Matt ripped out my bathroom walls. I've lived with these ugly stucco'ed walls for 7 years. But as the walls came down, part of me asked myself if this was worth it: the dirt, dust, and debris. Matt was nice enough to leave me with a functioning bathroom.
Sunday, July 22, 2007
Saturday, July 07, 2007
In the Midst of Battle
What does a depressive attack feel like? When Kipp asked me to describe it, I came to the realization that for some people, it truly is a foreign feeling, like how I would ask someone what it would feel like to be weightless or to give birth. I've lived with my depression for as long as I can remember, so to put it into words was difficult. How can you put into words something that is always somewhat present, yet can suddenly grow into something that possesses your entire being? My therapist once told me that he descibes it as like being somewhat under the weather all the time. The ensuing image of tiredness and body aches does ring somewhat true, but I think it falls short.
My attacks feels very close to having your heart broken. I'm sure each person remembers a time, usually during adolescence, when things don't work out for a romance that you've been pining for. If you can recall that feeling, that's what my attacks feel like: a mixture of disappointment, embarassment, shame, and foolishness. The barrage of self talk is paralyzing: How stupid of me to think that I could have a good life. If people really knew me, they would laugh out loud and say that I deserve none of the things that I aspire for. "You just cry in the corner but don't expect any sympathy from us."
I've slowly forced myself to reach out to other people. I always wait till the worst is over, the day after when I can share with less shame and be more articulate and more intelligent about the whole thing. Even then, it always feels very foolish. Remember that adolescent heartbreak I asked you to remember? Inevitably, as the weeks passeed, I'm sure when you recounted to all your friends every detail of that heartache till you're almost afraid to bring it up because you yourself are so tired of it. That's the feeling I get when I talk about my depression to others, a feeling I've live with for at least 30 years. I'm so sick of me. They always tell you that depression is not a sign of weakness. But in the midst of it, I not only feel weak but I feel like a burden to society and to myself.
Meanwhile, life goes on. And as I trudge through a day with this monkey on my back, I forget that what I'm feeling may come from an internal imbalance of chemicals. I start to look outward to the source of my grief: the new job that's exhausting, the single life, where I live, all the demands of living. The thing that my therapist told me that convinced me to try medication was that depressed people make poor decisions. It takes every ounce of my logical mind to convince me not to quit my job, move to another state, or do something to hurt myself. I can totally understand why seemingly intelligent people abuse alcohol or do drugs. In the midst of it, I feel like I'm fighting a losing battle.
My attacks feels very close to having your heart broken. I'm sure each person remembers a time, usually during adolescence, when things don't work out for a romance that you've been pining for. If you can recall that feeling, that's what my attacks feel like: a mixture of disappointment, embarassment, shame, and foolishness. The barrage of self talk is paralyzing: How stupid of me to think that I could have a good life. If people really knew me, they would laugh out loud and say that I deserve none of the things that I aspire for. "You just cry in the corner but don't expect any sympathy from us."
I've slowly forced myself to reach out to other people. I always wait till the worst is over, the day after when I can share with less shame and be more articulate and more intelligent about the whole thing. Even then, it always feels very foolish. Remember that adolescent heartbreak I asked you to remember? Inevitably, as the weeks passeed, I'm sure when you recounted to all your friends every detail of that heartache till you're almost afraid to bring it up because you yourself are so tired of it. That's the feeling I get when I talk about my depression to others, a feeling I've live with for at least 30 years. I'm so sick of me. They always tell you that depression is not a sign of weakness. But in the midst of it, I not only feel weak but I feel like a burden to society and to myself.
Meanwhile, life goes on. And as I trudge through a day with this monkey on my back, I forget that what I'm feeling may come from an internal imbalance of chemicals. I start to look outward to the source of my grief: the new job that's exhausting, the single life, where I live, all the demands of living. The thing that my therapist told me that convinced me to try medication was that depressed people make poor decisions. It takes every ounce of my logical mind to convince me not to quit my job, move to another state, or do something to hurt myself. I can totally understand why seemingly intelligent people abuse alcohol or do drugs. In the midst of it, I feel like I'm fighting a losing battle.
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