the record. It’s something I’m working on.

http://coachingsupervisionacademy.com/thought-leadership/the-karpman-drama-triangle/

Depression Poem (from long ago)

05 Thursday Jun 2014

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I wrote the original version of this poem when I was… 13? 14?… before my first religious flip-out, anyway. Before I became frightened of using biblical imagery and metaphor, and when I still thought King David was an aspirational historical figure.

Those days may be long gone, but I’m glad my memory of the poem survives enough for me to create a passable, new version of it.

God I used to be cheery.

Mothers weep on days like this,
When the house is empty and the heart is dark,
And no little children run out to play,
Mothers weep on days like this.

Fathers rage on days like this,
When there’s rain aplenty, but nowhere an ark,
When there’s nothing to do and less to say,
Fathers rage on days like this.

Children cry on days like this,
When the sky is black and the heart is blue,
And the stories of monsters turn out to be true,
Children cry on days like this.

Will I ever give up on a day like this?
When my feet are stuck in the miry clay,
And the cavalry’s not coming over the hill,
And nobody’s going to save the day?

I may.

But not today.

If you’ve got a good name for it, please, I would welcome your suggestions. Super-Depressing-Poem-with-Biblical-Imagery is about the best I’ve come up with, on my own… that’s a *bit* of a mouthful.

Really Not Quick Description of Depression–Part 3

31 Saturday May 2014

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And then one day, the butterflies are gone. The next day, the bee’s disappeared. The day after that, the flowers have all died, and the day after that, the sun stops shining. It doesn’t shine for a week, 2 weeks, 3 weeks, and then one day you go to look outside again, and and the window’s gone. Then the door. Then all the furnishings and electronics and books and music and everything else disappears from your house, which has somehow shrunk to 1 room. In that room, you sit on the floor, with no blanket or pillow, and it’s okay, you’re not cold anyway. You’re not anything. All your food tastes like water and dry bread, or not even like water and dry bread, but that’s okay too, you’re not really hungry. That person there, holding your hand, at least you still have them, and you remember when you cared and were grateful and loved them the way they seem to love you, but you can’t feel it anymore. You can’t feel anything. And slowly, you stop hearing them when they talk; you have earplugs in, permanent ones. Soon, their features start to blur. You realize you’re wearing sunglasses, in an already dimly-lit house, but you can’t take them off. And eventually, you realize you’re walking through water, and it’s okay, because apparently you can breathe under water, or you don’t need to breathe anymore, and some part of you is academically aware that that ought to be the coolest thing that’s ever happened to you, but since taking 5 steps from the couch to the computer–when the computer’s even visible, to you–is too much effort, and you’re sleeping 14 hours a night anyway, you can’t really muster any enthusiasm. And one day, you realize 3 months have passed since you stayed awake for more than 10 hours in a row, since you laughed at a joke, since you made love with your partner, since you did anything other than exist… and after a month of telling yourself not to, you come off the meds.

A week passes, maybe 2, and all of a sudden, you look at that person who holds your hand and you think, “I love you.” This is magic, this is heaven. Another week or 2, and in spite of a dozen mood swings and an episode of self-harming, you feel better than ever. You can hear music again. Your food tastes like whatever it is, not dry bread and warm water. Your chairs and couch and bed and tv all reappear, and you know exactly what you want to do with each of them–you sit in the chairs and talk, really talk, to the hand-holder, and you lie on the couch and snuggle them or watch dvds, and in bed, you do all kinds of stuff you haven’t done in half a year or more, and you record half a dozen things to watch on the tv because it’s all so INTERESTING. Maybe you even start writing a blog, or a book, or you start taking night classes in something you’ve always wanted to do, or you join a gym or get married or take a vacation to the Bahamas. Whatever you do, you can FEEL yourself doing it, and it feels good.

And one day, you go to your back door, and you walk through and onto your patio like there’s nothing to it. You bring some orange juice and a bagel, you sit outside in your dressing gown in the sun and you just ARE. And even without your partner, you’re okay. Better than okay. You’re great. When a butterfly lands on the back of your hand and has a sniff of your juice, you’re careful not to damage it’s wings, and by the time you’ve finished your breakfast and wandered back inside your house to get dressed, you feel invincible. It’s the best time of your life, and it’s made all the better by the memory of what came before. Your mornings on the patio are resumed, and you are pathetically grateful for every precious day you spend sitting in the sun.

And then, one day, you go outside… and you have this feeling. A feeling like you’re being watched, and you don’t know how, but you know the intruder means you harm… and you realize you have 2 choices. Live in constant terror, unable to function in any meaningful way, or live underwater, completely cut off from everyone else, unable to relate to anyone in any meaningful way.

And suddenly you realize that this is your life. Forever and ever, amen. And there is nothing, absolutely nothing, you can do about it.

(THE END)

Really Not Quick Description of Depression–Part 2

30 Friday May 2014

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When you wake up the next day, for one brief moment, you are glad the sun is up. You think you can hear your little honeybee buzzing, and you’re sure you can feel the butterflies’ wings on your arm… And the sun is so bright, it should be giving off heat, but it doesn’t, and it just keeps getting brighter. Soon, you can’t close your eyes, or you DO close them but it makes no difference, the sun is beating down mercilessly and it’s so BRIGHT, and suddenly your head is pounding from the light, but you’re still freezing, and the flowers are giving you an asthma attack and you can’t breathe, you cannot breathe, your chest is heaving like a 3rd rate porn star’s and your body’s trembling with the effort but no oxygen’s getting in, your lungs are on fire, and no, no, oh God, the butterflies are UNDER your skin, they’re underneath your skin, they’re inside you, the sickening beat of their wings is terrifying, and as they itch and tickle and nauseate your nerve endings, as they sicken you down to your bones you realize you can hear the bee again, but it’s not 1 bee, it’s an entire hive, and they
keep getting louder and louder and you realize that the pounding in your ears isn’t your own heartbeat, it’s a swarm of bees and they’re inside your skull, you can hear them and they’re so loud your eardrums are bleeding and they must have ruptured but you can still hear the swarm, oh God it sounds like they’re going to sting you to death, and you fall to your knees and beat at the air and shake your head and froth at the mouth like a rabid dog and, weeping uncontrollably, you fall into the fetal postition and rock back and forth and try to clutch your head, and your stomach, and your arms and legs, all at once because every part of you feels violently ill, you feel like your guts are full of gnawing insects and if you could just vomit your insides up maybe you’d feel better, or if you could scratch your sun-blinded eyes out, or poke out your eardrums with a knitting needle to make the insects stop buzzing inside your ears… and if you’re very, very lucky, at some point someone sees you like this, weeping in psychic pain, and they grab you and stuff a pill into your mouth, and you fall asleep.

The next day, when you wake up, it’s awful. The sun’s still so bright it hurts your eyes, and there’s a swarm of pissed-off bees flying around your head, and the angriest group of butterflies you’ve ever seen keep flying into your mouth/eyes/hair, and you can barely breathe from the overwhelming stink of flowers… and then it hits you. You can breathe, just a little, just enough to get by. And the insects, they’re outside your head again. And the sun, it’s painfully bright, but not blindingly so. And the intruder–you can see him. He’s standing across the street, too far for you to make out his features (which is scary, because you know you won’t recognize him the next time he gets close) and he’s watching you, and you know he doesn’t like you AT ALL, but he’s just holding his ground. He’s not advancing, and he’s definitely not skulking around waiting for his chance to attack. And maybe, if you’re very lucky, someone is sitting there, on the patio with you, holding your hand; and even though you know they can’t see or hear the insects, and they think the sun is fine, and the
flowers as well, you love them more than your own life, for sitting out there and braving this with you. And when they offer you the little/large white/blue/green/yellow pill, you take it, and you almost manage to smile at them, and you hope everything’s going to be okay again.

And slowly, things improve. After 3 or 4 pills, the sun dims just a little, and you can barely smell the flowers. 3 or 4 more, and the bees have all gone, aside from the original pollinator. You’re even thinking about making friends, again. The butterflies have backed off, and they seem to realize that you’re a little delicate, because they’re not landing on you, but they’re flying close enough to let you know they’re there. A few more pills, and the intruder looks at you, sighs, and starts walking away; you know he might be saying, “Next time, Gadget!” or similar inside his head, but at least that means that *this* time is over, and you’ve defeated him for now, and you can relax, just a little, just for the moment. Eventually, the door to your house reappears, and you go back inside, and you resume your mornings on the patio, maybe a little scarred, a little permanently hesitant, but essentially content.

Nothing tangible has changed, but you can handle your life again. So you keep taking the magic pills, and for a while, you’re actually happy. And when happy tapers off to content, that’s fine too. Every life, a little rain, blah blah blah, and this isn’t even rain, this is just a day that’s a little overcast. It’s fine. Everything is very, very fine. And so you keep taking the pills, because you remember with suicidal clarity what it was like just before you started taking them.

And then one day, you go to the back door, and it won’t open. The sun is shining, the 1 bee is pollinating, the butterflies are fluttering, the flowers are blooming, but you can’t get outside. But, hey. Who needs to go outside? Not you. You remember how bad it got, that one time, and you decide that looking out a window at nature is nearly as good as being outside in nature. Your daily mornings on the patio become your daily mornings looking out the window, and that’s fine.

Everything is just fine.

(TBC)

Really Not Quick Description of Depression–Part 1

28 Wednesday May 2014

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I’m going to try to describe depression, now. ‘Depressed’ is a word that gets bandied around a lot, and although it’s a valid title for a lot of things, there’s a huge difference between what some shrinks call “reactive depression” and “clinical depression”. I used to have the one (and it was treatable, even curable, with more social contact and eating better and getting more rest and exercising and developing coping mechanisms). Now I have the other (and it’s treatable with medication, but never curable, and eventually the medication goes too far and puts me right back into the place I started out). Hence the need for an explanation… so here goes.

Life, with all its activities and places to go and things to do, is like a sunny backyard patio. There are some flowers around, in pots, with maybe the odd honeybee pollinating them, and a few butterflies fluttering about, and the day is mild and bright and although nothing’s particularly right or wrong, everything’s pretty peaceful. And even if the sky gets a little dark, or some rain falls, or the butterflies go away for a bit, or you maybe get stung by a bee, it’s okay, because, well, it just is. Into each life a little rain must fall, and all that jazz. And you’re a reasonably mature individual, you take some time looking after your own mental health, and so you understand that just because you’re not happy in the moment, that’s alright, that’s normal, that’s the way life is, and after all, how could you appreciate the good without the bad? (You obviously speak to yourself in clichés, just like me.) And everything is more or less fine.

One day, though. One day, you wake up and walk outside to your patio, and there’s just… a feeling that you can’t place. A feeling like someone’s watching you; here, in your safe, private backyard, where no one should be able to get in, there’s an intruder. And you don’t know how you know, but you know they mean you harm. You try to ignore them, maybe back slowly into your house, out of the light and into deeper, lockable safety, behind closed doors and bolted windows, but your back door slams shut before you can reach it, and then it just disappears. Your house is still there, but there’s no way in, it’s just 4 walls and 1 tiny window that’s big enough to show you all the things that used to be yours, but it’s nowhere near big enough for you to crawl through, and get back inside to safety. For just a moment, amidst the rising tide of panic, you are so, so profoundly sad for the loss of your things, yourself, that you forget to be frightened.

But all too soon, you realize you can hear the intruder again. You KNOW he is out there, creeping around in the woods, maybe climbing up the side of the house to pounce on you from the roof. You try to think of some way to fend him off, but you know you are ill-equipped, and any fight you get into, he’ll win. With no warning, the sky grows dark, and it’s so cold, the 1 lone bee and his butterfly friends have all flown away; and then hours pass, and eventually, from sheer exhaustion, you fall asleep, right there on the concrete floor of your patio, and you pray that the sun will come up as normal the next day. You’re not asking for much–you’re not even trying to get back into your house yet, because you know that’s impossible–but you’ll settle, and gladly, for a few hours in the sun, where you’re not being stalked by a stealthy, murderous trespasser. You fall asleep shaking, and even you can’t tell if it’s from terror or cold or maybe it’s God punishing you.

(TBC)

Soothed(?) by Song

26 Monday May 2014

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Still not time for total darkness and despair. I promise, I promise, I’ll get to it soon enough… in the meantime, though…

So, I think I’m gonna kill myself. Cause a little suicide…

That’s a line (2 lines?) from a song, if you didn’t know. An old song, I guess. Older than me, anyway, and I feel pretty old at 30. Old enough to feel so past it there’s no point in trying anymore, and old enough to feel like I’m *already*–at the age of 30–taking more than I give back. I feel old–or useless, or hopeless, or pointless, or careless–enough to think maybe I should just stop trying altogether. Do one last thing and do it right, by taking 100 paracetamol (acetaminophen), or jumping in front of a high-speed train, or getting into a hot bath and cutting myself open from wrists to elbows.

Listening to the above song helps, actually, and I can give a possible explanation for that. I read once that every time you say something, your subconscious tells you the opposite (because it’s a contrary little bastard that only exists to contradict everything it hears–hey, maybe I’m actually the subconscious of some larger, multi-celled organism, and that’s why I’m such a douchebag….). Anyways, your subconscious:

So, you say: “Hmm, I fancy going to see ‘American Hustle’.”
Your subconscious goes: “What about ‘The Smurfs 2’?”

You say: “I’m not really hungry, I had a late lunch.”
Your subconscious goes: “I don’t know, those ribs smell pretty good.”

You say: “I don’t know what to do, I think I might end it all.”
Your subconscious rolls its eyes and goes: “Oh, who are you kidding?”

And in the end, I sort of agree with my subconscious, because it’s just so relentless. It just will not give up. It keeps insisting whatever it’s insisting, and I’m in no fit state to argue, really, at least not at the minute, and so in the end, I just give in.

Me: “I guess things are okay, really.”
Subconscious: “Mmm, I didn’t say THAT exactly.”

Me: “Yeah, but there’s nothing really wrong….”
Subconscious: “There’s ALWAYS *something* wrong.”

Me, defeated: “So I guess I should just kill myself?”
Subconscious, smugly: “Oh, who are you kidding.”

*sigh* I give up.

Or do I?

More About Depression–A Less-Quick Intro

21 Wednesday May 2014

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I’m depressed.  Now, before you go reading ANYTHING into that, let me clarify.

Every day, I am so grateful for so many things in my life, I don’t have enough toes and fingers to count them on.  By contrast, I can count all the things that are *really* disappointing in my life on one hand, probably with a spare digit or two left over.  I’m not saying I have a bad life, or that if something changed, I would feel good; I’m saying that no matter how great my life is–and it is, overall–I struggle to be happy.

It’s not about circumstances.  Anyone who occasionally cries themselves to sleep when something bad happens to them, or they get their period, or they have a really bad headache, is not experiencing depression as I understand the term. Even someone who is, technically, depressed, but is depressed in a way that new friends or a better job or losing some weight etc etc etc can fix, is not depressed in the way I’m using the term.

It’s not that something is so wrong, it’s making me miserable.  It’s that NOTHING is wrong, and I’m still miserable.

Try to get your head around that, if you can.  Imagine having almost everything you’ve ever wanted, and being on-track to get even more of it, and it just… doesn’t matter.  You take the pills, you try to do the best you can to be healthy and happy, and yet, every day, you spend hours fantasizing about killing yourself, or just not waking up tomorrow; or maybe you just sleep 14 hours straight, dreaming dreams about being abducted by a sexual predator (one of my actual, recurrent dreams) and you’re so sad you start to cry when you wake up, because you *want* so desperately to be back in the dream.

Where you felt happy.  Where you felt something.

Imagine that *any* day when you feel happy, you talk too much and laugh too loudly and hit on anything that moves, because for a few hours or maybe, at most, for a couple of days, it just feels so GOOD to be alive.  Or you just feel alive, and that’s good.  Something like that.  But by the third day, you can feel yourself slowly spiralling back down, into a feeling that’s so grey and dank and leaves you feeling so helpless, you wonder what’s even the point?  Why be miserable for two, three, four weeks at a time, to then spend maybe one weekend feeling good about yourself, about life in general, before you go back to feeling like getting out of bed every morning is too much trouble?

And you try to motivate yourself.  You try to cajole yourself out of bed with promises of treats and rewards, you try to interest yourself in something, anything, to get yourself up, but…. *sigh*  Really, what is the point?  You’re so tired you can barely roll over or pull the blanket up to your chin, and you’re supposed to get up and dress your kids and pack their schoolbags and take a shower?  You just don’t have the energy.  If you did, you’d probably only walk outside into the nearest road, and wait for the inevitable… so maybe it’s a blessing in disguise.

Some days you try a different tactic.  Lying in bed, wishing your heart would just stop beating, you try to rouse some anger in yourself. They say that depression is just anger turned inwards, right (somebody said it once) so you try to focus some of that anger AT yourself, try to use it to force you up and into doing whatever it is you need to do.  You call yourself every name you can think of–I don’t mean obsolete, meaningless ones, like bastard or slut or bitch, I mean the really awful ones–I mean the ones like useless human being, embarrassment to your family, or even the worst one of all, bad mother… and nothing works.  You just lie there, and ignore the alarm, and pray for sleep to a God you usually believe in, but not today.  Today, you know that if He existed, He would end your suffering…

I’m pretty sure that one day, I’m going to pull a Virginia Woolf.  I sincerely hope I’ll manage to write a few novels first, maybe leave something behind for my family, but I’m beginning to doubt even that will happen.  Maybe it’s for the best; maybe they’ll find it easier to hate me, and move on with their own lives, if I leave them nothing at all.

And that, boys and girls, is depression as I know it.  More coming soon–the next one will be a 2-or-3-parter.

Quick Intro to Depression

19 Monday May 2014

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Depression is different for everyone. Mine actually manifests itself as extreme anxiety and numerous daily panic attacks, normally while thinking I’m about to die. Just as a quick example, some entries from my mood diary a couple of years back:

“31st January:

Had forgotten that D__ gave me penguin pyjamas for Christmas,
until he reminded me. Wondered if I have a brain tumor.

Told myself not to be ridiculous, and tried to think of something to
prove my brain was functioning normally–came up with ‘no severe
headaches recently, last eye test showed no behind-eye pressure,
can coordinate both sides of my body, it’s fine’.”

“20th March

Not only will he never fight for me–hard to stomach, but a thing I’ve mostly accepted, by now–he won’t even speak up for me. Thinking back, I honestly can’t recall a time ever has… and tonight, he’s admitted that he probably never will.

I want to go home. I want to be the one being looked after, sheltered, taken care of. I miss my Mom and my sister. I miss my own friends–the ones who were always my friends, no matter how many times I let my mouth get away from me.

I’m sad and tired. I think I’ll go to bed.”

There would be more, but I was depressed. I stopped bothering with the mood diary not long after that (and instead, began sleeping 14 hours a day and still being exhausted–yay, happy pills). For the record, most of the entries contained things like me having an itchy armpit, and then losing all my breath and starting to hypverventilate, because WHAT IF IT’S BREAST CANCER.

Depression is no fun, folks. No fun at all.