Mental Health and Self-Awareness

I’ve been absent for a while here in blog-ville. It’s partly because yes, I burnt myself out on writing and, to be honest, life in general. All summer, I kind of just… meh. I “meh”ed through the past several months of my life. Financial strain, [physical] health issues, yadda yadda yadda. I won’t bore you with those details.

The other part of the reason I’ve been MIA from the blog is, well, mental health.

My anxiety has been unbearable. My depression has been there, too, but not nearly as bad. Usually depression is my prevailing illness. It makes me apathetic, unmotivated, just kind of a living blob, sluggishly meandering through the motions expected of a functioning member of American society. Work. Eat. Sleep. Work. Eat. Sleep. Meh. Life. Blah.

I know depression. Depression and I are bros. I wake up in the morning and go, “Oh. Guess it’s gonna be one of those days. Fuck. Gotta go to work anyway. Blah.”

ANXIETY, though. Man. Shit. I knew I had anxiety, but it’s usually kind of a lesser thing. It’ll flare up for a little while and make me avoid grocery shopping for two weeks because I’m afraid I’ll forget where I parked, or because I’m afraid I’ll see someone I know and have to talk to them, or because I’m afraid I’ll have to talk to someone I DON’T know. What if I get in a car accident? What if my credit card gets denied? What if what if what if what if…

Lately, though, it’s been… more general. I wake up in the morning and before I’ve even had a single thought, I’m afraid. No reason. No overthinking. Nothing. It’s just there. It’s there it’s there it’s not going away it’ll never go away what is wrong with me why am I like this?!

It was so bad I had to leave work because of it one day. I was sitting at my desk, pulling a blanket around my shoulders because I thought maybe that would help me calm down. I couldn’t talk to anyone. My staff had questions for me and I had to try to act normal to answer them. Finally I had to leave, I couldn’t function anymore. My heart was racing. I cried the whole way home. This was the first time I ever, ever in my life, thought about self-harming, just because I. NEEDED. IT. TO. STOP. and maybe pain would overwhelm it, or release it somehow. I didn’t, because once I cried a lot and got home and lay down with my pets, it abated some, but I finally understood the drive to self harm.

It was so bad I couldn’t go to my friend’s wedding because I didn’t know what to wear, I didn’t know who would be there, I didn’t know where it was, I didn’t know what would happen, I couldn’t drive that far, I couldn’t breathe, I couldn’t stop shaking, I had five sobbing emotional breakdowns before noon, I was eventually driven to drinking because I just wanted it to knock me out, calm me down, something, please, make it stop, please.

About two weeks ago, I saw a doctor and got on medication. I was told “you might not notice a change immediately. After about two weeks, other people will probably notice you’re acting different. After a month, you’ll probably realize you’re feeling better. After six weeks, you’ll feel great.”

Either there’s some placebo effect going on and I just feel better because I know I’m on meds, or my doctor seriously underestimated how aware I am of my own mental state, because I’ve noticed a change already. I feel more hopeful, less scared. I have motivation to do things. I cleaned my house this weekend for the first time in, hell, probably six months, and wasn’t annoyed or frustrated about it. I’m writing again, and feeling kind of excited about it. Even though things are fucking terrible in the world, it’s not getting to me as much as it has been lately.

It’s strange to notice these things. Logically, I know that anxiety and depression are just brain chemistry issues, but they’re me. They’re mine. It’s odd to feel better and know it’s not me. You can relate it to having a cold and taking Dayquil or something, and you know the cold is still there but the meds are suppressing it. It still feels different when it’s a mental health issue, though. A cold is physical symptoms–you take meds and notice you’re not as sniffly, your throat isn’t as sore, your muscles don’t ache. Anxiety and depression are mental symptoms. You take meds and realize your entire mindset changes. Your motivation changes. Your attitude towards situations and people change.

I will say this: I was on medication a few years ago (Zoloft) and I hated it. It did help, but it affected my creativity and eventually I ended up feeling like Not Myself. I felt better but it was artificial, like it forced my brain to change my behavior without changing my core feelings. I couldn’t write, so I was less clinically depressed but ended up being situationally depressed (or whatever the medical term is for that) because I knew I wasn’t doing the things that I normally like to do, and couldn’t make myself do them, and it was very frustrating.

I told my new doctor about this and she said she hates Zoloft and the one she prescribed me is much better, so we shall see.

The point of this post, I suppose, is to continue my attempts at being open about mental health issues, trying to crush the stigma surrounding them. I also want to say, don’t let anti-medication people get to you. I posted on Facebook when I got medication and a family member immediately tried to tell me that medication is bad. Why? Yes, I understand, it messes with your brain chemistry, and there are horror stories about “feeling like a zombie,” etc etc etc, but it’s the same as any other medication. Just like mental illness is the same as any other illness. You wouldn’t let your diabetes go untreated, would you? Why treat your mental health any different than you would your physical health? Yes, I know my sudden motivation and positivity is chemically induced. So what? If I need treatment in order to keep my sickness at bay, I will take the treatment. I want to feel better. There’s no shame in taking medication to achieve that.

Pay attention to your moods. I didn’t realize how far I’d slipped until I’d already gotten really, really bad. It sort of becomes the norm, the longer it goes on, but it shouldn’t be. If you realize things have been getting bad, seek help. You’re not weak for it.

Hopefully medication will also help me get back on track with blogging and writing. Fingers crossed you’ll see more of me here again soon!

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Let’s Talk About Depression!!!

I have depression. I used to refer to it as seasonal depression, because it lasted from October to March[ish], but over the past couple years it’s sort of becoming “all the fucking time depression.” I have high points and low points regardless of the season (okay, in winter I have low points and even lower points).

I’m writing this because I just got past a low point. I went five days without showering. I felt nauseous for two weeks. I didn’t want to go to work. I didn’t want to leave bed. What little energy I had went into feeding my pets and going to work. Eventually, I sat down at my dining room table and couldn’t move. I just didn’t have the energy. I didn’t want to. I didn’t want to pet my dogs, I didn’t want to talk to my husband, I didn’t want to fucking be alive. After a while, I broke down sobbing and curled up on the floor. I cried for a while. My husband lay down on the floor with me, bless his heart. Then my cat came over and sniffed my face, very thoroughly, as if my tears were some fascinating substance… and then she ran away as fast as she could, like she’d finally determined they were poison. And I started laughing. And I started feeling a little better.

And today I took a shower! And I feel sort of excited about an idea I have for something. And I give a shit about the tiny plants I have growing in seed trays on my porch again. Hooray, heading back up to the land of the people who aren’t zombies.

This happens to me often. Varying lengths of time, varying levels of seriousness.

I have never actively considered suicide. Not really. Depression, for me, is apathy. It is deep, unyielding lack of interest in life. When I am depressed, I want to lie on the floor and stare at the wall or ceiling until existence just stops happening. I don’t want to die, I don’t want to kill myself, I just don’t want to deal with life. Existing is hard. 90% of existence is bullshit. When I am depressed, every action I take, every word I speak, only comes about by scraping my fingers through the muck and mud in the bottom of the well inside me, cobbling together some slimey, filthy shreds of energy to keep me staggering through everyday existence. I am constantly digging, trying to find something to keep me going, but for every one speck of energy I find, the world demands three more. You got out of bed? Great. Now you have to get dressed. You have to fix your hair. You have to pack a lunch, even though you don’t want to eat. You made it out the door? Remember there’s a detour, you have to go a less familiar way to work. There’s construction. There’s traffic. It’s raining. So on, so on, so on. Little things that are minor inconveniences on a “normal” day to a non-depressed person have me dragging and drained by 8am.

This piece from Hyperbole and a Half describes my relationship with depression pretty well. Especially this:

hyperbole and a half

I’m one of those “high functioning” mentally ill people. Anxiety and depression make me absolutely miserable and emotionally unstable, but I can go to work and carry out all the functions expected of me at my job. Usually. Maybe I’m a little quieter than usual. Maybe I make more jokes about the eventual heat death of the universe, or the fact that in the grand scheme of things, this job is absolutely pointless and contributes nothing to the world. But I can function. When I tell people I have anxiety and depression, they say, “Really?! I never would have guessed.”

Why? Because I’m at work? I’m wearing clothes? I’m not sobbing uncontrollably?

Trust me, I am a fucking mess. Human interaction is a nightmare. Eating is a Herculean feat. Don’t even talk to me about showering. Count yourself lucky that I put on deodorant. I smell like four-day-old sweat tinged with freesia.

Being a writer is hard. Being a depressed writer is just awful. How do you find the energy to write when you don’t have the energy to eat?

Be gentle with yourself. Sometimes you can’t. Sometimes you just can’t. If it takes everything in you just to get out of bed, it’s okay that you don’t write that day.

I am a strong advocate for mental health awareness and self-care. For me, self-care means being gentle with myself. Some days I shower and get dressed and eat salad, other days I eat an entire bag of M&Ms and lay around in the same pajamas I’ve been wearing for two weeks. Usually I just sort of… float, for a couple days or weeks. I exist. I stagger through this existence, gasping and panting, tripping and falling, but I keep existing. Usually I reach a breaking point where I break down crying. Sometimes that’s all it takes. Crying. Twenty minutes of gross sobbing flips a switch in my brain and reminds me what a “feeling” is, and my brain goes “Oh! There are other ones, too. Check it out.”

There is no tried and true magical cure or methodology for getting past depression. It is a huge ugly dark thing with its fingers tangled in your hair, scrawny legs wrapped around your waist, whispering lies in your ear, and it won’t. fucking. let. go. I don’t want to spew hackneyed word-vomit about things getting better. Things are mostly okay. The world is not rainbows and unicorns. The world is a dumpster fire, but there are good things. Find a good thing. Cling to it. Maybe it’s a flower. A cat. A good deed. An internet video. A kind word. Look for other good things. Cling to them. Good things are flotation devices in the sinking abyss of gross blah that we live in. If you string together a few good things, maybe you can stay above the abyss. If you string together enough good things, maybe you can make it to the shore of the sinking-abyss-lake and drag yourself out onto solid ground. If you need help, please don’t hesitate to seek it out. Try not to wait until it’s unbearable. Know that there are people who understand. You aren’t alone.

I am open about my anxiety and depression because so few people are, but so many people experience it. I hate the feelings of isolation that surround so many mental health topics. If you’re depressed, please know that I understand. I don’t expect anything of you except that you remain alive. We can join hands and watch paint dry together. Lie down in the yard and watch grass grow because we can’t muster the energy or enthusiasm to make it any farther. And remember that the people who “don’t seem like it” are just as likely to be unhappy as the people who obviously are unhappy. Neither is more or less deserving of care.

National Suicide Prevention Lifeline (it’s free): 1-800-273-8255
and their website

I love and appreciate everyone who reads my posts and if you ever need to talk, Twitter is the best method to reach me. Direct link to my profile here – DM or @ me so I’ll get a notification on my phone. I am by absolutely no means a trained professional, but I can listen/read and sympathize. Sometimes all it takes is talking/writing your feelings out to someone, and you feel better. I am willing to be that someone.

This post got way more serious than I expected it to. Have a funny comic to lighten the mood.

sad owlturd

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