This is an unfiltered account of the thoughts and feelings I experienced through the course of that day, including both the struggles and victories that come with the battle. For some of you, it will resonate and there may be parts of it that you know too well, for others it may be completely different than your experience with depression. For some it may open your eyes and heart a bit wider into a greater understanding of the experience of depression (or rather, one experience of depression). And for others it may be too honest to read the whole thing through. But it is my hope that by sharing this, my intention is not to shock or bring attention, but to contribute to a greater understanding of what it is like from the eye of depression. I encourage you to share this post with anyone whom you think it may benefit.
Thank you for listening. <3
Love, Jess
August 21, 2018
Mornings are the worst. I wake up feeling exhausted, achy, heavy. As soon as my thoughts kick in so does the sadness, like a weight pulling my insides toward the earth, slowing my step to a drag. I get up, move around, maybe if I do something I'll snap out of it, but find myself gravitating back to bed, or the couch, head in hands, eyes closed. This seems to be the most bearable position, a way to try to keep the overwhelm out. I'm constantly aware of my lingering obligations, the voices coming from the other room, and it is, at times, only the expectation of taking care of my children that keeps me from pulling the covers over my head for the rest of the day.
I think that I think like a normal person, but I know I do not feel like a normal person. But then I question whether my perspective on how I think is being fooled by the persuasion of the depression. My third self observes from a birds-eye-view as I move through the day, almost with a sense of pity for the sad story of the girl down on the ground. My thinking self knows well that the actions I take are not necessarily in my favour, but on these days the feeling self seems to have a greater hold on the mechanics of my body. Like a dancing rope, there is a constant tug-of-war between the logic and the emotion. I am blatantly aware that staying completely still will not lift me out from the trenches but in the moment, in dizziness of the movement, it feels all I can do to keep steady. I realize how foolish it is to mope and dwell and obsess over the pain I feel, but I do it anyway. It is all that I see, as if there is a lens placed in front of me that puts all the problems of my life into sharp focus, while blurring the good stuff - just enough for me to acknowledge it's existence, but not quite clearly enough for it to beckon me. Through this lens light and colours become dull and grey, time slows and merges within itself, everyday functioning feels heavy and difficult. My inner world becomes so cluttered and confused that on the outside I go numb, to ensure I don't attract anything more to overwhelm.
I get obsessively caught up with the hard stuff. The things in my life that perhaps everyone deals with from time to time, and I zero in. These things circle in my head and morph in size with the attention I pay to them. They become stories, fabricating into worst-case scenarios. They poke at my emotions, it is as if a string connected to my tear ducts is being tugged at periodically, triggered by the slightest thought. I know these stories aren't necessarily true, but the potential of their likelihood is more convincing than fact. I know it doesn't help to obsess over the fabrications of my imagination but I do it anyway. As if something in me thrives on the pain it creates, crowing over its masterpiece. I have the tools to debunk these myths, but, in my worst, I choose instead to bow down to their power.
My witness self watches as my family picks up my broken pieces. They know better than to push when I'm down, it never ends well. Each one of them, even the littlest one, takes on their self-assigned role, they just want to give the me love they see I've lost, and they go gentle on me. Simultaneously, I am blanketed in both immense guilt and sincere gratitude, as this is not their weight to carry but they choose to hold it anyway. Shame washes over me for not being able to hold myself together and for surrendering my Mother ship duties. I feel as if it is something I am doing to myself, but I don't really know how to not do it. I feel as if the choices I make in my life are what keep me down and that I've spent so much time working to better myself, only to come back to same state I was on day one of this journey. Over the last 2 years my loved ones have made sacrifices in trust that I working toward a better healthier version of myself, yet here we are, sacrifices still being made, and I feel no better. With each episode my debt grows in size and with it so does the shame. I recognize the viciousness of this cycle, the shame feeds the depression and I spiral deeper. The deeper I go the harder it becomes to find the compassion that will pull me out. But still, it overtakes.
I consider reaching out to my friends. I want someone to feel sorry for me, but at the same time I don't want anyone to feel sorry me. My feeling self takes over the thought process. 'What good would it do anyway, to bring more people down into my despair? I don't want to be a hindrance to more people than I already am. I'm not even sure it would help, and if I don't receive what I'm looking for, I'll be disappointed.' My thinking self knows the brutality of this attitude. But at the fearful dominance of my feeling self I end up keeping mostly to myself. Or I wait until someone asks how I am doing. But then I don't really know what to say. I don't want to complain, nobody wants to hear me complain. I don't want to say I'm well, because it doesn't feel authentic, and frankly I am tired of faking it. Sometimes I just don't know how I am. The emotional and cognitive chaos that occurs in my head throughout the day is far too complex for a simple reply, and even if I tried I am not sure I could articulate it. I may respond with a simple 'I'm OK,' which is half truth. Sometimes. Secretly I hope that they pick up on the not OK half of the truth and start digging...the permission I need to open up. Somehow if it becomes their choice to want to know how I really am, the shame factor minimizes and I let them in. On the days that I oblige to that pull to reach out, it almost never fails. As long as I keep my expectations in check it almost always helps. But behind the taint of the lens the memory of this is blurred out along with the other good things.
As I force myself through the motions of the day, if I occasionally let my thinking or doing self take action, the weight lifts a bit, sometimes almost completely. By late afternoon I feel like a somewhat normal functioning person again. I find my OK, and even the odd happy moment. The things I have to be grateful for come back into focus. At the days end I feel exhausted, but subtly accomplished for somehow picking myself up. I think, 'Maybe the hard part has passed and I'm finally moving forward. I'm still here, my children are healthy, happy and thriving. I feel much different than I did this morning...maybe there has been growth. Maybe tomorrow the weight will be lighter.' I am tired enough that I fall asleep easily, a good sign.
I wake early, and in those first few moments of consciousness I lie very still, in a careful attempt not to wake the remnants of yesterday's depression.
