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Really Not Quick Description of Depression–Part 1

28 Wednesday May 2014

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anxiety, clinical depression, depression, despair, fear, hopelessness, terror

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)

More About Depression–A Less-Quick Intro

21 Wednesday May 2014

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clinical depression, depression, despair, fantasy, hopelessness, suicidal ideation

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.

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