Here's the thing about depression- you hide it.
I've been struggling again for awhile, it had made its appearance all week on and off and I wrote about it some but then I'd cowboy up, cupcake, and I'd write something cheerful or grateful and that's good. There's nothing wrong with that. Nothing at all.
Yesterday I wrote a post that was horrible. Just, so fucking depressing and I deleted it and posted something else entirely which may have hinted at things but didn't go there, exactly.
So when I finally admit it, when I finally come here and write the words that tell how I am really feeling, it seems so very sudden and oh yes, here's Ms. Moon again, babbling on about her struggle with depression, blah, blah, blah, blah, we've heard it before, tomorrow or the next day she'll be babbling on about how glorious it all is, blah, blah, blah.
Right?
Right.
And I DO feel guilty about being depressed. Fuckin' A, I feel guilty! What right on this earth do I have to feel depressed? Okay, sure, there is adversity, my friend has cancer, the holidays are coming up (and for those of you who don't know me that well, here's a fact- I hate the holidays with a red, royal passion), and oh, I don't know. The fucking beans got frost bit. Who knows why this stuff triggers something in me?
I'll tell you this- I do honestly think it's very chemical. I have bad chemicals. And I take an antidepressant and I hate doing that. I take fish oils. I take magnesium and Vitamin D. All that stuff. And I don't know if I am just DNA'd to suffer depression or if something happened to me in the womb or in early childhood or what, but depression is part of my make-up. Some people meet adversity with renewed determination. I wish to god I was one of them.
But I'm not.
And I KNOW that depression and anxiety limit my life. I dreamed the other night that Mr. Moon was with a group of people, paddling a canoe across a lake to see a beautiful house and there was light everywhere on that lake and the woman in his canoe with him was a gorgeous creature with shining black hair and I stood on the shore and watched these people paddle off and I was so sleep-struck in my dream I couldn't even yell out for them to wait for me. I was stuck in sleep. On the shore.
You don't need to be Freud to figure that one out.
I also dreamed that there was a little girl who had been abused somehow by a predator and he had been seen in the area. She asked me if I thought she should do something about that. And thinking about it, later, of course that little girl was me.
A few days ago I started writing again on a memoir that I started awhile back that I am including recipes in. And I was writing a part about a particular time in my childhood where my stepfather had been at his worst with me and hell- that's a pretty obvious link.
So yes, I should DO something about that predator. Well, metaphorically, at least. But my god, the years I have spent in therapy, the years I have thought about it, worked through it, accepted, fought, accepted again, respected the effect it had on me and cherished the good parts, WHAT ELSE DO I DO?
Yes, I've done burning and release ceremonies too.
Don't ask me to do another. I don't have that kind of heart. If I did, I'd just go to church. Or something.
The supernatural, whether it comes in the form of sage or Jesus just does not work for me.
So what does work?
Exercise. Time. Patience.
Writing about it.
That helps.
And yet, here I go, feeling guilty again.
I write about it and my son calls to check on me.
I write about it and I now it causes my family grief.
I write about it and I am afraid that my friends won't tell me of their troubles or troubled thoughts.
I write about it and I feel tremendously self-indulgent.
I write about it and it eventually passes and then I feel stupid. Why did I write about something that I KNOW will go away?
Because.
While it's happening, it's so profoundly affecting.
While it's happening, it's impossible to believe in the logic of the knowledge it will pass.
While it's happening, there is no logic to be found. Oh sure, it's still there. The logic of knowing, though, and the logic of feeling are two entirely different things.
Chemicals.
Fucking chemicals.
I stole that picture from The Dishwasher's Tears. I didn't even ask permission. I THINK I saw somewhere on his blog that Tearful said it was okay to use his stuff. Did he or did I dream it?
I don't know but I do know this- I have never in my life seen an image which recreates the visual of how depression feels better than this picture.
Tearful created the image to illustrate grief on July 2, 2010.
Grief. Depression. Fear. Anger-turned-inwards. Anxiety.
It says it all, somehow.
So. Now I've written a self-indulgent post and stolen an image from a writer/artist whom I admire tremendously and I'm not proud of myself.
But I'm not hiding.
And I am going to go out into the world this afternoon. We are going to town to see Owen and get a few things we need.
And I did take a walk.
And I did pick up trash.
Trash which had been hidden by summer's growth but which is now visible as that growth dies back.
I am doing what I know how to do.
And I'm not going to apologize.
(I'm sorry. See- I can't stop myself.)
But as I keep saying- I know I am not the only one. I know I am not alone.
So if you know exactly what I'm talking about, know that you aren't either.
And we don't have to hide. It is not shameful to be depressed or tell the truth about it. It is not shameful to get help. I am going to call the doctor this week and that is one of the hardest things in the world for me to do.
But I'm going to do it.
There. Done.
We go on. As long as it takes. Nothing lasts forever. Etc.
