Now what?

I go about my business every day; that’s what They tell you to do. They are people who think they are in a position to tell you how to deal with depression; They are mentally well; They aren’t depressed. They have read books and written papers and taken tests and They spew pithy advice full of words like “mindfulness” and “positivism”.

They like to say things like, “you have ___ to live for.” No, clearly I don’t have that to live for, if I don’t want to live for it. They don’t understand; They are not really listening. They are not depressed.

 I’m at the store, the library, the gas station, and all I can think is “Why can’t anyone see? Why can’t they see the despair on my face and in my actions. Why can’t they see the cracks in my soul?”

 The answer is that I have become such a pro at hiding it that it doesn’t show through. I have more years of pretending everything is okay than I have years of everything being okay. They say you can’t do it alone and yet They are not there when you finally break down and admit you need help. There isn’t help. They think saying things like “pull yourself up” and “snap out of it” are helping. Wow, ‘snap out of it’? Why didn’t I think of that on my own?? What excellent advice!

 I am so skilled at hiding it that even after being hospitalized for depression I get no more than “you feel better now, right?” from Them. And so I continue to hide it. I’m told “you can’t do this alone”, followed by “you have to figure this out for yourself”. I’m told its not my fault I’m sick followed by “you have to choose not to be sick”. That’s why its impossible to ask Them for help.

 Yes it gets better. It always gets better. Then it gets worse again. Every bout is worse than the bout before, and the last one nearly killed me. Tell me why I don’t just let this one finish the job? Their reasons aren’t resonating with me. They aren’t depressed. They don’t understand.

Remember

The time I was trying to tell you about Honore de Balzac and you kept saying "ballsack, ballsack" and giggling like a maniac and I was so annoyed with you. I miss you, you asshole.

-

Every single moment of recovery is heavy with the threat of relapse.

Dreams

I don’t sleep much, or well, and when I do, I dream. I dream a lot. And even the good dreams are sad.

I dream about my demons. I dream about running away from this giant cloud/monster/villian of Depression; or at least trying to. Its too big. Its faster than me because its the size of a city block. Its like trying to outrun the weather. When it catches me I scream my head off at it and defiantly yell out why it can’t have me but it just grins its huge toothy scary grin and pins my arms to my sides. Nobody can hear me scream when I’m stuck like that. Nobody can see me struggling like Fay Wray. What’s more, nobody is concerned.

I dream about perpetually being on the verge of drowning. The water is always just above chin level and I can’t swim. There’s no escape from this room that slowly and noisily continues to fill with water. I panic a lot in my dreams.

I dream about being normal. I dream about eating a donut without fear. I dream I CAN run - my arms and legs and knees function correctly, and there’s no falling down for no reason, and my back doesn’t scream at me, and I can run across a field for no reason other than to be free. I dream about spending a whole day out and about without having any bathroom emergencies or “I need to hide before I freak out” episodes. I dream about loving and being loved and having relationships that don’t hinge upon how much of my illnesses the other person can handle. I dream about not being lonely. I dream about getting some sleep, and getting a hug, and smiling. I dream about not crying. I dream about not being alone.

I dream about the sweet oblivion relief of death. 

But to be honest, I live with these dreams when I’m awake. They don’t really wait for me to sleep. I don't sleep much.

And that's the magic number

The secret is not to chase after butterflies but to take care of the garden, so that the butterflies will come to you. In the end, you will find not what you were looking for, but what was looking for you. ~ Mario Quintana

Life...

is not fair. If you go in thinking it should be, or will be, or even might be, you're going to be disappointed. Life is hard. It’s a series of boring moments and disappointments peppered by near-escapes and horrific nightmares and if you're lucky, a little fun and a little happy. Horrible things happen to wonderful people, for no reason except that it has to happen to somebody.

But in life there are also flowers, and hugs, and kittens. There are kisses from babies and vodka tonics and fresh baked bread. There is the thrill of a hand-written thank you card, or the sweetness of a phone call from a loved one. There is the magic of a smile. There is the sun that stubbornly continues to come up every single morning, to tell us, “Well, dammit, let’s try this again."

There is also hope. The hope that tomorrow will be better. The hope that inside of each of us there is the strength to carry on, and work harder, and overcome. We create attachments to people, to things, to pets. We suffer through the end of those relationships. We try again and again. And we lose again and again. And keep trying, in the name of hope.

There is also love. Love stings and bites and claws but also accepts and comforts and heals and redeems. Love can bring you down or lift you up, it can change the world or change your day. It’s the most important thing there is, be it the gentle love of a mother, or the sensual tingle of a lover’s touch, or the fine sturdy love that is friendship.

We are given the choice to love or hate. We are given the choice to hope or despair. We are capable of choosing which direction we want to turn.

When the story of your life is written, please don’t let it be a sad one. There is always hope, and love.