In the last post, I talked about family dysfunction, mental health, and talked about a few more points on my list of ways I can tell I’m feeling depressed. Here’s the thing. Depression is a lying liar who lies. But, it’s also sneaky in its lies. It doesn’t just hit you in the face with its presence (at least not with me). It slowly creeps up on me bit by bit until I realize that I’m depressed.
In a way, it would be so much easier if it did just announce itself and say, “Hey, I’m here, bitch. What are you going to do about it?” But, no. It slides in a toe and wiggles it around a bit. Then, once you’re accepeted that, it shows you a knee. It keeps going until it’s fully in the room, which is when you (I) know it’s going to be a problem.
I get so frustrated when it takes me time to realize I’m depressed. And even more frustrated when I don’t do anything about it. I am glad, howeve,r that I’m more able to talk about it now than twenty years ago. I’ve been messaging with K and it occured to me and–look. It went down like this. She asked me how I was doing. I immediately started to message back–fine.
Then I stopped. I was not fine. Why was I about to lie to her? She is my oldest and dearest friend.She’s been there for me through thick and thin. We have shared the good times and the bad. She’s been by my side through so much. Why was I pretending to be ok?
I took a deep breath and wrote an honest answer. And got an equally honest answer in return that she was struggling, too. And I felt much better in the instant. Not because she was suffering, but because I was frank with her and she with me.
We have always been open with each other. Twenty years ago, though, I just would not have talked to her when I was depressed. Not in a negative way, mind, but we didn’t talk that often, and I could have shined her on if we did talk during that period.
But we both were open about our respective mental health issues. Hers was depression-related. I have depression and anxiety. We commiserated with each other, especially about how hard it was to get out of the house when not forced to do so. We got together once a month or so to go to dinner and/or dancing. We lived fifteen minutes from each other, and neither of us took more than fifteen minutes to get ready.
Well. We would except…in my case, dragging myself up from the couch to throw on some clothes and leave. Even when it was something I wanted to do, I had a hard time making myself leave the house. When I arrived at K’s house, she would not be dressed yet and in a panic. she would try on several outfits, yelling for her hubby’s opinion. He had really good taste in fashion–better than either K or I. It was probably because he was a graphic designer and knew what looked good.
A few more ways I know I’m depressed.
6. Everything is gray.
This is a weird one, but my world loses color when I’m gray. Oddly enough, it also does that when I have a migraine. The latter is literal whereas the former is more metaphorical. But there is a tinge of gray to the physical world when I’m depressed.
7. My brain slows waaaaaay down.
When I’m not depressed, my thoughts race a thousand miles a minute. I’m constantly thinking about something or the other, including stories that I cerate on the fly. It’s a busy, fertile ground, and I like it that way. (until I try to sleep).
When I’m depressed, though most of that goes away. I can still come up with stories, but not as quickly, and they’re more muted. Meaning, they aren’t clamoring for attention. I rarely had writer’s block before my medical crisis. Now, I struggle to write fiction at all, so that’s not a good barometer of my depression any longer.
What is a good barometer, however, is the fact that I can’t write at all now. Except ofr these posts, and that’s still a struggle. I used to sit at my laptop and bang out a post in a few hours after doing my morning routine. Now, it’s 3:30 in the morning as I’m writing this. I have wasted yet another day doing much of nothing at all.
8. I don’t find joy in anything.
I’m not a joyful person in general. It’s both nature and nurture that leads me to have a dour personality. Well, not dour exactly, but leaning towards the negative. It’s partly becuse my parents are like that, but it’s also…I can’t remember a time when I wasn’t like this.
I don’t remember much of my childhood, however. At all. I have a shitty memory now, but I used to have an excellent one. And still, I remembered very little of my life before I was ten. Like, VERY little of it. I don’t mind that, though, beacuse it was not good times. It was filled with a lot of fear, pain, and depression.
It took me until I was out of college to realize that my childhood was not like other people’s in the slightest. Not only because I was Asian in a time and place where that was not a thing at all (and looked at very negatively), but because my family was (and is) deeply dysfunctional.
I feel if Ihad realized that earlier in my life, I probably wouldn’t have sunk so deeply into depression and other mental health issues. Anxiety, for one. But, also, when I was in college, I apparently had break from reality. It was my second year and I kept dissasociating from myself. I didn’t know this was happening, but it occurred in class, while talking to other, and driving. Needless to say, the last was the most alarming.
I’m tired so I ‘m going to end this here and probably pick it up again tomorow.