One Decision; Five Minutes in my Mind

Precursor: Why I’m Not Sure You’ll Ever Really Understand (to my friends who do not have a mental illness)

When you feel sad or uncomfortable, your first thought is: what can I do to alleviate this pain. That is my initial thought that gets quickly eaten by this Pac-Man thought of “You can’t fix this. You deserve this. You should feel worse. You will never fix this. If anything, you should feel worse.

I know that voice is wrong. I know it’s ineffective, hurtful to myself and others, perpetuating a whole host of problems that continue to get worse.

You’ve got to nip it early. When you first start to feel bad, that’s when you have to get out, do something, don’t let it hold you.

Sometimes at night, when the day’s over, and most likely ruined with disappointments of things I should or could have done, I think about the next day. How I can do things differently? How I can wake up and leave the house first thing just to get outside and breathe the fresh air? How I can without doing anything else, just put on my gym clothes and walk my half-awake self over and know whatever comes out of it, it’s better than nothing at all.

I can’t describe the frustration, the anger of wanting to hit myself, scratch my face, slap myself at the simplicity of knowing this to be true. Every time I read yet another article about how exercise could actually make my depression lessen, it seems so simple. “So your problem is you don’t exercise. You just need to move. You can do yoga inside. You can take a walk around the neighborhood. You can dance in your apartment. It’s as simple as that.”

And so this morning, I woke up with the intention of going to the gym. This is what went through my head. Don’t know if you relate, but this is just my thought process in deciding whether to leave the house this morning.

I said I’d go to the gym this morning and instead I slept in and now I’ve been at the computer for hours. I should go. I feel awful. My limbs ache, my neck hurts from sitting, my back hurt from arching. I can feel the energy in my body, vibrating, wanting to be set free. All I have to do is put on a bra and a pair of shoes, maybe a hat, oh and some water, and maybe a snack because I might go farther than I expect, and my wallet because what if I need to buy something or there is an emergency and I get hit, and a book if I decide to sit and read, and my phone and headphones, and of course an extra sweater and my keys and my headphones and probably a hat. I should probably put on sunscreen because even when it’s foggy out I can get those rays and they’ll just make me look older and less desirable.

Where am I going to walk? What if there are other people out there? What if they see me and I look disgusting. Maybe I should wash my face and put on moisturizer and brush my teeth because well, it’s kind of gross. Well maybe I should eat breakfast first – ugh, I feel so fat and yet I’m still hungry. Oh, I have to go to the bathroom, I have the worst cramps from overeating last night. I have no self-control. Why am I trying to punish myself? And I eat, I don’t need to, and then I hate myself. And I was just sitting there all night. I could have done homework, or taken a walk. I could have done art or called someone. I could have been effective.

What is this self-compassion thing anyway? An excuse to not do things that could make me feel better than just watching TV and wishing my life was different. I suppose it was fine to eat that first piece of bread but then I was so disappointed, for just failing yet another night. Why did I have to eat the other piece? And then at that point, I was so sad and angry and nervous about this lack of control, this fat beast with no self-control that will never look good enough and never be loved and never allow themselves to be loved or love themselves, so I ate the pistachios. Now I’m bloated and sitting here thinking about it just makes me fat.

Ok, so then I just have to open the door and lock it. I have to expose myself to the world. My fat, lazy, worthless, pathetic self to others. And maybe I will see someone who is young and maybe they don’t exercise but they still can look so amazing in their leggings. And how do they not show their underwear line? I’m so cheap-looking, I look like someone who is just so ugly and stupid and can’t even wear their underwear right. And people will see that and they will just think I don’t deserve to be outside walking. Or they will think I’m ugly and somehow just knowing they could think that just proves what I know to be true – that I am. And then it will be cold, it will hurt because it’s cold and because I still haven’t bought those over-pants because I’m too lazy and even when I could do it while sitting watching tv, I still do an NYTimes crossword which I’m not smart enough to figure out so I just cheat. So pathetic. But can’t even go on Amazon to buy the pants. Not that I have the money. And I’m so pathetic still getting money from my parents. And I spend too much while telling everyone how frugal I am because I can’t do basic math. And I have to just keep eating so I have to keep buying food. Because I’m selfish and fat and have no self-control.

Plus I have this homework. And it will probably take me longer because I keep procrastinating. And I won’t like what I write. And I can study for the quiz but how will I know if I’ve studied enough? I mean I’ve aced all the other ones but it will feel so awful to get it wrong when I know this stuff is so easy. But studying for it is better than reading the other stuff on counseling because that just makes me so scared that I can’t do this. And I have that mock this week. I’m going to fuck that up. I have no idea what to do. I don’t know how to set goals with clients, I’m horrible at that. It just doesn’t make sense. What if I’m not feeling good and I’m out of it and I just can’t think of anything to say or I do what I always do and drone on and on? I hate my voice. And I can’t believe how fat I looked on that last video.  I can feel my stomach fat.

I can’t believe I was in shape and I let it go. I worked so hard. I mean I still felt so fat and clothes still didn’t fit right but at least I was thinner than now. Now I have no muscle. I should try to just do some push-ups or sit-ups. Man, it’s going to be so depressing to not even be able to do one or two. I used to be able to do 16. I mean not well, I can never do them well. I can’t believe I thought I was so strong. I mean, I knew I wasn’t I just let others think I was. But I knew I wasn’t. I knew I was just skimming by. I do that with everything. Never fully committed. Always just doing the bare minimum to get by.

Why do I feel like crying? I’m so weak. I can tell people I’m depressed but they’ll still be disappointed and they probably won’t believe me. I ate that breakfast so fast. No wonder I’m fat. I don’t even know how to enjoy food. But honestly, it just doesn’t taste that good. I feel like people enjoy food, it tastes so good and I don’t. And I try to keep myself from eating foods that are fattening but I eat so much, I stuff myself because I’m weak and then I will keep gaining weight. Plus I don’t move.

My g-d, it’s been two hours and I haven’t left the house. And I have work to do and if I do go to that thing tonight, I have to give myself a half hour to get there. It only takes 10 minutes but what if there’s traffic, or I somehow get lost? Better to get there early and wait in the car. Well, it’s going to take me an hour to get ready. How does it take someone who barely does anything to get ready so long to get ready? I don’t shave my fat legs, I barely wear makeup. I could try to do something nice with my hair but what if it looks stupid and then everyone will say it looks nice because they’ll know I tried but it won’t look nice but I can’t say that to them because it sounds pathetic and self-serving like I’m asking them to say no, you really do look nice, even though I know I don’t. I know I say that to people sometimes just to make them feel better even if I don’t fully mean it. Who am I to judge other people? They still have a boyfriend and some self-respect and here I am judging their hair or clothes. When was the last time I went shopping? Not that I have the money to or that I’ll like how it looks.

Man, I feel sorry for myself. And why do I sweat so much? My clothes are going to just start smelling. It doesn’t matter the deodorant. I haven’t done laundry in two weeks. How can I not do it? It’s a building away. Why am I scared to do laundry? It feels like fear. If someone is in the laundry room, what if they rape me or what if they don’t and think I’m ugly. Well, which is it? Do you want them to find you attractive enough to rape or too ugly to even think about? My g-d that’s sick. You are seriously pathetic. I feel this deep pain, starting in my throat all the way down to my stomach and I think kind of in my thighs though that makes no sense. Are those nerves? Why am I sad? Maybe it’s energy which I could get out if I just left the house. But what if it doesn’t work? Besides, it’s not the gym and it won’t really help make me more fit. It’s all this anxiety of worrying that I will be attacked that people will judge me that I will judge myself for not walking long enough and for what? For the chance that I will feel better and then be more effective? I don’t know, last time I went I didn’t really feel better. And my knee kind of hurt. Of course maybe if I wore the right shoes and wasn’t so fat.

I need to buy new shoes but I don’t want to go to the store. My socks are old, my toenails are gross, and even though I waxed my leg, you can still see some. If I get a guy he’ll think I’m gross and if I get a girl she will judge me. What’s a fat girl doing getting athletic shoes? And they’re so expensive. What if they’re not comfortable but I have to wear them because they’re so expensive? And mom will joke that I will return them but it isn’t really a joke because I probably will. Why am I so indecisive about the dumbest shit?

Is there a dead rat in the wall or is that me that smells? If it’s a dead rat I have to call maintenance and then someone has to come in here. If I’m not here, then they are privy to all my stuff. But if I am here, what if they hurt me? But would they? Is that arrogant to think that? It’s awkward anyway. And if there isn’t a rat, that’s embarrassing and if there is, they’re going to look through all my stuff. And I am so disorganized because I’m lazy. Why didn’t I kill myself? Oh please like you could make that strong of a decision but you find picking out fruit overwhelming. Why do you make everything such a big deal? You must be so exhausting to other people. Who wants to be around someone that complains constantly, that makes everything such a production. You are so needy, you are such a child.

Are you going to blame this somehow on your childhood? Honestly, grow up. I wish you were strong enough to either kill yourself or at least hurt yourself. But if you’re going to do it, do it with something that will help you – like exercising too much or anorexia. Cutting is so pointless. You never do it right – you see those teens and how much they cut – that’s real pain. Remember how you told everyone and it made them so freaked out? But you didn’t even do it well. And now you’ve scared people away. You are a bullshit artist. All I want to do is get under my covers and just watch some tv. But what if later I regret that? Wasting all that time when I have work to do and then I’m going to be stressed out because I have all this work and no one to blame but myself? But is this work even important? Am I learning anything?

Oh my g-d, I have so much work to do. I have all those papers and I have to find articles. I have to go to that meeting but I just don’t want to leave the house. There’s so much to do to leave the house. And I just feel so sad. And angry. I’m such a pathetic broken record. And I’m so fat.

Fuck, it’s been two hours. I’m never going to the gym now. This is my fault. I mean, it doesn’t feel like I can, I don’t know how to explain that to people, like, I just feel too anxious, scared, ugly, fat, worthless, pathetic to leave the house. I can’t call anyone because I don’t even know how to explain this to them. And they won’t understand. I barely do. Is this an illness or am I just a spoiled brat? How can a house be so boring and yet so messy and disorganized? Remember when you used to be organized? When you were super depressed but still high functioning? Maybe being severely depressed was better for you. Now you’re just pathetic.

Maybe the meds are working, you’re just scared to handle life. You’re making this up. Or maybe you’re forcing it to happen. What if one day they do a test and you don’t have a chemical imbalance and they tell you that you have been lying. But like, this doesn’t feel right. I mean I suppose it is under my control but I can’t do it. I am too weak. I swear I want to. I want to go to the gym. I can feel that. I just can’t seem to and now I have to do work. I just want to watch TV. Maybe if you were more effective you wouldn’t feel that way. You did this. I know it doesn’t feel that way but you did. Why are you so weak?

I can’t believe I’m going to cancel tonight. I can say it’s a migraine. They won’t believe me. I want to see those people but I can’t. I don’t know why it has to be so complicated but it is. Maybe I’ll feel better later. Of course, if I stay in the house all day I probably won’t. I wish someone would come pick me up. I wish someone would come take a walk with me. I’m so lonely. I can’t ask. Who am I going to ask anyway? Only person who would do that is mom and I would feel so guilty but also pathetic – I need someone to come to get me to take a walk. How can I be 37? What a waste.

I did that assignment though. I mean, not well and it’s really small and there’s that larger one I’m avoiding. Why can’t I appreciate the little things? I’m so ungrateful. My back hurts. G-d, I hate myself so much. I feel this rage inside, this little creature inside. I want it to tear my body apart, to tear me apart from the inside out. At least then I will have a reason to feel pain. My eyes are tearing up. I’m so exhausted.

I wonder if I’ll leave the house today. If I don’t, I probably won’t leave tomorrow. Fuck, I have work on Monday. I hope my clothes fit. I hope I have the energy to do it. I hope I don’t fuck it up. Jesus, it’s Saturday. Why don’t you just try to not fuck up today? I can’t stand not knowing what will happen today. This is my life and I’m wasting it one day at a time. How am I going to explain this to them? I’m so weak. Worthless. And I still haven’t gone to the gym.

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The Scary Slope of Self-Growth: Running on Empty in an Attempt to Find Myself

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Looks like I’m in the middle of an existential crisis. I imagine for most people if they actually get to this place of “Who am I? Who do I want to be? What makes me feel fulfilled? Why am I here?” they are terrified. It’s a really scary place to be. For me, this process has me terrified, feeling like it’s slowly sliding me into an uncomfortable depressive state.

I started asking myself “what is the point of me?” around second-grade, and it hasn’t stopped since.  Even when I was a high-functioning, I just didn’t feel I was needed, and that my burden was greater than any gift I could provide.

But that was the depression, right? Depression tells you, you are worthless. That you will never be able to contribute enough to make yourself worthy of existence and that honestly, you look pretty fucking pathetic trying. You ask “Who am I?” and it tells you “A piece of shit.” “But who do I want to be?” “Doesn’t matter. You’ll never be good enough at it.” “What makes me fulfilled?” “You can’t feel fulfillment! To do that you have to stop being such a fucking nuisance.” (Evidently, my depression has a foul mouth.) “Why am I here?” “Good question. And like I’ve been trying to tell you, you probably shouldn’t be.

Let me back up a step. This all started because when I got to grad school, I felt like the one thing that was really missing from my life was intimacy. I never really had a boyfriend, between the depression, bullying, rejection, body dysmorphia, self-harm, and sexual assaults, the idea of being that vulnerable, it was just too overwhelming to take on. Then, to add to this delightful menage of fucked-up factors, my medications killed any sex drive I might possibly have. Needless to say, my childhood rom-com dreams slowly shriveled over time.

But there I was, in graduate school, in shape, making friends, having my “shit together,” and I just felt so fucking alone. (Ok, I do feel so fucking alone.) And I look all around me, and there are so many people, just as fucked up as I am, and they are in relationships. And I just thought, I can figure this out. So I stopped DBT and I decided to go to a sex therapist. Turns out, you can’t just be like “Hey so I have a super fucked-up relationship with intimacy and I would love to go ahead and just resolve that. Thanks.” In fact, she didn’t even want to get into my trauma the first session.

Instead, we have been diving into my identity and the questions I posited above. Now I think anyone in my place would be overwhelmed – these are life-long questions that are never truly answered. But what freaks me out is that these questions feel oddly similar to the questions I asked myself when I was suicidal. I know (and am grateful) that I’m not in that space anymore. I know that when I ask myself “Why am I choosing to live” it is in a different context than when I asked myself in the depths of depression. But I still don’t have an answer.

In the past, I stayed alive because I knew that killing myself would destroy my family. And I felt like I already was such a burden that while I felt in the long-run it would benefit them, I just knew it would hurt them too much. And so I stayed alive – for them. I kept fighting – for them.

So why do I get up now? Why do I choose to live? Because doing it for them isn’t enough anymore – nor should it be. I asked a friend today why she chooses to go through all the bullshit of life. What makes this arduous journey worthwhile? She noted joy, pleasure, achievement, helping others, possibility, and growth. She also noted that while she has bad days, she never has had a day where she wonders why she exists. Duly noted. And that makes sense to me. Joy and pleasure (which you can derive from helping others, growth, and possibility) are fucking awesome. But I don’t feel joy or pleasure. Ok, to be fair, when I help people, I get a little high. When I make people laugh, I feel good. When I have a really good workout (if I can remember that far back,) I have a good hour of “Fuck yeah, life!” But in general, I have a dull feeling in life. I get what feels like a pleasure wave, but it never crests, it just breaks. And that’s a problem. Because I can work with living to help others and make the world a better place, but I don’t know if that will sustain me for a long period of time. I need more than that; I think we all do.

I’m not really afraid of an existential crisis, per say. I think being introspective, intellectual, emotionally intelligent, and hyperaware, it just comes with the territory. I’m okay not knowing who I am yet. It’s scary and frustrating, but I get it. Depression was my identity for so long, I never developed a sense of self. What scares me is whether I have the energy and wherewithal to find myself. We can use our body, but if we don’t replenish it with food, liquid, etc. we will die. Emotional energy is the same. If I keep expending energy, getting things done, doing things that challenge me, helping others, but I don’t grow stronger? If I can’t get fulfillment and strength from the joy and pleasure of exploration? Then I’m not sure how to keep going. I feel like I’m running on empty and I don’t know what I can do to fuel up. And that is scary as fuck.

 

The Dormant Monster: Being “Better” With a Mental Illness

Whoo! It’s been a while since I’ve been on this site. Truthfully, I’ve missed being there for those I followed and shared our days of drudgery and despair, hope and potential. And popping off like I did was unfair to those who write their blogs for support and find solace in the comfort of their online community. For that, I am sorry.

I suppose I stopped for a few reasons. Most of our posts are in times of struggle and it didn’t feel right to write about having positive days. (Even though I realize I rejoice when I read about yours!) The other is that it can be difficult for me not to get sucked into other’s pain. When I’m in my own depressive vortex, hearing from others can make me feel solace, allowing me to provide advice I cannot give to myself. But when I’m fighting to feel better, it sometimes makes me miss depression. And while it feels selfish, I think it is more about self-survival. Still, I found myself writing today and while I’m out of practice, decided to give it a go.

Now on medication that has lifted the deep darkness from my mind, I find myself remembering depression the way it wants me to remember it. Even as an echo of my past, it misconstrues memories and offers to shield me from the arduous process of saying yes to life. It attempts to lure me with a false sales pitch that I could find relief if I just stopped all this work fighting my social anxiety, self-doubt, self-hate, and constant fear of failure. It wants me to forget what it really brings: the breath-taking pain and agony; the anger of being alive; the encompassing self-hate that makes me want to rip all my skin off. It makes me forget the amount of energy it takes to feel that way. Instead, it sells itself as the “easier” option. But so far I have been able to remember that at least this energy can lead to moments of laughter, accomplishment, and love and that energy only leads to destruction.

Fighting depression is so fucking hard. And even with the right medications, eating well, exercising, engaging socially, sleeping, using my brain – every decision I make takes a fuckload of energy and drive. And every time my alarm goes off in the morning, I wonder if today will be the day I won’t be able to get up. That sense of insecurity, of never feeling “cured” lasts throughout the day. Will I get dressed and not be stifled by the hatred of my body, my face, and clothes? Will I be able to leave the house to get to class? Will I be able to engage with people when I’m in class? Will I be able to pay attention and absorb what I’m learning in class? Will I sit alone when I get home and hate myself? Will tonight be the night I cut again? Will I binge eat? Will I get so low I get into bed and not get out for another two years?

It’s hard meeting people how I am now. They see me, I imagine, as an odd, quirky, but functioning person. Someone who may be self-deprecating, but is present, with ideas, thoughts, and energy. As I have started to become closer to people and tell my story, I often am told, “I can’t imagine you like that!” and it leaves me feeling vulnerable and scared. Because I didn’t “survive” depression; I’m not “cured.” I am still a person with a mental illness. I am on medications that temper the strength of my illness, that keep me stable enough to deal with the shit that makes all lives difficult. And it doesn’t make situations less anxious, it doesn’t make my insecurities vanish, but it clears away the darkness enough so I can at least see potential in life, even if I’m not sure how or if I will ever get there.

As time passes and I continue to function, I worry that expectations will continue to rise, and if I fall again it will be that more disappointing. Every time I add something to my plate, accomplish something, do something that scares me, I move a step away from my days of being bed-ridden. But each step away means if I’m pulled back, the fall will be that much longer, the speed and intensity of the fall will be more intense, and I will have far, far, far more to lose than before.

I want to explain to people that my “bad” days will never be like theirs. To be fair, I don’t know what a bad day feels like for someone without a mental illness, but I imagine it is different. One day, I tell a friend I’m upset because I feel like I can’t leave the house. They think I don’t want to leave the house but it is so much more than that. It feels like there is a force field around me, pulsating, sucking the oxygen out, paralyzing me. The idea of opening the door and facing life makes me nauseous. “But it’s okay to have blah days and sit around in your pj’s doing nothing.” Maybe for you! If I do that, there is a high chance I’ll be doing it tomorrow and it will be worse. And the ease in which those two days can turn into seven, I can’t count how many times that happened in the past. And the truth is, I honestly don’t know when a bad day could or will turn into a possible episode. So when I want to sit in bed all day in my pj’s, I have to get out. I have to put on a hat, look in the mirror and feel disgusted and shameful of my body and take a walk. Even if for 20 minutes. And then I have to do all or at least one of the following: I have to text someone and ask them how they are doing; I have to answer at least one email; I have to fight as hard as I can to not check Facebook; I have to try and not give myself a verbal beating for overeating; I have to tell myself it’s NOT okay and that tomorrow has to be different.

It was difficult enough when I was depressed to try and explain how debilitating it was. But now, having to explain the terror of “feeling better” is even harder. I am appreciative that the darkest thoughts are more like memories than feelings. But I know it is never gone, it’s just dormant. And it might remain that way for the rest of my life, or five years, or one month. Still, I try to be grateful. To know that regardless of the cranky days, the side effects, the fear, and the energy, deep down I know no matter how distorted my memories may be, this is better. And that today, I was okay.

I try not to think too far into the future, which is incredibly difficult in a society that is constantly asking “what’s next?” As if surviving isn’t enough. And I try to remember when surviving was enough, take a deep breath and hope that each day I come closer to accepting my reality and the unknown future. I appreciate that while this may be hard, I have been through worse and while it could always get worse, it could also get even better.

New Year’s Resolutions: The Best Gift Your Depression Could Ask For

While I appreciate articles like this, where an author sets lofty, idealistic resolutions for the coming year, and even agree with most of the points she makes in terms of her resolutions, unlike the author, I detest/abhor/fucking hate resolutions. It’s like a big, gift-wrapped present for depression and self-hate.

First, you’re supposed to look back on the year. Ah, yes. I suppose there are some that look back on all the great things: “I got engaged!” “I lost weight!” “I got a promotion!” Though they would never actually bring those things up during New Year’s because being proud in front of others is often viewed at rubbing it in and pointing out the others’ inadequacies if they have not succeeded in those areas. (Unless you’re posting on Facebook, a depressive’s tornado of self-hate where everyone seems to be having THE BEST TIME EVER. ALL THE TIME.) But the truth is, most people, especially those with depression, look back on all of their failures: “I didn’t do the things I am supposed to do.” “I’m not the person I want to be.” “My life is imperfect.” “X and Y and Z happened and they were horrible thus, I suck.” And it becomes punishment – “reflecting” on everything you didn’t accomplish this past year.

I suppose the intention is meant to be inspiring. Take your “failures” and turn them into effective goals for the next year! This is the year you will finally be perfect! This is the year where you will be “happy” and fix all the areas of your life you and society have deemed inadequate. And these goals are so outlandish and often vague – it’s just so American. The foundation of our society is built on these incredibly grandiose ideas of a world we can never truly achieve. Perhaps this is done purposefully, to make sure we keep going and moving forward. But as a depressive, all I ever see when I look at the Constitution (besides an outdated document that doesn’t reflect our current society,) is “Look at how fucking pathetic life is. So much hate, inequality, oppression. We are really disappointing.” (And yes, this year truly does reflect these thoughts, even without the Constitution involved.) Same with resolutions. You can’t resolve to “lose weight,””be happy in your sex life,” or “be the change you want to see in the world.” After all, what would that look like? How much weight is enough? What does happiness in a sex life look like? What does this change look like? And are these supposed to be permanent changes or just for the year? How do we know if we accomplished them or not?

If fighting depression taught me anything, it is that life is a process and a journey. There is no goal line. There is no “right” way to be. There is no absolute “happiness” that you can obtain. Life is moments of bliss and joy; achievements and progress; failure and sadness. It is about trying to find an acceptance with whatever your world may be.

I’m not saying you shouldn’t have goals. I have a sheet for DBT I fill out every day that has a list of the negative things I do that I do not want to do anymore. Examples include: allowing others to control my emotions, avoiding social situations, catastrophizing. Every day, I write down my urge to do it, and then if I did or not, and what skills I may have used to help myself choose to do the positive thing for myself.

And while I hope every day I can fight my urges and overcome bad habits, it’s a daily log. And some days, I don’t. And I’m not trying to get a perfect log, I’m just trying to notice the days when I don’t and see what happened that day, think about what I might have been able to do, and accept that I didn’t but maybe the next day I can, or maybe I need to try something different to help myself not do it. I don’t get points for not catastrophizing, (though my therapist does seem happy.) I’m not trying to “win,” and there is no finish line. (Well, I guess until I die or get so depressed again, rip the sheet up, call it a piece of delusional shit, and get back to catastrophizing.)

Living life with this simplicity – the goal isn’t to “be thin enough” or “have a boyfriend” but more like “self-care” and “interpersonal relationships.” And yes, I obviously have intangible, unrealistic goal narratives in my head. Because I do want to find this “happiness” I know doesn’t exist. And not just because it’s been ingrained explicitly and implicitly through every facet of my life, but because my depression branded it on my brain from a very early age to make sure I would hate myself even more than I did the year before. If that’s not a depressive narrative, I don’t know what is, but that shit is hard to shake.

So I just think we need to be cautious when we look forward. I’m not saying we should all give up – on ourselves, our country, our world. I’m just saying that maybe our goals should be about just trying to live life to the best of our ability, a day at a time. To look within ourselves and see if we can use the year to work on things. Not to fix them. I do want a better world and I want to play a role in changing it – but there isn’t a measure of success in how I do it. (Did I seriously just write that? I think I just threw up in my mouth a little bit.)

So I don’t want to set resolutions at all. It’s too much pressure on things I don’t have enough control over. Given where I have been, being able to want that in and of itself is huge and continues to be a fuckload of work. So I suppose I do have one resolution, which is, to not have any resolutions – just live my life to the best of my abilities, whatever that may look like or be.

(It should be noted I will most likely reject this entire post should my medication stop working.)

Breaking Up Is Hard To Do: The Process of Leaving A Therapist

I broke up with my therapist on Friday.

It’s my first real break-up (with a therapist or a partner). I’ve had relationships end with therapists in the past, but I either had to move to another state or did not like them and ended up “ghosting” them, allowing the relationship to die in absentia.

Nothing went “wrong.” We had been through a difficult period recently because my meds were off and I was in a deep, depressive state. Generally, I find therapy irrelevant when I am in a depressive episode because I don’t care enough to want to get better. We were struggling to try and keep me moving forward in my planning until my meds could eventually be sorted. But we had been here before in the two years we’ve been working together. That wasn’t why.

She has been away for two and a half weeks, and in that time, my psychiatrist and I have tried some new things, one of which seems to be working. It has made me feel stable enough to feel ready to take a step forward. I need to start volunteering, having informational interviews, and making tangible decisions to help build my life.

I believe the most effective way of taking that step is through DBT. It will help in creating goal-oriented behavioral techniques. I might be completely wrong, but it seems to be a good fit by helping with my interpersonal effectiveness, emotion regulation, and distress tolerance, while I take some terrifying initiatives. While I have done DBT modules and a little bit of coaching, I have never done DBT therapy. You legally aren’t allowed to see two therapists, and honestly, I can’t afford both of them. (Interns can still cost a pretty penny!)

I didn’t know when I was going to do it – tell her I wanted to stop. I thought I would chicken out but realized it would be silly to continue to see her for a few weeks, knowing that I was going to leave. I decided to see her last Friday and tell her then. I practiced how to say it on the car ride over – it never sounded right. But I somehow got it out.

She was proud of me. Two years ago, I would have never been able to tell someone something they didn’t want to hear but that I wanted. And honestly, she is a large reason that I am able to do that now (on certain occasions.) We discussed having a few sessions to deal with leaving, but I just needed to end it. She told me that her door would always be open – if it didn’t work and I wanted to come back, if I just wanted to do a bi-monthly check-in, or if I just needed a session to talk. She’s that awesome.

She asked me a few questions about what I thought I got from therapy and things I wish could have been different and then said some incredibly kind things. I knew I wasn’t actually processing any of it. I felt like I was watching it happen, almost like a scenario acted out in a dream. She opened the door at the end of the session and she said “Goodbye Ava.” No, “Have a good weekend and see you on Wednesday.” Just “Goodbye.”

It doesn’t feel real. As things occur each day, I think of telling her. I keep thinking I will see her Wednesday and tell her about an email I got from a friend and we will discuss my anxiety problems with money. But I won’t. The only comfort I can find right now is that after two years of working with her, I can almost hear her response when problems arise. I know the questions she would ask. The way she might challenge my assumptions. She has left an indelible mark on my recovery and in how I am learning to see my world.

In the car, I tried to quell my oncoming tears by acknowledging that we lose people all the time. I left all my friends. I didn’t “lose” them completely, but they are not able to be what I need anymore. People have died in my life. Stopped calling. I have had a loss, though I appreciate the difference in each, including this one.

I wonder when my brain will fully acknowledge this loss. Right now I find myself scared. I don’t know if I made the right decision or if I made it from the right place. But I know it feels right and while it may change things, for good or bad, she would want me to follow my intuition. Maybe I can hang on to the fact that it might just be a trial separation; that I can always go back if I need to. I try to remind myself that I was supposed to be in London today, unpacking and preparing for school, and I wouldn’t have seen her for a year.

So many people do not believe in the benefits of therapy. Others go once, do not like the person, and never give it a chance again. But some of us, if we’re lucky, get the unique experience of an objective, supportive, non-judgmental, safe person in our lives, that help us organize our racing thoughts, grieve our trauma and lost chances, help encourage our change and growth, challenge our misconceptions, show us glimpses of ourselves we cannot see, and sometimes, if they’re really good, gain our trust to help us believe we can have hope.

I will be forever grateful for the time I have had with my therapist, even if it’s not the end of our relationship. But if it is, I walk away with a better version of this “self” I am creating, because of her.

The Blame Game With Mental Illness

[Trigger warning: Mention of self-harm]

I met with my psychiatrist last week and told her that I have been feeling worse but I was worried that maybe it was my fault and I was somehow doing it to myself. Well actually, I started to say that and she cut me off right at “maybe I” with a sharp “No.” After apologizing, she told me that I have to stop blaming myself for my depression.

People can undoubtedly lie to themselves. For example, someone with an addiction tells him/herself they don’t have a problem and they stay in denial that their actions are negatively impacting their life. I get that. But can you be lying to yourself if you are asking yourself if you are lying? If the idea of denial in the example above is to convince yourself you do not have a problem, what is it if you convince yourself you are trying to convince yourself that you DO have a problem? Can you accuse yourself of having a derivative form of Munchausen Syndrome?

It’s an odd thing: the idea that I am purposefully making something worse; that I am sabotaging myself from recovery by somehow forcing myself into depression or not fighting as hard as I can. I interrogate myself: Is it really just fear and weakness and not a “disease” at all? Could I try harder, do more, stop whining? Do I just need to have the will and gumption and am too meek to face my reality? Am I somehow lying to myself?

But there is a part of me that knows that this is real. That leaving a job I was proud of, friends that I loved, and a life I had built wasn’t just for attention. Lying in bed in for weeks, crying for hours, choosing to have ECT, well that would be one hell of a con. Perhaps at the core of this questioning is an insecurity, hate, and long-developed distrust of my thoughts and feelings.

This doubt of my own feelings was developed over time and starts in my younger years. I was constantly told I was too sensitive. It wasn’t intended to be an insult, but it also wasn’t always used in a positive context. Rather, it was often noted as the cause of my intense feelings of sadness over anything that was bad. In defense, I was incredibly empathetic as a young child. When I was five, my mom had my dad change the mailing address of the newspaper from our house to his office, because I would read the paper and cry about all the horrible things happening in the world.

I hoped to find something physically wrong with me that would provide tangible symptoms to explain why I was like this. I remember feeling relief when I became sick – whether it was a cold or ear infection. Because when I was “sick,” I knew those around me believed my pain. And it wasn’t my fault or something I was failing to fix. 

There was always a rational reasoning for my behavior: in grade school, it was that I was being bullied; in high school, it was hormones. The darker melancholy that was growing inside me was overlooked because I didn’t believe it was legitimate and therefore never mentioned it. I assumed my constant complaining was indicative of a selfish, childish, and  weak personality defect. When bad things happened, I began to question if the amount of pain I felt was fair. Was it really that bad, or was I making it worse? Maybe my feelings were being manipulated by my selfishness?   Did I have the power to stop it?

When I got to college, I still blamed myself for my thoughts and feelings. And that’s also when I discovered self-harm. While there are many reasons why I self-harmed, I think one of them was having something to show for my pain, and it helped me feel better about my sadness. Still, I continued to chide myself for feeling sad all the time – I needed to get over myself. Other people didn’t have ideal lives and they were managing, so why couldn’t I? I still find myself asking that question.

The real problem is that even if I could convince everyone around me that this isn’t my fault, I can’t fully convince myself. In my mind, every time I cancel an appointment; take a pill for my anxiety; cry hysterically for no reason; not feel any different when starting a medication; or start to feel bad on a medication that seemed to be working for a few weeks, I worry it’s something I’m doing wrong, not the depressionMaybe it’s my fault that I am a burden, and maybe it was somehow a choice I made – though why – I cannot figure out.

And yet, I also know that this isn’t me is because I have experienced what it is like to have clinical depression lifted. When I found the medical concoction that stifled my depression about two years ago I felt so different. While I was tempted to sometimes cancel because I was scared or maybe just out of habit, I didn’t. When I was feeling anxious, I went to the gym because I knew it would help. Sometimes I would have weeks where I was exhausted from trying to change my habits and face my fears, but it all still felt possible and I wanted to try. The difference in how my mind worked was so clear. I had been functioning within this cloud of depression and it was the cause of my actions and reactions.

I know that while depression feeds off itself, it’s not me feeding it. I’m not giving in because I want to, because honestly, I really do want to be able to get up in the morning and be an independent person who can make it to work, handle responsibility, and rebuild my life. Perhaps the fact that it terrifies me to think that I could be doing this is enough to know that I’m not. But that’s the thing about depression. It wants you to blame yourself. It convinces you that you are the cause of everything bad in your life, even if it’s irrational. It tells you that you are the way you are because you did this to yourself. It tells you to stop blaming some “idea,” and take some control over your life. Then it laughs at you when you try and fail.

I just have to keep telling myself that this is the illness. This is the lack of chemical reactions and electrical signals in my brain. This is not something I can control. And this is not on me. There is a serious problem, but it’s nobody’s fault…or at least nobody’s choice.

New Scientific Possibilities for Help, But Not Hope

Sometimes I question whether I just wasn’t made for this world. That perhaps I was born defective and unable to survive. Many people are born with parts of their body that didn’t fully form or formed differently; some without the necessary components to function or function fully. And lots of people, who may have these differences, adapt and manage, and do not let their difference stop them from enjoying all life has to offer.

But my “defect” is in my brain, and I can’t seem to find a way to adapt or manage on my own. Often times, there are devices and tools to support and help in this process. I have tried the “devices” for my impairment: medications, ECT, exercise, diet, sleep, and a variety of therapies, to try to work with what I have been given. But for some reason, my brain remains resistant to change, unable to manage and function at a level that is personally acceptable.

It’s been exhausting – the entire process. And since I was in my late teens/early 20’s, I never thought I could make it to 35. I assumed my body would simply get too tired of the pain and stop working, or I would have to help do it myself. But even with these dark thoughts, every so often, there were flashes of hope; moments of a belief that things could get better. And so here I am – three weeks into 35, with a new possibility for change at my chemically-enhanced door.

I have had a good year and a half where I seemed to have found a concoction that made me feel more stable. Not perfect – I still dealt with mood swings, depressive dilemmas, and uncomfortable side effects – but enough to make me hopeful that I could work to form a functional and fulfilling life. Then we changed a medication, and the past three months have been a clusterfuck of mood swings, depression, and a melange of side effects. We hit a road block in terms of options and so a few weeks ago, my doctor conferred with her colleagues to see what ideas they may have for bipolar II medication-resistant treatment.

When I saw her last week she told me about two new scientific advancements that could drastically help me get better. (Please forgive my explanations, as I am still learning.)

The first suggestion is a test for genetic markers that show what medications work best in an individual’s brain. There are five markers and they are able to indicate drugs that will work; some that might work; and others that won’t. I found a website of a company that does it called Genesight. I don’t know if this is the company my doctor is referring to – but the hope is that with this test, we will stop having to do so much guesswork with my meds, and may find out if some are actually decreasing the positive effect of other drugs in my system.

The other suggestion is the use of folate. We all know about folic acid. (Okay I didn’t, but everyone else seems to refer to it like I should.) Doctors encourage women who are pregnant to use it to help with a fetus’ growth and have noted that it could help with growth and rehabilitation of other cells. If I were to just ingest folic acid, it would go through my blood stream and I would pee it out. However, this new folate supplement called Deplin specifically goes into the brain blood stream. Evidently, by delivering the folate directly to the brain, it helps with your body’s ability to absorb medications. So for me, while I have slightly benefited, my medication is still not being fully absorbed, and therefore, I’m not actually getting the full impact of the medications.

After explaining these ideas to me, my psychiatrist asked me if I felt hopeful.

The genetic markers sound interesting, though I feel like it isn’t going to be that helpful. I suppose it would provide me with the peace of understanding that there are genetic reasons why I am resistant to so many medications. And perhaps provide new ideas for medication usage. The Deplin definitely sounds too easy. The idea that a supplement is going to help engage my medications and that would help me feel better – I suppose it just sounds too good to be true. Then again, I know people who take incredibly small amounts of anti-depressants, and it changes their life. I find myself skeptical, but willing to give it a try. However, I would not say I am hopeful.

Hope is a complicated emotion for me. I don’t always have control over my hope – sometimes I can feel it behind my cynicism, trying to push through, small bursts getting by, evoking images of peace and contentment. But through the years, it has become an enemy of my depression – spreading fallacies of possible happiness into my brain, only to be devastatingly wrong.

I remember when I started to feel better after a few weeks of ECT. I was ecstatic because I had finally found something that would allow me the chance to have a life worth living. The short term memory loss was a bit annoying, but at the time, it was a small price to pay to have the heavy pressure of depression lifted. I’d found the “piece” that I was born without, that would make me whole – the component that would provide an adaptation to survive. And then it stopped working. And then I found out it wouldn’t work anymore, no matter how many times I tried. And then I was expected to go back to the medication drawing board and start again.

I would say that’s when my trust of hope died. That’s when I started to wonder if I was just too broken, the deficit irreparable and too impairing for me to ever be able to have dreams again. Hope had hurt me one too many times. So am I hopeful? All I can give right now is that I’m not NOT hopeful. I’m open to being pleasantly surprised, but I’m not running around telling the world to watch out because I’ll be out there soon! I have a feeling even if the Deplin works, I will still need to make changes to my meds, there will still be quite a bit of side effects, as well as possible withdrawal and mood swings. I am not naive enough to think that this is “my piece” anymore. But if my doctor is telling me that my what I was feeling this past year was only a fraction of the medication working and that I could feel better than that, I’ll swallow the pill faithfully, I’ll change the dosages, I’ll try medications again, I’ll do whatever it takes. At this point, what do I have to lose?

While some people believe that hope takes less energy than despair, I think there is a key component to that theory that often gets overlooked. Because when you are in the despair, you have to work to get to that hope, and you have so many factors against you. To reach a place of hope you must push through the exhaustion, find a way to ignore all past failures, and find the strength to block out the despair that radiates throughout your body and mind, draining you, beating you down, offering the temptation of rest.

I imagine myself on the side of a sea cliff, trying to pull myself up to get to safety, knowing that if my muscles get too tired; if I miscalculate one move; or a piece of the cliff simply loosens and drops, I could fall quickly into the dark, depressive water below, possibly being killed on impact. I wait, terrified, for a surge of strength or an outreached hand.

I want to have hope that I can feel better and find a new normal that doesn’t include dire mood swings and hypomanic bursts. I want to believe that help is on its’ way. But hoping for help doesn’t save me. And frankly, I’m getting really tired of holding on to this “sea cliff,” waiting for the moment when I can stand on firm ground.

Accepting the Ignorance of Others

[Disclaimer: I do not suffer from addiction to illegal or recreational drugs or alcohol. I do not portend to know the struggle to recover and manage this specific addiction. I wrote this post to highlight the idea of understanding and respecting different perspectives when it comes to mental health, healing, and recovery in general. I apologize if I offend anyone. Please let me know if there is something incorrect so I may learn from it, and change the post if need be.]

When I was younger, I mistook the knowledge of my idealism as fact and created definitive standards of right and wrong. Maybe my mind was too young to understand the complexities of human experience, or maybe I simply hadn’t lived long enough to see the dynamics of life. But thankfully over time, I have come to see the nuance in all human interaction, and our struggle to find peace and acceptance, especially within ourselves.

I have spent so many years on my quest to manage my mental illness. I have tried a smorgasbord of drugs, therapies, and alternative remedies. Some have worked for a time, and others simply did not fit. A simple example: while I have found DBT an effective form of therapy, group therapy has never worked for me. And while I am still searching, I have witnessed so many find the concoction of tools that help them survive. As long as it does not hurt themselves or others I support them without judgment. In fact, I envy them. I also understand that sometimes, in order to maintain their health, they might proselytize. I think it is common when you have found something that has changed your life. You want others to benefit from your experience and you want to believe in what you are doing, (something I believe plays a large part in what makes it work.)

All of that being said, I was part of a conversation recently where two people were discussing options to help someone who is currently suffering from drug addiction. At the end of the day, we all understand that she will have to want to change, and will have to most likely try a variety of mechanisms to help her battle her addiction. It’s going to be a long road, and I suppose those that love her are trying to find ways they can support and provide her with options for the journey to come.

One of those people is a recovering alcoholic who found his form of AA as key to his recovery. From what I know from others who participate in AA, there are varied forms of AA – it isn’t practiced or used in one way only. I also think it’s important to mention that this person is not educated or familiar with other forms of addiction therapy and tools. I believe he has lived a rather narrow life in terms of interactions and experiences with others. (This is not a criticism, just something to note.) And while I do not think he understands the situation fully, I do appreciate his passion for the techniques that worked for him and that have allowed him to remain sober for so long. I accept that I am not in his shoes and that in his perspective of the world, he has found the right answer – not just for him, but for so many addicts he has helped along the way.

While I held back my frustrations at his simplistic and contradictory ideas of “help,” at some point, I became incredibly frustrated. I told him that this matter was not just about drugs; it was about traumatic experiences, environment, social norms within their network, and a chemical imbalance that makes her have an addictive personality. I noted that while I appreciated that his version of AA had helped him, that for others, therapy, medication, and other forms of help might be better for her and we had to keep our minds open to what might fit her best.

This is when he began his tirade about “pharmaceutical money-scheming” and “bullshit therapy.” He noted that if doctors were to actually “cure” their patients, they would be out of a job. This isn’t the first time I have encountered someone with this opinion, and I know it will not be my last. But it stung. I am currently battling my bipolar II, and given my treatment-resistant depression (TRD,) I am in a frustrating and scary place.

Also, as someone who does take medication, I do not judge those that do not take medications – I know for some, the side effects are too much for them or they simply do not like the idea. Others have had unfortunately negative experiences in therapy, (who hasn’t,) and are weary of trying it again. And that’s okay. But this man has never tried therapy or medication (there are medications that can help with weaning people off addictive medication.) While I do not have a typical addiction, though I tend to see my self-harming personally as an addiction of sorts, I have spoken to those who have, I have read articles, and I have watched those around me get better. And so while I have heard ignorant comments that insult the mechanisms I choose to use, he added injury to insult by assuming I did not know what it might be like to be in a situation where you are not in control of your thoughts, feelings, and actions.

I had so much to say. But like many women, I have been trained to cry instead of show anger. The other person in the conversation, who knows my story, attempted to turn the conversation, and I stepped outside. I was crying because I was angry at his ignorance. I was crying because while I do not know his whole story, I do not belittle his belief in G-d, even though it is an idea I do not believe in. I actually see commonalities in the various techniques used, including in AA, like radical acceptance or letting go of past resentments. But he has developed an idea about medication and therapy, and without knowing what it really is, has decided it is worthless. And in doing so, he is negating the years of trial and error, and my struggle, because to him, it’s not just about proselytizing, it’s about “the right way.”

In the past few days, I have spent time thinking this through, and most likely giving him more time than he deserves. I know he is coming from a place of ignorance, and while some people are open to listening and learning, there are others who simply can not/will not. They say they are, but they already have decided their right and wrong. I have found this to be true when I tell people about ECT. Sometimes they don’t know what it is, and if do know or find out, their reactions are insulting. Often times, they look afraid and aghast, I have had people literally take steps back. You can see their idea of you shifting in their head. I have even had doctors look at me with horror and what feels like judgment. I always imagine they are thinking, “how can someone who seems so normal, be so fucked up? Who knew she was actually crazy – I mean she let herself be electrocuted.” Some are willing to listen and learn; others aren’t. And like this man, I allow them to make me feel ashamed of my choices.

I also think his comments hurt more than usual because I am currently struggling with my faith in the process. I am frustrated, scared, tired, and my hope is dwindling. Having someone exacerbate my fear is unsettling. Both of these reasons have more to do with me and my issues, and not him. I accept that.

I suppose in my own way, I want to proselytize my reasoning for being open-minded to all voices. I have found that if I allow myself to listen to the other side, I see how much we have in common, am able to analyze and understand some of what they dislike in my choice, and while I still may maintain my belief, find value in the challenge of learning to see it from different perspectives. I walk away with the understanding that nothing in life is as simple as we might want it to be. But not everyone works that way and it is not my place to tell them to do so.

I am trying to see this experience as a lesson. An opportunity for the radical acceptance that the nuance of humans includes those that are unwilling to open their minds. Understanding that he is a complex person, that this is one part of him that I do not like, but there are reasons why he is the way he is, he is not hurting anyone, and at the end of the day, he is more than just that one opinion. And he is entitled to that opinion, even if I do not agree.

Well, that is the ideal anyway.

the pointless nature of “crying for help”

disclaimer: some stuff about suicide, self-harm, and just basically scary, downer stuff. don’t read this if it’s going to trigger you. i assure you it’s not worth it: just some ramblings but without a filter.

They say that an attempted suicide is a cry for help. While I have never attempted, I will say that based on my experience leading up to a moment like that, you are definitely past a “shout out.” Asking for help can be difficult for anyone. Some people don’t like to ask for help doing a difficult DIY project. A lot of people think they should be able to deal with something on their own, or maybe they don’t want to bother someone.

But I’m trying to understand this idea of crying out for help when it comes to depression. I never have really understood it, even when I have tried to do it. So let’s see, sometimes when I’m getting down, when I feel myself getting closer to a destructive ledge, I may call someone. When they ask “Hey, how are you?” I don’t say anything like: “You know how it is…I guess I just feel like i’m getting closer to a destructive ledge.” I don’t think that’s actually what they’re expecting and frankly I don’t think it’s what they want to hear. I usually just ask them about how their life is. I’m trying to get better at not hiding everything, so I might even say, “Hey, I’m just feeling out of sorts and just wanted to hear your voice and focus on you, because i love you, and i need to get out of my selfishly depressed brain right now.” But people are busy. And you’re calling “just” to talk? That doesn’t really take precedence over preparing for a party, or going out to dinner with someone. it doesn’t take precedence over a crying baby, or a timer for the oven.

So then you get to that destructive ledge. I suppose you can call out before doing something. Sometimes i have called someone before I harm myself. It’s hard – trying to express you’re scared without freaking everyone out. Because they don’t know where you are: maybe you have the knife to your wrist; or maybe you just are in bed and don’t want to get out. And besides, by that point, I have either decided to do something or not. In fact, the only thing that might stop me is if someone called me right in that moment. But that’s not going to happen.

Then there’s the “I’ve already done it and I’m ashamed” call for help. I’ve done that one a few times. Not sure it helps. I mean, it pulls me out of the chaos usually. Makes me remember that I don’t want to hurt others or to scare them with my unacceptable behaviors. Situations, that if and when things settle, I will have to explain, will never really be understood by loved ones because it won’t sound like a “good enough” reason to have done something they think is so unnecessary.

Recently, I was sitting and i could feel the wave coming. And i could feel that I wasn’t strong enough to push it down. I couldn’t help myself. And that “couldn’t” was turning into a “I don’t wanna” really fast. So I think: maybe I text someone? Maybe something vague with this hope that somehow they see through it and understand I need them to come save me? Because honestly, how the fuck is a text convo with emojis really going to help? And haven’t we had this conversation before, the last time I was in this position?

Then, what if it does pass? What if it wasn’t as bad as I thought it would be? Now I’ve scared them and they need me to call them all the time; they don’t want me to be alone. Now those things that took precedent before don’t, but you know it’s because of you, and the guilt is worse than if you had just gone through with it. By the time they call you back or get to your house, the immediacy has passed.

The thing about a call for help, is you have to want to make it. You have to have the strength and gumption to say that you need help. But maybe you don’t want to use up your “helps.” I mean, everyone says they will always be there, but lest you be the “boy that cried wolf.” Plus, you are bothering that person, you are impacting their life in a selfish way, so you kind of want to use those moments when they really matter. But then of course, how do you know if this time will matter, and what if you realize it but you’re too far committed to turn back and make that call?

I don’t know about this cry for help. During a time when I feel pointless, frustrated, exhausted, tired of trying, I am supposed to call someone and tell them that I am feeling those things and that I need them to help me. I mean, isn’t that contradictory?

And now it’s time for me to go off topic, because it makes sense in my head.

I was writing to a friend today and wrote this huge explanation of the past three months: what has happened, how i have felt, all the shit. And then I erased it. I didn’t want to freak him out. And I realized, I only share, I only ask for help, after I don’t need it anymore. So i will tell someone that the night before, I had wanted to die. I will email with a friend across the pond to tell them about a scary period of time I had the past month when I didn’t know whether I was going to be ok or not.

Because if provided through this viewpoint, it’s something they can handle. They need to know it’s ok so they don’t feel helpless. And I don’t want to burden them with something they can’t control – so i tell them after, as if it was just a momentary weakness. And you have to, because if you don’t, then they don’t trust you. When you say you’re ok in the future, they don’t believe you. They call you all the time or attempt to subtly make sure you’re alive by “just passing by” or “thinking of you and deciding to call.” And it’s funny, because even though at one point I thought that was what I needed; by that point, it just feels like they are reaching out for themselves. So they feel better knowing they were doing “their part.” In fact, I’m not sure they actually want to understand what I would need in terms of help.

Many people offer their help to me and in doing so, I see the love they want to provide. They are good people; caring people. People I am lucky to have in my life. But they don’t get it. I don’t know if they can’t because they don’t know what it feels like, or maybe because they aren’t really listening to me the way I need to be listened to. Or maybe I’m not being clear because I don’t know what I need, let alone what I need specifically from them.

To me a cry for help needs to be answered immediately and never is. To me a cry of help is yet another pathetic demonstration of why no one should answer. Honestly, i’m pretty sure just a good cry would be more helpful than anything else.

Loneliness: It’s Not Just for Recluses Anymore

More and more mental health professionals are citing lack of human contact as a contributing factor in depression and even trauma recovery. It has become an item on the list of “must-haves” for stability. And recently, I’m starting to wonder, as are my doctors, if my lack of human contact is starting to hurt my health and recovery. And I think, especially for a person like me who thrives in social environments where my true self comes out to play; having my interactions revolve around the checker at Safeway, the guy at the counter of my gym, my trainer, therapist, and psychiatrist, well it’s not really cutting it.

In fact, you know you’re in a deep vat of pathetic when the following happens to you. I met with my therapist yesterday. I didn’t really need to but I hadn’t left the house or talked to anyone and it was either see her or go to the gym. I got there and we talked through why my options for human interaction are so limited. At one point, she mentioned we had five minutes left, and we usually spend that time deciding what I’m going to do to survive until I see her again. (At least, that’s what we’ve been doing lately.) So I started jamming about television shows, then she jumped in; I mentioned websites I had visited to see if I wanted to volunteer and why they sucked, she mentioned a few. After a while, we were just shooting the shit and then she said she had to go because she had something to get to. And it hit me as I got in my car: my therapist just spent an extra half hour with me just so I could have someone to hang out with and talk to about stuff.

It was really kind, but also really sad. I appreciated it, especially because that is definitely not protocol, and also realized how nice it was to talk to someone I liked and with whom I share commonalities. But the thing is, while I really like her as a therapist and a person, I shouldn’t be getting my socialization requirements for my health from my therapist. I guess she was just throwing out a temporary life raft and I took it. I was embarrassed until I got home and realized that was my fill of person-time for the day.

There is such a huge divide between knowing what you can do, what you want to do, and what you are able to do. And for things to happen, there has to be a symbiosis, even if one is weak and you have to force it a bit. Maybe I’m wrong. Maybe I’m making excuses. Maybe this is my fault. But right now I am unsure of what I am able to do and a bit blank in terms of what I want to do.

I just feel like right now my goal for the day is to be alive, not harm myself, and do one or two effective things. I did have “leave the house” as one thing too, but it’s getting harder so I’ve put it in parentheses. (It’s in quotes here, but in parentheses in my mental to-do list. Just clarifying some minutiae.)

I miss the rush of making people laugh, of sincerely laughing my ass off. The joy of doing something silly or having a really good, solid conversation.

But even if I wanted that, I don’t think I could right now. So for today and possibly tomorrow, I’m just getting through the day. For now, it seems, that’s all I can, want, and am able to do.