It's 9:44pm. I've been staring at the screen for several minutes alternating between irrational worrying thoughts and wondering just how to start writing this. I've already deleted and rewritten the opening sentence what feels like 100 times.
It's 9:47pm and I feel exhausted. I feel like there is a weight wrapped around me. Not the comforting warm weight of my feather duvet, but rather an oppressive, crushing weight that makes it hard to move. Hard to think. Hell it even turns each breath into a struggle as it closes vice-like fingers around my chest.
I know that if I go to bed now, I'll just lie there in the dark and my mind will race. It will play out a million what-if scenarios, each more dark and horrific than the last. My own personal horror movie inside my head. I have a pill that I can take and it will cut the power to that midnight theatre, but I don't like the way they make me feel, I don't like the fact that I'll be practically a zombie tomorrow as the drugs seem to take a long time to clear my system. But what choice do I have? It's a toss up between drug-addled zombie and didn't-get-enough-sleep zombie.
I just don't want a repeat of today. I don't want my daughter to be the only reason to drag myself out of bed, only to crawl back in once I've ensured that she's eaten and gotten dressed. To be so lacking in energy that I couldn't even rouse myself to say goodbye to a friend who came around just for that purpose. To have to feel grateful for my husband in picking up the slack and making sure our daughter got lunch.
I don't want to believe the voices that tell me that I'm worthless and lazy and useless. I don't want anxiety coming to the party and telling me that my husband is going to get sick of me moping around, that he's going to resent me for being so weak that I can't even get out of bed.
But today I was too tired to call them on their bullshit. Today I couldn't make myself believe that they were wrong.
Today they won.
All I can hope is that tomorrow they don't.
Saturday, 10 June 2017
Tuesday, 10 May 2016
Protein shakes and Prozac.
Okay, it's Cipramil, but it didn't have the same alliterative punch.
In the wake of last week's panic attacks, I scheduled a follow up appointment with my doctor to check in. She was glad to hear that the lorazepam worked well for me and asked if I wanted to wait and see if the anxiety would settle back down or if I wanted to discuss more long-term solutions.
It was at that point that I rather sheepishly admitted that I've been struggling with anxiety since January and that it all must have just come to a head that weekend because of several different things piling up at once until I was overwhelmed and just couldn't cope.
So now I'm back on the antidepressant I came off when my husband and I were trying to conceive our daughter. And the doctor would like me to remain on it for at least 3 months to see if it works, or whether we need to adjust the dosage or even switch to a different medication. She's also given me a list of resources for parenting (since a lot of my anxiety lately seems to stem from my daughter's behaviour), coping strategies and most importantly, she's asked me to chronicle when I feel anxious to try and start working out what triggers panic attacks and then learn to mitigate them before a panic attack happens so the coping strategies become unnecessary.
But even as I handed in my prescription at the pharmacy, I couldn't help feeling a sense of embarrassment, of shame even. Because there is this overwhelming stigma that taking medication makes you weak. It implies that you're incapable of dealing with your issues without a crutch. That it's easier to take a pill than to actually solve the problems.
Fuck that.
Seriously. In a society where we are conditioned to have a 'she'll be right' attitude towards our health, let alone our mental health lest we be considered some sort of attention-seeking hypochondriac, it takes so much damn courage to stand up and say, 'hey, I'm not okay and it's not all right.'
It takes so much strength to admit that you're not coping and you need help. Let alone medication.
Therapy is great. Exercise is great. But they're completely useless if you're trapped in a mental cycle where you're incapable of applying techniques learned in therapy or unable to muster up the motivation to go for that run or go to that Zumba class.
In a lot of cases, medication gives you back that middle ground. It allows you to stop the rollercoaster of emotions and find your balance long enough to start regaining your perspective. And then you can start applying those coping techniques, start going back to your exercise routines.
Of course, that's an overly simplistic view and the reality is a bit of a slippery slope where there are always still going to be bad days. But you'll be able to appreciate the good days a bit more as they won't simply whizz by in a blur, or be completely obscured by the bad. It's a start.
So tomorrow morning, when I have my breakfast protein shake, I'll take my next dose of Cipramil without shame. Because to me it means I'm done simply surviving day to day on the verge of panic. It means I want to be the best possible mother to my daughter and not one who loses it when she has a tantrum because her mother just can't cope. It means I'm done accepting that mental illness is a weakness.
It means I've accepted that I can be better than this and that I'm willing to take all the help I can get to become that person.
Doubt and Depression and their new friend Anxiety are going to dog my every step, undermine me every chance they get. But now I have a new weapon in my fight against them.
And maybe some day, a little further down the road, I'll be able to finally slay my demons, and win the damn war.
In the wake of last week's panic attacks, I scheduled a follow up appointment with my doctor to check in. She was glad to hear that the lorazepam worked well for me and asked if I wanted to wait and see if the anxiety would settle back down or if I wanted to discuss more long-term solutions.
It was at that point that I rather sheepishly admitted that I've been struggling with anxiety since January and that it all must have just come to a head that weekend because of several different things piling up at once until I was overwhelmed and just couldn't cope.
So now I'm back on the antidepressant I came off when my husband and I were trying to conceive our daughter. And the doctor would like me to remain on it for at least 3 months to see if it works, or whether we need to adjust the dosage or even switch to a different medication. She's also given me a list of resources for parenting (since a lot of my anxiety lately seems to stem from my daughter's behaviour), coping strategies and most importantly, she's asked me to chronicle when I feel anxious to try and start working out what triggers panic attacks and then learn to mitigate them before a panic attack happens so the coping strategies become unnecessary.
But even as I handed in my prescription at the pharmacy, I couldn't help feeling a sense of embarrassment, of shame even. Because there is this overwhelming stigma that taking medication makes you weak. It implies that you're incapable of dealing with your issues without a crutch. That it's easier to take a pill than to actually solve the problems.
Fuck that.
Seriously. In a society where we are conditioned to have a 'she'll be right' attitude towards our health, let alone our mental health lest we be considered some sort of attention-seeking hypochondriac, it takes so much damn courage to stand up and say, 'hey, I'm not okay and it's not all right.'
It takes so much strength to admit that you're not coping and you need help. Let alone medication.
Therapy is great. Exercise is great. But they're completely useless if you're trapped in a mental cycle where you're incapable of applying techniques learned in therapy or unable to muster up the motivation to go for that run or go to that Zumba class.
In a lot of cases, medication gives you back that middle ground. It allows you to stop the rollercoaster of emotions and find your balance long enough to start regaining your perspective. And then you can start applying those coping techniques, start going back to your exercise routines.
Of course, that's an overly simplistic view and the reality is a bit of a slippery slope where there are always still going to be bad days. But you'll be able to appreciate the good days a bit more as they won't simply whizz by in a blur, or be completely obscured by the bad. It's a start.
So tomorrow morning, when I have my breakfast protein shake, I'll take my next dose of Cipramil without shame. Because to me it means I'm done simply surviving day to day on the verge of panic. It means I want to be the best possible mother to my daughter and not one who loses it when she has a tantrum because her mother just can't cope. It means I'm done accepting that mental illness is a weakness.
It means I've accepted that I can be better than this and that I'm willing to take all the help I can get to become that person.
Doubt and Depression and their new friend Anxiety are going to dog my every step, undermine me every chance they get. But now I have a new weapon in my fight against them.
And maybe some day, a little further down the road, I'll be able to finally slay my demons, and win the damn war.
Sunday, 8 May 2016
We are now entering hell. Please keep your hands and elbows inside the car.
"Love that once hung on the wall,
Used to mean something,
But now it means nothing..." - Avril Lavigne - Let Me Go
~//~
So this past Tuesday, I wound up going to the doctors because over the weekend that my daughter was visiting with my parents and my husband was out of town, I started having this strange chest pain that made me feel short of breath and like I couldn't get enough air. Given that I have a family history of heart problems, I thought I should get it checked out.
On the plus side, my heart is fine. Downside, that crushing weight? Most likely panic attacks.
It's not really all that surprising. I do tend to be a worrier, and it seems lately that all the worries have piled up to the point where I don't even know where to begin with dealing with them. Plus apparently anxiety and depression are caused by the same chemical imbalances in the brain so it's not actually that uncommon for people to swing between both.
I have to say, while it's a relief that my heart is fine, the fact that I've basically had it confirmed by a medical professional that I have anxiety is mildly terrifying. Because I've dealt with depression most of my adult life. Depression is familiar territory. I know what it feels like, I can tell when I'm heading into a spiral. And I've begun to develop coping mechanisms that can at least keep me mostly functional when I lose my footing.
But now it's like Depression has brought along a big, mean friend and has completely changed the rules of the game. I'm still figuring out what is triggering the panic attacks so hopefully with a bit of counselling, maybe some medication I can take long-term, I can get a handle on this. I don't know if scrolling through facebook will trigger me. Or something at playgroup. Or one of my daughter's meltdowns.
My husband has been brilliant throughout this. Mostly because he's been through this (anxiety) and so he's been helping by suggesting techniques for coping. He doesn't judge me for being a hot mess, for needing medication to cope. He just accepts and asks what he can do.
And I love him for that. And for a great deal many other things.
But especially for that.
With his support it makes it easier to take things day to day. It makes it easier to see the light at the end of the tunnel and remember that it does get better.
Used to mean something,
But now it means nothing..." - Avril Lavigne - Let Me Go
~//~
So this past Tuesday, I wound up going to the doctors because over the weekend that my daughter was visiting with my parents and my husband was out of town, I started having this strange chest pain that made me feel short of breath and like I couldn't get enough air. Given that I have a family history of heart problems, I thought I should get it checked out.
On the plus side, my heart is fine. Downside, that crushing weight? Most likely panic attacks.
It's not really all that surprising. I do tend to be a worrier, and it seems lately that all the worries have piled up to the point where I don't even know where to begin with dealing with them. Plus apparently anxiety and depression are caused by the same chemical imbalances in the brain so it's not actually that uncommon for people to swing between both.
I have to say, while it's a relief that my heart is fine, the fact that I've basically had it confirmed by a medical professional that I have anxiety is mildly terrifying. Because I've dealt with depression most of my adult life. Depression is familiar territory. I know what it feels like, I can tell when I'm heading into a spiral. And I've begun to develop coping mechanisms that can at least keep me mostly functional when I lose my footing.
But now it's like Depression has brought along a big, mean friend and has completely changed the rules of the game. I'm still figuring out what is triggering the panic attacks so hopefully with a bit of counselling, maybe some medication I can take long-term, I can get a handle on this. I don't know if scrolling through facebook will trigger me. Or something at playgroup. Or one of my daughter's meltdowns.
My husband has been brilliant throughout this. Mostly because he's been through this (anxiety) and so he's been helping by suggesting techniques for coping. He doesn't judge me for being a hot mess, for needing medication to cope. He just accepts and asks what he can do.
And I love him for that. And for a great deal many other things.
But especially for that.
With his support it makes it easier to take things day to day. It makes it easier to see the light at the end of the tunnel and remember that it does get better.
Sunday, 24 April 2016
The curious thing about depression:
Depression is a funny thing. And I don't mean that as in funny 'ha ha' I mean as in strange. It's strange because sometimes it's as though it's wandered off or gotten lost. Or maybe taken a vacation. And suddenly you don't feel as heavy. You have more energy, your motivation returns and you almost begin to remember what it's like to feel like a normal human being.
Today my depression went on vacation temporarily. I got housework done, I showered and even got dressed despite not having any plans to set foot outside the house. Which for me is a major achievement because there are days when I am lucky to make it to the fully dressed stage.
I played with my daughter, had a lot of fun and laughs. And I actually felt happy. For the first time in what feels like months.
Unfortunately, vacations aren't permanent. No matter what you do to try and bar the doors, change the locks so it can't return, depression is sneaky. It has a master key and always manages to get the door open a crack, which is all it needs, ready to lie in wait and pounce at the slightest trigger.
And sometimes you can see a trigger coming. Which allows you to brace for it, prepare yourself to be dragged back down into the darkness and therefore it's more of a gradual slide. But sometimes the trigger sneaks up on you, seizing you by the throat and then hurling you suddenly back down into the pit, leaving you feeling more than a little breathless and banged up as you look around at the walls of the pit and wonder just how the hell you got there.
Tonight it caught me unawares. I was scrolling through my news feed on Facebook and came across an updated profile picture of an old friend from high school. And while I was happy to see her looking so well, it was also a painful reminder that at one point in our lives, she, myself and P were thick as thieves. Which of course led me to thinking about P and wondering how she's doing.
Suddenly I was back in the pit and I never saw it coming. Feeling sad and angry and a little raw inside. All because of one profile pic.
To be fair, there's been a fair bit going on lately, between appointments for my daughter with eye specialists (she has a slight astigmatism that they're monitoring), family drama and a nasty cold strain that's hit me pretty damn hard, I guess my defenses are a little low. Leaving me open to these little gut-shots from grief.
I don't know if I'll ever get used to those. There is this irrational part of me that wants to run through the house and remove everything she ever gave me. Destroy it, burn it, do something defiant and final.
But there were good times. Even if remembering those is painful, even if the way things ended has cast a pall over them, I need to remember that there were some good times. And though she may have discarded them and me, at least I know they meant something to me. That even though she doesn't like who I've become, those memories, those times we shared were pivotal in making me who I am. Which is why I can't throw them away.
Maybe I'll put them in a box and tuck them away on a shelf. And one day, when I've gotten to the point where it doesn't hurt as much to think about her, maybe then I can open the box and find that the hurt and anger have evaporated and that only the joy and happiness remains.
Until then, I continue to try and take things, as always, one day at a time.
Sunday, 3 April 2016
Helping with depression.
It can be hard to see someone who is suffering depression, especially if they're a close friend or family member. You can feel anxious from wanting to help, not knowing what will help, what won't, or not knowing if the help will even be welcomed. So I thought I might list a few things that might help lessen the anxiety.
1) Don't ask if they're okay. I know this sounds counter-intuitive, but bear with me here. I know that when I'm in the middle of a depressive spiral, if someone asks me if I'm okay, my answer is usually 'I'm fine.' It's a programmed response. Mostly because I don't want to be seen as 'emo' or melodramatic or a problem or a burden. It's been my experience that a lot of people tend to ask if I'm okay out of a sense of obligation, rather than out of any genuine concern for my feelings. Which in return makes me feel obligated to 'be okay' when I'm really not. Which isn't helpful.
Instead, try asking 'what do you need?' This comes across as more sincere. It shows you're willing to DO something and you're not just paying lip service. You're also likely to get a more genuine response. And please, respect what they need. If they say they need to be alone, then they probably do and they're not just saying that to be offensive or because they're mad at you. Some people do genuinely need to be alone to work through their feelings.
2) Include them. Making plans to see a movie? Organizing a group outing to get coffees and chat? Send them a text, give them a call. Show them that you still want their company, that you enjoy having them around. Nothing can be more healing for someone with depression than seeing a message from their friends asking them to join them for something fun.
3) Don't be afraid to ask them about it. If you've noticed that they're not themselves, ask if they're feeling depressed. Maybe they haven't realized it themselves yet or maybe they just need to talk to start the healing process. Either way, be there and listen. Trust me, this is one of the biggest things. Talking about it to someone who cares can help put it into perspective, help us begin to cope.
4) Understand and accept that there is nothing you can do to truly 'fix' them. Depression is a very complex illness and can vary greatly from person to person. Medication and therapy can help make us functional, but there are still going to be bad days. And often it can creep up on us and pounce when we least expect it, which is why we can seem to have violent mood swings. And that's probably what's happened when we suddenly cancel plans. So it's nothing personal, it's just that we've been wrestling with the demons and it's just left us exhausted.
5) Just be there! I cannot stress this enough. Depression is cunning. It has a way of worming into our heads and convincing us that we're not worth anything, that we're never going to achieve anything, that we're not worth loving. So the best thing you can do is show us that it's wrong. Keep coming around, keep dishing out the hugs, keep reassuring us that we're still wanted. It may make us seem needy, but what's a few words when they make the difference between giving into that sly voice in our heads or beating it back for another day.
Hopefully some of these suggestions can help you help someone who needs it. If you have any other ideas for what's helpful, feel free to suggest them in the comments section.
1) Don't ask if they're okay. I know this sounds counter-intuitive, but bear with me here. I know that when I'm in the middle of a depressive spiral, if someone asks me if I'm okay, my answer is usually 'I'm fine.' It's a programmed response. Mostly because I don't want to be seen as 'emo' or melodramatic or a problem or a burden. It's been my experience that a lot of people tend to ask if I'm okay out of a sense of obligation, rather than out of any genuine concern for my feelings. Which in return makes me feel obligated to 'be okay' when I'm really not. Which isn't helpful.
Instead, try asking 'what do you need?' This comes across as more sincere. It shows you're willing to DO something and you're not just paying lip service. You're also likely to get a more genuine response. And please, respect what they need. If they say they need to be alone, then they probably do and they're not just saying that to be offensive or because they're mad at you. Some people do genuinely need to be alone to work through their feelings.
2) Include them. Making plans to see a movie? Organizing a group outing to get coffees and chat? Send them a text, give them a call. Show them that you still want their company, that you enjoy having them around. Nothing can be more healing for someone with depression than seeing a message from their friends asking them to join them for something fun.
3) Don't be afraid to ask them about it. If you've noticed that they're not themselves, ask if they're feeling depressed. Maybe they haven't realized it themselves yet or maybe they just need to talk to start the healing process. Either way, be there and listen. Trust me, this is one of the biggest things. Talking about it to someone who cares can help put it into perspective, help us begin to cope.
4) Understand and accept that there is nothing you can do to truly 'fix' them. Depression is a very complex illness and can vary greatly from person to person. Medication and therapy can help make us functional, but there are still going to be bad days. And often it can creep up on us and pounce when we least expect it, which is why we can seem to have violent mood swings. And that's probably what's happened when we suddenly cancel plans. So it's nothing personal, it's just that we've been wrestling with the demons and it's just left us exhausted.
5) Just be there! I cannot stress this enough. Depression is cunning. It has a way of worming into our heads and convincing us that we're not worth anything, that we're never going to achieve anything, that we're not worth loving. So the best thing you can do is show us that it's wrong. Keep coming around, keep dishing out the hugs, keep reassuring us that we're still wanted. It may make us seem needy, but what's a few words when they make the difference between giving into that sly voice in our heads or beating it back for another day.
Hopefully some of these suggestions can help you help someone who needs it. If you have any other ideas for what's helpful, feel free to suggest them in the comments section.
Thursday, 24 March 2016
Trying to cope with grief.
"You and me, we used to be together
Everyday together, always.
I really feel, that I'm losing my best friend,
I can't believe this could be the end.
It looks as though, you're letting go,
And if it's real, well I don't want to know..." - "Don't Speak" - No Doubt.
~//~
Loss is unfortunately an unavoidable part of life. Sooner or later everyone loses something precious to them. Be it the death of a loved one, the loss of a pet, life changes such as moving to a new town, or even the dissolution of a once cherished friendship.
The biggest thing about grief is that no matter the reason for it, we all experience it and cope with it in different ways. For some people, counseling or talking about it with a loved one helps. Some people write, some people exercise.
I tend to write about things. After all, Ernest Hemingway said "There is nothing at all to writing. Just sit at a typewriter and bleed." And for me that's true. There's something cathartic in being able to pull my emotions out of myself, using words to give them a form that I can observe and wrestle with. And hopefully conquer.
This year so far has been downright awful in the grief department. In early February, my beloved cat Mischief was attacked and mauled by a dog. She died at the vets. And even now, a month and a half later, I am still tormented by what-ifs. What if I'd gotten her to the vet faster? What if I'd kept her inside that morning? Some nights I wake up because I hear the curtains in the bedroom rustling and keep thinking she's about to jump down from the windowsill and up onto the bed.
It's really hard. We adopted her from the shelter and on the day we went in, I took her out of her cage there and she immediately put her paws around my neck like she was hugging me and held on as if to say, 'you're going to take me home.' She chose us. And even though she was annoying at times, we loved her to bits, so to have her ripped from us so suddenly was just...awful.
However, life goes on. And so did I. Until last week.
Here it becomes necessary to give you a little context. I have this friend, let's call her P. She and I became incredibly close during our last year of high school. We had so many interests in common, bitched with each other about the people in our lives who were making us crazy. At one point I considered her more of a sister to me than my own full-blooded sister. And even after high school, we still remained close, despite how far apart we were. Exchanging emails and even a snail-mail 'letter book' which we'd use to send each other gifts and other tidbits from wherever we were.
But then I moved away to resume my university studies, moving in with the man who became my husband and making a new circle of friends up here. And though we were only a 2 hour drive apart, eventually I noticed that there was a distance starting to grow between us. One that I feel I tried to close time and time again. But I got married, she stayed single. I had my daughter, she has no intention of ever having kids (which I DO totally respect). It became difficult because, being a stay at home mum, I don't really do a lot else with my time so a lot of what I talk about is centered around my daughter. And if you're not a parent yourself, I can understand you not wanting to hear about my daughter's latest escapade.
P finished up her own university stint and decided to head overseas as she's always been a bit of a dreamer with a wanderlust. Which was fine as I figured we'd just keep up to date via instant messenger and Facebook and other things.
But then one of our IM conversations went off the rails. I won't bore you with the full details, but the gist of it is that we were discussing the fandoms of a TV show we were both watching and I basically said that the woman/woman pairings weren't doing it for me and that I much preferred the male/male pairings. I theorized that this was because I've moved more towards the hetero end of the sexuality spectrum (I see sexuality as a spectrum. For those who care, I identify as bi, leaning more towards heterosexual). But for some reason she got offended at me using the term 'hetero mindset' and accused me of basically perpetuating society's ingrained homophobia. And the more I tried to explain that it was simply how I felt at that time, the more upset she got and then the more upset I got until I had to simply walk away from the conversation.
And I didn't give it another thought. Until I recently started watching the latest season of that show again (I was way behind because I hadn't had much time to catch up). And when I finished the season, I went over to P's Facebook page to see if she had any thoughts on the finale. However, when I got there, there was the message at the top of the page 'to see what she shares with friends, send her a friend request'. And I wondered if I hadn't accidentally unfriended her when I had been playing around with my settings earlier (after the aforementioned conversation I stopped following her as a 'close friend' on Facebook and thought I might have unfriended her then).
So I sent her a friend request. The next morning I woke up to an email from her.
Turns out she had unfriended me. And not by accident.
I won't paste the email here. All I will say is that it was basically a list of all my past crimes that according to her have been 'piling up' for the last few years.
What kills me (besides the fact that she obviously never felt like she could say ANY of this to my face when they were actually happening) is that she was clearly NEVER going to offer me any explanation for unfriending me. She only felt obligated to do so because I pursued the issue by asking her to friend me again on Facebook.
Apparently she's willing to try and salvage the friendship if I'm willing to listen.
But, if it's this badly broken, what's the point in fixing it if we no longer have that common ground? Do I really want to be friends with someone who would rather quietly run away from problems than stand and talk about them? Who doesn't seem to respect me enough to tell me outright about these things and sends a passive-aggressive email instead of, I don't know, Skyping me so we can talk face to face? Because to be completely honest, this isn't the first time she's done this. We had a brief falling out when we were 19.
It's hard. It is SO painful to turn my back on a friendship that is over a decade old and once ran so deep. But she's right. We've both changed. And I don't think either of us can like the other right now.
So even though it hurts and is going to keep hurting like a total bitch for quite some time, I HAVE to walk away.
I'm grieving so deeply right now. I grieve for what we shared. I'm feeling that I didn't try hard enough to 'know her' so that there wouldn't be such a huge gap between us. But I'm also deeply pissed off because she's basically walked away like our history means nothing to her. Which in turn makes me feel like nothing.
But as my husband keeps telling me. It's going to suck. And then eventually it will suck a little less until it reaches a point where you can finally live with it.
When I was in high school, I said that it's the ones closest to us who have the greatest power to hurt us. And I guess she's proven me right about that.
But realistically, I know I'm better off without her. I know who I am. And even though I don't always like who I am, I'm still sure of my identity. I think she still needs a little more time to figure herself out and do a little more growing.
I have my husband and a wonderful (if exhausting) daughter. And that's what's really important.
It's the small things. Those are what get me through what seems like crippling sadness. Even if it's something as small as my daughter laughing at something completely mundane, it's enough.
It's always enough.
Everyday together, always.
I really feel, that I'm losing my best friend,
I can't believe this could be the end.
It looks as though, you're letting go,
And if it's real, well I don't want to know..." - "Don't Speak" - No Doubt.
~//~
Loss is unfortunately an unavoidable part of life. Sooner or later everyone loses something precious to them. Be it the death of a loved one, the loss of a pet, life changes such as moving to a new town, or even the dissolution of a once cherished friendship.
The biggest thing about grief is that no matter the reason for it, we all experience it and cope with it in different ways. For some people, counseling or talking about it with a loved one helps. Some people write, some people exercise.
I tend to write about things. After all, Ernest Hemingway said "There is nothing at all to writing. Just sit at a typewriter and bleed." And for me that's true. There's something cathartic in being able to pull my emotions out of myself, using words to give them a form that I can observe and wrestle with. And hopefully conquer.
This year so far has been downright awful in the grief department. In early February, my beloved cat Mischief was attacked and mauled by a dog. She died at the vets. And even now, a month and a half later, I am still tormented by what-ifs. What if I'd gotten her to the vet faster? What if I'd kept her inside that morning? Some nights I wake up because I hear the curtains in the bedroom rustling and keep thinking she's about to jump down from the windowsill and up onto the bed.
It's really hard. We adopted her from the shelter and on the day we went in, I took her out of her cage there and she immediately put her paws around my neck like she was hugging me and held on as if to say, 'you're going to take me home.' She chose us. And even though she was annoying at times, we loved her to bits, so to have her ripped from us so suddenly was just...awful.
However, life goes on. And so did I. Until last week.
Here it becomes necessary to give you a little context. I have this friend, let's call her P. She and I became incredibly close during our last year of high school. We had so many interests in common, bitched with each other about the people in our lives who were making us crazy. At one point I considered her more of a sister to me than my own full-blooded sister. And even after high school, we still remained close, despite how far apart we were. Exchanging emails and even a snail-mail 'letter book' which we'd use to send each other gifts and other tidbits from wherever we were.
But then I moved away to resume my university studies, moving in with the man who became my husband and making a new circle of friends up here. And though we were only a 2 hour drive apart, eventually I noticed that there was a distance starting to grow between us. One that I feel I tried to close time and time again. But I got married, she stayed single. I had my daughter, she has no intention of ever having kids (which I DO totally respect). It became difficult because, being a stay at home mum, I don't really do a lot else with my time so a lot of what I talk about is centered around my daughter. And if you're not a parent yourself, I can understand you not wanting to hear about my daughter's latest escapade.
P finished up her own university stint and decided to head overseas as she's always been a bit of a dreamer with a wanderlust. Which was fine as I figured we'd just keep up to date via instant messenger and Facebook and other things.
But then one of our IM conversations went off the rails. I won't bore you with the full details, but the gist of it is that we were discussing the fandoms of a TV show we were both watching and I basically said that the woman/woman pairings weren't doing it for me and that I much preferred the male/male pairings. I theorized that this was because I've moved more towards the hetero end of the sexuality spectrum (I see sexuality as a spectrum. For those who care, I identify as bi, leaning more towards heterosexual). But for some reason she got offended at me using the term 'hetero mindset' and accused me of basically perpetuating society's ingrained homophobia. And the more I tried to explain that it was simply how I felt at that time, the more upset she got and then the more upset I got until I had to simply walk away from the conversation.
And I didn't give it another thought. Until I recently started watching the latest season of that show again (I was way behind because I hadn't had much time to catch up). And when I finished the season, I went over to P's Facebook page to see if she had any thoughts on the finale. However, when I got there, there was the message at the top of the page 'to see what she shares with friends, send her a friend request'. And I wondered if I hadn't accidentally unfriended her when I had been playing around with my settings earlier (after the aforementioned conversation I stopped following her as a 'close friend' on Facebook and thought I might have unfriended her then).
So I sent her a friend request. The next morning I woke up to an email from her.
Turns out she had unfriended me. And not by accident.
I won't paste the email here. All I will say is that it was basically a list of all my past crimes that according to her have been 'piling up' for the last few years.
What kills me (besides the fact that she obviously never felt like she could say ANY of this to my face when they were actually happening) is that she was clearly NEVER going to offer me any explanation for unfriending me. She only felt obligated to do so because I pursued the issue by asking her to friend me again on Facebook.
Apparently she's willing to try and salvage the friendship if I'm willing to listen.
But, if it's this badly broken, what's the point in fixing it if we no longer have that common ground? Do I really want to be friends with someone who would rather quietly run away from problems than stand and talk about them? Who doesn't seem to respect me enough to tell me outright about these things and sends a passive-aggressive email instead of, I don't know, Skyping me so we can talk face to face? Because to be completely honest, this isn't the first time she's done this. We had a brief falling out when we were 19.
It's hard. It is SO painful to turn my back on a friendship that is over a decade old and once ran so deep. But she's right. We've both changed. And I don't think either of us can like the other right now.
So even though it hurts and is going to keep hurting like a total bitch for quite some time, I HAVE to walk away.
I'm grieving so deeply right now. I grieve for what we shared. I'm feeling that I didn't try hard enough to 'know her' so that there wouldn't be such a huge gap between us. But I'm also deeply pissed off because she's basically walked away like our history means nothing to her. Which in turn makes me feel like nothing.
But as my husband keeps telling me. It's going to suck. And then eventually it will suck a little less until it reaches a point where you can finally live with it.
When I was in high school, I said that it's the ones closest to us who have the greatest power to hurt us. And I guess she's proven me right about that.
But realistically, I know I'm better off without her. I know who I am. And even though I don't always like who I am, I'm still sure of my identity. I think she still needs a little more time to figure herself out and do a little more growing.
I have my husband and a wonderful (if exhausting) daughter. And that's what's really important.
It's the small things. Those are what get me through what seems like crippling sadness. Even if it's something as small as my daughter laughing at something completely mundane, it's enough.
It's always enough.
Friday, 18 March 2016
What depression feels like.
I want to start this blog off by saying that I get really tired of the stigma surrounding mental illness, particularly depression. I've lost track of the number of times I've heard the line 'you're not depressed, you're just sad' or 'suck it up and stop feeling sorry for yourself'.'
I can't speak for everyone who has experienced depression, but I can speak for myself. And in my own experience, depression is just so much more than 'feeling sad'.
For me it is like a tiredness. But it is more than just the physical signs of fatigue, this is a weariness that goes right to the very heart of me, to the point where summoning up the energy to express any emotion, happiness, mirth, anger, anything is just too much effort. I stagger through the day in a sort of numb haze, feeling oddly disconnected from whatever is happening around me.
But, beneath the numbness, everything is seething. I feel tense, anxious, angry and like I just want to scream and scream until my throat is raw. And then when that's done, I want to curl into a ball and cry and cry until my body simply withers.
I want to be surrounded by loved ones, but at the same time I just want to be left alone to wallow because I don't want my mood to become a burden or someone else's problem.
I want to be supported, but I'm scared of reaching for it due to the number of times I've been negatively treated in the past, that the support I so desperately needed from those closest to me was denied.
The worst comment is; "You're still up and doing stuff, so it can't be that bad."
Well, to that comment, I'd like to offer a sincere 'fuck you'.
I have a 2 year old daughter. She depends on me to ensure her needs are met. Depression doesn't give a rats ass that the laundry needs to be done. Or the grocery shopping. Or any of the myriad other chores that keep a household running. But fortunately I care. Because if I don't do the laundry my daughter won't have clean clothes to wear, if I don't do the groceries, she won't have food to eat. And the last thing I want is for my child to suffer from cold or hunger because of what is essentially my problem. That overriding sense of responsibility is sometimes the only thing that can get me out of bed when I'm in a depressive spiral.
Having said that though, the sense of responsibility does absolutely nothing to help the depression. It's like throwing a poster over a huge hole in the wall. Though the poster covers it up so you can't see it, the hole is still there. And the moment the poster is damaged, that hole becomes glaringly obvious again.
So just because I seem 'functional' does not mean that I am coping.
Some days, all you can do is try your best to just make it till the end of the day.
Even if it means letting your child watch TV on a loop so you can grab five minutes of peace.
Even if it means locking yourself in the bathroom and crying for those five minutes.
Some days are better. Some days you're not as tired and you can find the joy in the simple things, such as cuddling your daughter or listening to her laugh.
But mostly, all you can do is take things one day at a time.
I can't speak for everyone who has experienced depression, but I can speak for myself. And in my own experience, depression is just so much more than 'feeling sad'.
For me it is like a tiredness. But it is more than just the physical signs of fatigue, this is a weariness that goes right to the very heart of me, to the point where summoning up the energy to express any emotion, happiness, mirth, anger, anything is just too much effort. I stagger through the day in a sort of numb haze, feeling oddly disconnected from whatever is happening around me.
But, beneath the numbness, everything is seething. I feel tense, anxious, angry and like I just want to scream and scream until my throat is raw. And then when that's done, I want to curl into a ball and cry and cry until my body simply withers.
I want to be surrounded by loved ones, but at the same time I just want to be left alone to wallow because I don't want my mood to become a burden or someone else's problem.
I want to be supported, but I'm scared of reaching for it due to the number of times I've been negatively treated in the past, that the support I so desperately needed from those closest to me was denied.
The worst comment is; "You're still up and doing stuff, so it can't be that bad."
Well, to that comment, I'd like to offer a sincere 'fuck you'.
I have a 2 year old daughter. She depends on me to ensure her needs are met. Depression doesn't give a rats ass that the laundry needs to be done. Or the grocery shopping. Or any of the myriad other chores that keep a household running. But fortunately I care. Because if I don't do the laundry my daughter won't have clean clothes to wear, if I don't do the groceries, she won't have food to eat. And the last thing I want is for my child to suffer from cold or hunger because of what is essentially my problem. That overriding sense of responsibility is sometimes the only thing that can get me out of bed when I'm in a depressive spiral.
Having said that though, the sense of responsibility does absolutely nothing to help the depression. It's like throwing a poster over a huge hole in the wall. Though the poster covers it up so you can't see it, the hole is still there. And the moment the poster is damaged, that hole becomes glaringly obvious again.
So just because I seem 'functional' does not mean that I am coping.
Some days, all you can do is try your best to just make it till the end of the day.
Even if it means letting your child watch TV on a loop so you can grab five minutes of peace.
Even if it means locking yourself in the bathroom and crying for those five minutes.
Some days are better. Some days you're not as tired and you can find the joy in the simple things, such as cuddling your daughter or listening to her laugh.
But mostly, all you can do is take things one day at a time.
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