#71 - Ohhh, it's depression

A few weeks ago, my best friend commented that my energy seemed low. I quickly shook off the comment, excusing the shift as tiredness. Because I really I thought I was just tired.

But, uh, I don’t think that’s true anymore.

I’ve been having a hard time getting out of bed recently. It’s felt like I’m just going through the motions of things, forcing myself to do tasks that mere days ago took no time or thought to complete.

And I couldn’t figure out why. I got mad at myself for things taking longer, for losing focus, for not caring about what I was doing in the intentional ways I usually did.

And then I remembered that I have been depressed for most of my life and it’s just like the inconvenient little truth that makes itself known occasionally.

My depression has been with me for a while. (I think it used to be one of those things I thought made me slightly special because I got diagnosed with it before any of my friends did. Also, artists are tortured souls, it gave me the illustrious glow of being diagnosed as “deep” or some other lie my middle school brain came up with to soothe the wound.)

Turns out, I’m not just sad I’m like sad sad.

But depression ebbs and flows. The tide goes out and I forget about what high tide looks like, what the water feels like to step into. There have been times when I have taken medication during the tides and times without (there are more of those tbh). I remember it surprised me that I was “still depressed” during college. My therapists and doctors often spoke about my root causes around this as more environmental/situational.

They failed to articulate that it is situational, but like, the situation is just…my brain. And that thing gets carried around with me so it wasn’t just going to disappear when I moved out of my mom’s house.

Usually, the depressive tide comes in around summertime and I sweat it away. This summer came and went and I rarely felt weary, but I was so prepared for it. I feel weary now. I was unprepared.

I had the thought the other day that yoga wasn’t going to actually make me feel better, it was just going to trick my brain into thinking I was feeling better. But then I decided that the latter is actually the only part that matters. The motivation and results don’t need to be optimal, as long as it’s a little better. I’m writing six pages a day even if it feels like a slog because I know that it will help me confront myself and take care of myself in ways that are far too easy to neglect.

The tide will go out again, and I don’t want to have to deal with a beach chock full of litter.

(And when it comes to literal litter, I have that covered. It turns out, I’m much better at taking care of other people and things rather than myself (yes yes, probably because of my deep & defiant lack of self-worth that is improving but the routines are deeply entrenched and easier to follow) and my care around my cats hasn’t waned one little bit.

I have to scoop their litter once a day and feed them twice a day. That’s it. But in return, when I want to curl into a ball they’ll come and crawl all over me and purr and purr as if the vibrations are going to shake me out of this slump. (I play with them in return for these niceties, since that’s really what they wanted in the first place. Booboo is playing fetch again.) When it’s hard to take care of me, it’s still easy to take care of them. Even if that means traipsing to Williamsburg for food in the cold, they have tiny little faces and like to stretch out into flat cats on fuzzy blankets like?? I would die for them in a heartbeat??? They’re the most important things in the whole world to me and if I think about it for a second longer I may start to actually cry?????)

I’ve been crying a lot more. I’ve just felt more sensitive recently, it’s easier to get overwhelmed by even the idea of a task (or tragedy) (we’re so surrounded by those). So I’m trying to do less thinking and more doing—and if I can’t Make Do, I try to move on from the thought rather than using it as a paddle with which to beat myself more effectively.

Like, no matter what, depression feels awful. It feels infantilizing, it feels unending and inescapable at times, it turns my life difficulty up to eleven and then walks away from the amp.

But it’s still so important to force myself into doing things while I’m depressed, even if none of them will stop making me feel this way. That can’t be the goal or motivator, because then I’ll trap myself in these lies and I don’t want to lie to myself. Writing in my journal may(?) may(!) make my day slightly more bearable, or I will have just written six pages that I hadn’t written before with no emotional variation or particular interest in what those six pages said. (It’s okay, me a few months from now may find them really interesting.) (Or, not. And that’s fine too! Because this moment will be over, and I will have done my best during that time.)

Doing yoga right might not be the transformative experience that it often is, but that’s okay, my joints will thank me for the movement later. The gratification may not be immediate, and it may just be in service of keeping my engine oiled juuuuust enough that it doesn’t seize. Because a new engine costs a lot more than a bottle of oil.

And that’s not to say that activities, hangouts, and time spent doing things I love aren’t enjoyable in these moments. They are, of course they are! Life doesn’t stop being pleasurable just because there are a few more stairs that I need to climb to reach the top, it just means I might be slightly more tired when I get there. You know, out of breath, panting a little, not fully able to come up with the right words to let everyone know that I too see and appreciate the view we’ve been able to witness here together.

The good news is, I’ve been in this basement before. I know there are stairs, so I’m not feeling around in the dark and tripping all over myself in a panic. I know that there is going to be a morning when I wake up and all of this feels easier again. I know it because it’s happened so many times before. It’s not audacious hope, it’s a fact. I can’t rush that time, I can’t trick myself into just setting the clock forward. But I can give future me the gift of not having a pile of dishes to clean when she wakes up. And you know what, I’m sure she/I will really appreciate that when it happens.