A while back, I created a “depression” category for my blog and moved all my past relevant posts there. Since then, whenever I think about writing a post specifically about how my (undiagnosed) depression manifests itself, I go back and read some of the things I’ve already written, and then I kind of figure there’s no point in rewriting the same sad story a few months later.
That attitude is unhelpful, though, because 1.) I created the category partly to gauge how often I have these feelings, and 2.) writing and getting my thoughts out of my head is therapeutic for me the majority of the time.
Even so, the main way my depression manifests itself is a lack of interest in the things I usually enjoy — including writing. I don’t exactly have the best windows of time to freewrite, either: my brain is working best during the day, when I need to be devoting my brainpower to my paying job. By the time I have time to myself to write in the evenings, especially when I’m feeling blah like I am now — I’m done. It’s just not happening.
Today, I ended up tickety-tapping out some words here and there during my lunch and breaks. This needs to get out of my head. I need to recognize that I’m feeling all meh, talk some stuff out, and make sure this actually gets posted to my blog. (Unlike the few times I’ve felt like this and either started writing or thought about writing and then just gave up on it.)
Last week, I was stoked about sewing. I’m still stoked about sewing… I just don’t feel like doing it.
I had been planning to go on a photo walk today, but I just didn’t feel motivated last night to load my camera and think of places to photograph downtown.
I tried listening to an audiobook during my lunch walk, instead. I trudged through, but it didn’t make me feel better.
I’m taking my son on a trip to Imagination Station (formerly COSI Toledo) tomorrow. I’m looking forward to it, but I wouldn’t say I’m excited.
That’s an interesting thing, too: it’s not that I’m incapable of laughing, or smiling, or enjoying a moment. I am. I love coming home from work and hugging my family. But once it comes time to get back into the normal drudgery of life… work, or cooking dinner, or whatever… right now, I’m not able to conjure the joy in the simple things that I sometimes can. Honestly, it’s an effort just to go through the motions, much less take joy in the simple things.
I’ve almost had an epiphany or two about what might have triggered my depression this time. (As an aside, I almost don’t want to call it depression, since it’s not officially diagnosed as such, but it seems more concise than calling it fatigue and apathy.) I wondered if it might have been added sugars, but then I looked through my food log, and I haven’t been eating any more added sugars than usual. I also wondered if it could be my low activity level, but my amount of activity has actually increased lately, and I seriously doubt that more activity would make me more apathetic.
What sucks, too, is that my lizard brain always tries to fix me, but always does it wrong, and the part of my brain that makes sound and well-thought-out decisions can’t intervene since it’s down for the count. Lizard Brain says that sugars and carbohydrates and caffeine will fix me. Which, of course, they don’t. That doesn’t stop Lizard Brain from trying it again and again, though.
Despite the sugar and caffeine infusion, I’m still just physically tired. Leaden. Dragging.
In looking through my writings on depression, I see that my way through it has typically been through positive in-person interactions and experiences — a good yoga class, or a talk with a friend or acquaintance. It tends to be others acting on me, though, rather than me seeking out what I need to pull myself through. When I’m in it, I don’t have it in me to get help. It feels pointless, because it’s not like I’m going to self-harm or anything. I just feel meh, I’ve felt meh before, and I’ll get over being meh eventually. It won’t last forever, and I can push through and continue to do my job and take care of my son and do the normal day-to-day things. It’s not like I’m curled up in bed, incapable of caring enough to even start my day. I can do it; I’m just phoning it in. So it doesn’t feel that important to fix it (or to tell my GP about it during my annual physical).
So, here we are. Again. Still.
Meh.
Depression = life covered in dirty cotton. I know that way of living. I know it well. Diagnosed or not, you are a strong and brave woman. Because it takes more to get past that, to keep loving, to keeping working, to keep going. More than it takes other people. And knowing that it is real does make it go away. But here’s this, walk at lunch – I will join you. Write what you feel – I will read if you want to share. Know that you are surrounded by others who feel what you feel but who hold their words back, just like you might.