So… depression. It’s kak. This is probably the mot difficult post I have written. I never exaggerate. Not so much that it is so personal I have to replace my keyboard for the tears streaming down my face, but more so because life is hard.
It’s so very, very hard.
And I mean that in the most broad sense. I’m feeling pretty low at the moment. And life is hard. Everything about it is hard. Getting up. Hard. Making food. Hard. Getting in the shower. Hard. Everything is just, well… hard.
I’ve often described on this blog that medication and the like are great and for the most part work well. For the most part. The truth is, and I think this is truth for most bipolar bears, that the depressive side of this thing isn’t as treatable as the other part. And this is probably true for depression in general too. I’ve literally said the opposite of this in a previous post so ;et me say then that while both are treatable it is not easy to find an equilibrium between both.
Mania and it’s cousins can be wonderful, they can take you on a ride so magical you’re a character in a Oh, the Places You Will Go! The beginning of that Dr Seuss. There’s so much positive, contagious energy that you know, and every one else knows, that that you’re a guy with your shit in order. So much so that you’ve got time to behave like a brat and laugh and laugh and laugh.
Here’s the thing though: all those times out in the full view of people are countered by bouts of a very, very dark place; where no one can see you. Even you can’t see you. The middle of that Dr Seuss book.
This time I’m going to buck the trend of ‘bipolar is more/better/shit than something else’. Depression is something that every one has, or will have at least once once in their life. I like to think about depression as a continuum, a spectrum; call it what you will; of life is hard.
One the one side we have average Joe who feels a bit sad. That kind of sad you get when your favorite TV show is canceled. Or you’ve run out of milk. That’s that’s a a legitimate sad and a hard for Joe, in that moment.
Then there’s the sad that one feels when your dog dies, or your cat goes missing for eight months for the eight time. It’s that kind of sad you feel when you realize no one else give a shit about your cat of your dog, actually.
At the far end of the spectrum there’s the sad you feel when you don’t give a shit about yourself. You. don’t. give. a. shit. about. yourself. That’s a lot. It’s a bad experience. And it’s scary. And it’s fucking hard.
Not giving a shit about yourself is the uber depression. It’s a place you never want to be. It’s a cancer that pervades your being slowly and eats at you without your even knowing it’s happening. Sometimes it eats you up entirely.
I’m not going to get into the signs and symptoms of depression. Just remember this: milk famine, meta-cat-depression, and don’t-give-a-shit-about- you depression.
As I said, this was a difficult post to write. Mostly because I had to get out of bed, even though it was gripping me to it like a clam to a rock. And then I had to shower, because you know, you can’t be out of bed and now not shower. I didn’t wash what little hair I have at this juncture though, so that was a compromise kind of hard.
But then, the worst part of it all. I have had to find the courage to write about myself. And how I see myself. And how other people see me. And that I don’t have milk or a pet. I’m fucked. That about concludes how I feel about myself.
I’ve become better at dealing with depression though.
It helps to know when it’s coming. It helps telling a friend it’s coming. It helps when that friend acknowledges your hurt and is rooting for you even though they can’t actually help.
There’s a lot of anxiety knowing it’s coming but that story for anther day.
You can feel it coming when you feel it’s just a smidgen worse getting out of bed than usual. You can feel it when you don’t want to go out your front door for fear of humanity. You can feel it when everything is a mission.
You can feel it when you start thinking that most people, even everyone, thinks you’re a worthless, dreary, directionless, hopeless-case with no prospect of success, ever.
So what now? What must happen when you can see it’s coming? How can I stop it in it’s tracks? Why can’t I find the answers to all these questions?
There is one thing that I try to give every iota of my effort to doing when I feel like this: put my feet on the ground, just once, everyday.
But, other than that, I don’t know.
If there’s one thing I know for certain it’s this: it ends. The hardness ends. After some time you’re no longer clam-ed. The door opens and you can say with certainty you could should never own a cat, for the cat’s sake.
Sometimes it takes longer to find the end, but it does end. So, I’m feeling pretty low at the moment. Writing this was hard. But it is something. It is something I couldn’t have done yesterday. I’ll be on the last page of Dr Seuss soon.
