Functional

For the last year(ish), I've been dealing with what I think of as functional depression. I take care of everything for which I'm responsible. I see to the needs of my family, even on days when I cannot see to my own. The house is clean, the bills are paid, the cats are fed. I manage, but all of it is done without much zest. I get through each day.

Today, I'm not sure I have it in me. I feel bleak and numb, and my body feels physically heavier than usual. Every small action feels futile. Every thought is clouded with doubt and despair.

At times like this, I turn to the fears that hold me in place. I think of the horrific pain I'd inflict on my family if I disappeared, the nightmare I'd impose on whomever had to clean up my mess. I try to think of anything other than myself.

I chant a little mantra I found online years ago: "The world does not need more ugly [sic]. Especially from me."

Which may or may not have the desired effect, I guess, given that depression itself is inherently ugly. On days like this, when I look in the mirror, I think "ugly." All of my thoughts are ugly. And it is very difficult, under such circumstances, to imagine that anyone around me sees anything other than ugliness.

I'd Rather Be Mentally Ill On Screen

Have you ever noticed how appealing mental illness looks on television and in movies? Why are issues like depression, anxiety, PTSD, OCD, and others so entertaining? No one I know in real life wants to talk about or acknowledge my depression, but I know at least five people who positively swoon over Gregory House. It makes more sense (to me) when we're obviously meant to laugh at the illness. That's more in keeping with society's tendency to ridicule differences. (Sheldon Cooper comes to mind here.) This likewise holds true if the mentally ill character is the focus of scorn or fear or pity (insert any Hollywood serial killer or drug addict here), as has been done for years. But has anyone else noticed the relatively recent tendency to romanticize mental illness in the media?

Think about it. The figurative tsunami of antihero characters and plot lines in the last decade hinges on this concept. House was an exceedingly popular show, as is Sherlock. (Disclaimer: I'm not above the argument that people simply like Hugh Laurie, Benedict Cumberbatch and Martin Freeman no matter what roles they play.) And that strikes me as odd, because as these things go, I thought the writers of  House did a remarkably good job of portraying depression and chronic pain. It was certainly fuller and more complex than many portrayals of mental illness are in entertainment. (Disclaimer #2: I'm not commenting here on the addiction storyline. That felt fairly stereotypical; he's an addict so he's out of control and violent and selfish, etc.) Same goes for a number of other fictional characters. Homeland has been lauded for depicting bipolar disorder in a realistic manner. Silver Linings Playbook, despite its romcom leanings, gave us an incredibly frank dialogue about the side effects of medication. I won't even go into the long list of shows and movies that fail to depict the illness realistically and romanticize the hell out of such "flawed" characters.

So why do we care for these fake people more than we care for real ones? Sure, there's distance. It's not real. As viewers we don't actually have to deal with their issues in life. Nevertheless, there's an affection there. Even desire, in some cases.

Call me crazy (ha ha), but no one has ever come up to me and said, "Damn, your depression and random anxiety attacks are so HOT."

Might be nice if they did.



 

Three Days

On Friday, I posted this. It was difficult for me to write, and I hesitated to put it online, but everything in it is true, so up on the blog it went. It was picked up by one of my online heroes, Rosalind Robertson (follow her, she’s amazing), who reblogged it on tumblr and was kind enough to comment on it. 

Now, I should point out that at that point, my blog had been up all of three days. I’ve been longing to write for years but was too intimidated. Depression lies, and mine kept telling me that I had nothing of value to say. That my words are worthless, just like I am. 

For once I didn’t listen, and the post was greeted with so much empathy and support that I wept with relief and, frankly, disbelief. Here was the kind of support and understanding that has been absent in my day-to-day life. Although I wish there were not so many people out there struggling with depression, I find a bittersweet solace in the thought that at least I’m not alone. None of us are. It’s a clichéd sentiment but profoundly true.

On Friday night I slept, soundly, for the first time in weeks. It wasn’t uninterrupted sleep (shout out to interstitial cystitis), but it was restful. I woke on Saturday feeling calm, a far cry from my typical waking state of panic and fear and self-loathing. I wasn’t magically cured of my depression, but it felt manageable for the first time in a while. 

The sun was out after a few grey, rainy days. I made whole-grain blueberry pancakes for my family. I relaxed in a ray of sunshine and drank my favorite herbal tea. I sat on the sofa Saturday night and laughed out loud while watching tv with my spouse. Saturday was a good day, by my standards.

Around 3 a.m. this morning, I got out bed for the fourth or fifth time since falling asleep close to midnight. When I tried to stand upright, I experienced such searing, agonizing pain that I had to lean against a bookcase for support. My abdomen felt like I’d been stabbed with a hot blade. I started crying involuntarily and, honestly, rather angrily. To paraphrase my favorite author, the late and incomparable Sir Terry Pratchett, what an embuggerance.  

From great day to fully realized IC flare in 18 hours.

There’s something to be said for what chronic illness and/or physical pain can do to your mental state. But I’m all out of words right now, at least those of the SFW variety.

Three days. 

What a ride.

How I Get Out of Bed

One of the common symptoms of depression is lethargy. An all-consuming, undeniable, near paralysis. Obviously, not every person struggling with depression experiences the same thing, but this particular characteristic of the illness is so well-identified that it is almost always part of the picture. It is mentioned by depressed writers when describing their experiences. It is illustrated by artists when creating cartoons or other artwork portraying the condition. Tiredness, torpor, inertia, lack of motivation... call it what you will, it is frequently associated with depression.

Quite often, I see it mentioned by other bloggers and artists. And it made me think: How do I get out of bed on a rough day? When I'm really low?

On those days, it is never easy. Today, for example, it took me 45 minutes. Not 45 minutes of hitting the snooze button. Not 45 minutes of lounging lazily in the bed. Forty-five long, focused minutes trying to talk myself into it. Forty-five minutes of telling myself to get up already, get moving, GET UP. GET OUT OF THIS BED AND WASH YOUR FACE AND GET YOUR DAY STARTED. NOW. GO.

Some days, the talk is encouraging. Some days it is pleading. Some days it is a drill sergeant. Some days it is hateful. 

Rarely is it the voice that works. 

No, what gets me out of bed is the absolutely bone-chilling fear that if I don't move, that if I don't make an effort, that if I don't put a good face on it, that if I'm not productive or useful in some way, no one will want me. If I don't find a way to hide how I'm feeling, what I will get in return is disgust, or dismissal, or distrust.

Oh, surely not, you say. Surely your loved ones and friends would be understanding and supportive. But the other depression sufferers already know what I'm talking about. The judgment that can come with the admission of your illness. The stigma. The "be happy" brigade. The people who can't understand and don't want to try.

I recently made the mistake of telling a couple of close family members that I was depressed and occasionally thought about suicide. The next day I got an email from one of them. It said, "I would have never thought you to be so self-centered."

Depression, apparently, is a selfish pursuit. 

Here's the catch, though. If you go to therapy, or read the internet, or join a support group, etc., the advice you always receive is to "talk about it." Let others know how you're feeling. Unfortunately, the world, at least my little corner of it, is not evolved enough for that.  

Don't get me wrong. I don't want to stay in bed all day. I want to be useful and productive and involved. It's just not a matter of want. If it was, I wouldn't have depression at all. So until something changes, I suppose I'll keep using the fear and the stigma to propel me out from under the covers on a bad day.