#depression shitthatsucks

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“The Depression Cure”

As I mentioned in my last post, I am reading a book right now called The Depression Cure: The 6 Step Program To Beat Depression Without Drugs, (a pretty ballsy claim, in my opinion) by Stephen S. Ilardi, PhD. It was recommended to me by one of my oldest and dearest and awesomest friends, someone whose opinion I totally trust. I didn’t even know what the subtitle was before I got it, and I’m not too worried about it now. I personally hate being on drugs (I take 40mg of Cipralex every day), since I’m much more of a “natural healing” kind of person and don’t even have Tylonol in my house, but I got to the point a few summers ago where it was necessary. I was lying in bed in the middle of the afternoon, struggling with all these negative and pointless thoughts, trying to separate the lies from the truth, while outside there were mountains and hiking trails and forests and glacier-fed lakes calling my name (I was living in one of the most beautiful places on earth at the time), and something in me suddenly said, It’s not supposed to be this hard. And I knew that I would have to sacrifice my ideals in this area, because if I didn’t, I would end up killing myself. I reasoned that it was a small sacrifice when looked at like that, and anyone who would judge me for putting creepy chemicals into my body could kiss my butt. (Yes, I was judged by some way-too-black-and-white-thinking hippies I know, and still am.) And I have had a doctor tell me I will probably be on them for the rest of my life; I have tried going off them, with disastrous results. But back to present day. . .I figured I would read the book, and even if I had to stay on the meds, I knew the 6 steps could definitely help things.

The 6 steps that Dr. Ilardi outlines are:

-Omega 3 fatty acids -Engaging activity -Physical exercise -Sunlight exposure -Social connection -Enhanced sleep

What’s cool about this book is that the author really seems to understand what it’s like to have MDD, in that when he talks about implementing the steps into one’s life, he suggests giving yourself a couple weeks to prepare for the change. Like, “Starting on March 9th, I will start taking a zumba class at the rec centre.” I know for myself, having activities sprung on me (even things I love) can cause me to get anxiety, which will either mean I don’t go, or I won’t have fun. Having a two week window in which I can feel anxious, decide I’m not going, try to convince myself why I don’t even need to go, try to get my boyfriend to agree with me, then end up admitting to myself that it will be awesome and fun and even to get a little excited, will be really helpful.

So over the next little while I’m going to be writing more about the 6 steps, and how I’m putting them into practice in my life.

K bye.

#depression shitthatsucks

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Relationships

Like many other people, I want to find a meaningful, healthy, loving, supportive, fun, awesome relationship. A partnership.

Unfortunately, dating someone with depression is apparently difficult, stressful, frustrating, and a lot of people encourage others to “not even bother.” Um, ouch.

Relationships are hard and complicated, even with people who don’t suffer from depression. People are complex, contradictory, and full of “stuff.” I am complicated, and I am high maintenance. I sometimes have suicidal thoughts that go beyond just a fleeting moment. During almost every winter of my adult life, I have been unable to work and sometimes unable to get out of bed. (As an interesting side note, the only winter that this didn’t happen was the one during which I was snowboarding my ass off.)

So does all of this mean I am unworthy of love, not worth the effort? Too much? Not enough? Crazy? Our culture certainly creates the underlying belief that people who are less than “normal” should be avoided like the plague. I don’t think so. Maybe I just need more understanding, more patience, more compassion. Maybe I need a guy who is willing to listen and understand.

And like everyone else, I am “doing the work.’ Digging up my demons, working through my issues, finding the roots of all of this pain.

I was doing some research this evening, and I came across something that someone named Joost Steffensen Osted. He has been married to a woman with depression for five years, and I found his account of it to be honest, compassionate, and very down to earth. I thought I’d share.

~

I dated a woman with depression once. She is now my wife.

There is nothing to prepare you for what it means to date a woman with depression. The experience at its worst can leave you fearing for your sanity. There is only one way to deal with it: remembering that depression is an illness.

Yes depression is an illness. An illness that is erratic and often fatal. It can last years or it can last a lifetime. It can be fairly stable or be accompanied by violent mood swings.

Essentially unless you are prepared to spend time with a person with a severe illness there is no point in dating a person with depression. The illness is not going to go away. You either learn to accommodate for it or you had better get out.

However, to be fair there is often no way to know whether a person is depressed when you meet them. Depressives like everyone else like to go out and have fun. They like to meet people. They like to be normal. Sometimes they cling so hard to the illusion of being normal and healthy that they will simply not tell you that they are depressed.

It certainly took my wife a long time to come out with it. Our first year was tumultuous and too personal to describe in detail. My wife exhibited a lot of behavior that I could not place. At times I felt manipulated at others let down. But I loved her and eventually I figured it out.

We have been together for five years now and she is still depressed, but doing much better. We have set up a system that allows her to control her illness most of the time in such a way that it effects her and our life to only a minor extent. Extremes still happen, but with ever decreasing regularity as we hone our skills. Here are my main tips for how to act when you’re dating or are the partner of someone with depression.

1. Like I said before. Always remind yourself that depression is an illness. The more you start to realize that what I say is true the easier it will be to deal with it. Once you know in your heart depression is an illness you will stop feeling anger and resentment towards your partner. You will stop feeling manipulated. Only once you accept that depression is an Illness do you have the right mindset to really help.

2. Learn about depression. There are many different types of depression. Familiarize yourself with them and learn your partner’s diagnosis, learn about his/her medication, learn about his/her coping mechanisms.

3. Once you are familiar with your partner’s depression start observing him/her. If you studied the Illness well enough it should soon become obvious whether the diagnosis was correct. You’re in the ideal position to observe your partner’s behavior and get to know the signs of the illness intimately.

4. Talk to your partner. Depression has both a chemical and an environmental component. If things in your partner’s life or past made him/her depressed you need to know about them and help him/her find the right help (counseling) to get him/her through them.

5. Get to know your partner’s medication. There is a lot of information out there (on the web), a lot of it experience based. Learn about the medication while being critical of the sources. It is critical that your partner take the medication in the way prescribed. Not taking anti-depressives the right way or forgetting to take them can lead to extreme physical and mental reactions. Withdrawal is no picnic. Keeping tabs on your partner’s drug taking might seem like overreaching, but is often critical.

6. Learn the early warning signs. My wife has a whole slew of little signs that tell me she is getting nervous or that she is retreating into her dark place. Recognizing these as soon as they start, acknowledging them and combating them can make the low more shallow or prevent it from happening altogether.

7. Know your partner’s triggers. A lot of things that seem trivial to me will set her off. Knowing what they are allows me to know why my wife is reacting the way she does. For example my wife is extremely averse to conflict. If at any time I become too argumentative and I see my wife retreating I simply back of. This is not her manipulating me, but a symptom of the Illness. If I wait for the right time and change my tone of voice I can discuss my grievances with her later.

8. Know what makes your partner happy. It is not always possible to pull your partner out of a depression. After all it is a serious issue. However in some circumstances doing things that make your partner happy can relieve the hurt. In my wife’s case food, music and animals or a combination of the three help her cope or even come out of a depression. Patience and creativity are important. Did I mention its an illness?

9. Adjust your lifestyle to the depression. Try to eliminate stressors. My wife had trouble with absenteeism, often not being able to get out of bed and go to work. In the end she became self-employed. She now controls her own hours and does work she loves. She now seldom cancels an appointment. I changed my job to be able to be on hand in case of an emergency. Our apartment is on the ground floor and all our knives are blunt (seriously).

10. Make people around you aware of what’s going on. By telling people about the depression we were able to create a support network. There are some people who distrust the concept of depression but they usually come around. Most people however are supportive from the get-go. Depression is more common than you might think.

11. Develop trust. Trust is often lacking in people with depression because of the past experiences that are often the root of their depression. Establishing trust can take a long time. Trust helps you rely on each other. It gives you comfort and security. When dating someone with depression it is very important never to compromise that trust. You have built a house of cards. Don’t make it come crashing down.

12. Love. Dating a depressive is hard. The only way you’re going to do it is if you love your partner.

My life since I met my wife has been a roller coaster ride. The experiences I’ve had have been incredible both in the positive sense and in the negative sense. When I met my wife I thought she was the most extraordinary person I’d ever met. And that is what she turned out to be. The things I learned since we first kissed surpass everything I knew before.

It was a struggle, but the struggle is worth it if you find the right woman.

I shudder to think what I would have lost had I not dated someone with depression.

~

I don’t like his implication that “depressives” are not “normal and healthy.” What does normal mean exactly? And I don’t think anyone is 100% healthy in their thought processes anyway.

I don’t have violent mood swings. I am about as steady as the next person for half the year. It’s only in the winter that I start to struggle.

Maybe it’s time to move back to the mountains.

#depression shitthatsucks

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Is It Catching?

I want to comment on the lack of awareness, acknowledgement and support that sufferers of depression have to contend with.

Over the winter, as with most winters, I had to take some time off work because I was “couchbound.” It ended up being about three weeks that I was away, and during that time, I couldn’t help but notice the complete lack of communication from my coworkers. Had I been out because of, let’s say, cancer treatment, the flowers and cards and well-wishers would have been pouring in. The messages telling me how strong I was, how brave, how amazing.

Yet suffering with depression, a disease that can also be fatal, one suffers primarily alone. At my place of work at the time, shortly before I took my leave of absence, we all received an email on a Monday morning from the powers-that-be, declaring that week to be Mental Health Awareness Week. Said email encouraged all of us to do some research, learn about the issues, talk about them in the workplace. The whole week went by, and it was never mentioned.

One of my oldest and most awesome friends is currently battling Lyme Disease. In fighting this shocking and rare disease, she is flooded with support, encouragement and love – from me as well, and I will be the first to stand up and say she deserves it. Yet I have to wonder – why is it that when someone with a disease that affects the body speaks up about it, fights it, and wins, they’re concerned brave, a survivor – yet when someone with a disease that affects the mind speaks up about it, fights it, and wins, they’re basically treated like they have the plague? Can I catch it? Should I not get too close? Best not talk about it or respond.

It baffles me. The literature is there. Readily available. And given the staggering numbers of people who do suffer from depression. . .why is there so little awareness about it, so little support for the brave people who battle it every day, as it tries to rip from them all of their enthusiasm, their passions, their soul, their relationships, their love of life?

Maybe people are afraid of saying the wrong thing. I can only speak for myself when I say this, but – knowing I have your support and your encouragement, knowing you’re not afraid or put off by it, knowing that you can look beyond the disease to the person I really am, would mean the world to me to hear.

#depression shitthatsucks

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Peeling An Apple

I had this realization about depression awhile back, about how the thoughts that it “feeds” us are lies. I don’t know too much about the scientific, neurological process of how depression affects us, beyond the whole serotonin and dopamine stuff, but I do know how it feels. I know the utterly hopeless thoughts that sneak into your brain unbidden, and the slippery slope that you so quickly slide down if you buy into them even a little bit. It’s like feeding the monster. . .don’t.

So, for me, it’s a “constant vigilance” kind of thing, because for every thought that passes through my mind, I have to stop, examine it, and figure out if it came from the “real me” or if it’s the depression talking. I liken it to peeling an apple with a knife. It’s that fine a line between your own thoughts and the lies the disease is feeding you. It’s exhausting and I get right sick of it sometimes, and I hope it will get easier. I will be talking to my doctor shortly about changing my meds, because I don’t believe that life should be this difficult.

#depression shitthatsucks

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A Quote

I’m not sure who wrote this, but a friend shared it with me recently. It describes, far more succinctly than I can at the moment, what we go through.

“If you follow me on twitter you already know that I’ve been battling off one of the most severe bouts of depression I’ve ever had. Yesterday it started to pass, and for the first time in weeks I cried with relief instead of with hopelessness. Depression can be crippling, and deadly. I’m lucky that it’s a rare thing for me, and that I have a support system to lean on. I’m lucky that I’ve learned that depression lies to you, and that you should never listen to it, in spite of how persuasive it is at the time.

When cancer sufferers fight, recover, and go into remission we laud their bravery. We call them survivors. Because they are. When depression sufferers fight, recover and go into remission we seldom even know, simply because so many suffer in the dark…ashamed to admit something they see as a personal weakness…afraid that people will worry, and more afraid that they won’t. We find ourselves unable to do anything but cling to the couch and force ourselves to breathe.

When you come out of the grips of a depression there is an incredible relief, but not one you feel allowed to celebrate. Instead, the feeling of victory is replaced with anxiety that it will happen again, and with shame and vulnerability when you see how your illness affected your family, your work, everything left untouched while you struggled to survive. We come back to life thinner, paler, weaker…but as survivors. Survivors who don’t get pats on the back from coworkers who congratulate them on making it. Survivors who wake to more work than before because their friends and family are exhausted from helping them fight a battle they may not even understand.

Regardless, today I feel proud. I survived. And I celebrate every one of you reading this. I celebrate the fact that you’ve fought your battle and continue to win. I celebrate the fact that you may not understand the battle, but you pick up the baton dropped by someone you love until they can carry it again. I celebrate the fact that each time we go through this, we get a little stronger. We learn new tricks on the battlefield. We learn them in terrible ways, but we use them. We don’t struggle in vain.

We win.

We are alive.”

#depression shitthatsucks

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Step Six: Engaging Activities

So I am FINALLY going to make this last installment in The Depression Cure string. Yay! Now I won’t feel so guilty when I’m avoiding writing posts for my website. Haha.

Obviously, we all gravitate towards activities we love and are passionate about. We all want to do what we love. But I think this can become complicated (like so many other things) when one has a mental illness.

For me personally, this becomes an issue when winter comes, and suddenly doing anything becomes a struggle, down to the simplest things like doing the dishes or taking a shower. I can be sailing along as summer goes by, gardening and horseback riding, studying various things that interest me, and then that slow, insidious downward spiral begins, and before I know it, I find myself lying in bed asking myself what the point is in getting out of it. And I’m not being existentially clever. So there is a fear there of really embracing the things I love, because before I know it, I can’t do them anymore. I feel like a helpless puppet on a stupid roller coaster, going through the high of feeling so free and light in the summer, the way normal people feel all year ’round, to the crushing despair of watching all the progress I’ve made just be sluiced away when winter comes. It really is not fair. I can’t progress. I can’t grow. There is continuity, no flow, no growth. I am always stuck, always behind, always either making up for lost time or waiting until I can live again.

I have a sun lamp, I take Vitamin D, I try to exercise.

I think that all living things have within them a drive that pushes them to live. You see it in how flowers reach for the sun with all they have. You see it in how all trees, all plants and all flowers just grow. With everything they have, it’s what they do. You see it in the lone dandelion that pushed up through the concrete sidewalk. You see it in how baby birds wait for Mom and Dad to come back to the nest with mouths open, eagerly anticipating food. They couldn’t tell you why they do this, they just do it. Water runs, fire burns, life…lives.

Humans are like this too. We strive for the light, we turn our faces to the sun (or the moon, in some cases). We move towards healing and love, we have a drive inside us that tells us to fight for our lives. I know this because I have been at the place where everything grows dark, where you stand there and face Lady Death, and She asks you, Are you ready for me?

There’s this scene in The Princess Bride where one of the main characters is mostly dead (if you’ve seen the movie you’ll know what that means and why it’s funny), and Miracle Max asks him, “What have you got that’s worth living for?”

Well, I can tell you that even the smallest bit of hope is like a candle flame in the darkness of giving up. I’ve seen it, I’ve been there.

So even though I can look ahead and I know that this monumental struggle is always waiting for me as fall turns to winter, I still seek the things that I love every time summer comes and the weight is lifted off my shoulders. Maybe it’s stupid and futile, but it’s an impulse that can’t be ignored. It’s life itself, calling me.

That’s all I really have to say on the subject.

#depression shitthatsucks love

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Round Two: The Hospital

Okay, so I was going to write the last installment on the whole “Depression Cure” string of posts, but. . .yeah. Instead, I’m going to write about how I was in the hospital on the weekend. Again.

Where to begin? I’ve actually been doing fairly well lately, all things considered. It’s been getting warmer and springier outside lately, which always puts me in a good mood, and I’ve had tons of time to think and ponder and reflect and look forward and dream without the clutter and bullshit of a job that sucks the life out of me, so things were looking up. My boyfriend and I went back to reality for a few days, saw Cirque du Soleil (Amaluna), ate Indian food, stayed in swanky hotels, saw some friends of the human, animal, lakeous and mountainous variety. And I got a puppy, which has been a dream of mine since FOREVER. (Her name is AmaLuna Ruby, and she’s a Newfoundlander, possibly crossed with a black Lab, if you want to know. She’ll be 3 months on February 4th and she’s growing at a ridiculous rate. I love big slobbery dogs.)

So I’ve been on serious puppy patrol for a few weeks now, making sure she’s not peeing or pooping in the house, or chewing or shredding or ripping or tearing or breaking anything, or chasing my cats. I’m up before dawn to take her for a bumble in the woods near our house every morning (this from the girl who loves to stay up all night), and I’ve been saturated with warm puppy belly rubs, slobbery kisses, and general adorableness.

But I’ve had literally zero time for me, as I’m sure all new parents will tell you is the case. And for me, that spells badness. I need some time, every day, when I can just be. (In Chinese it’s called wu wei, the art of not doing.) It keeps my anxiety under control, it gives me time to think, to daydream, to get lost (or found) in a book, to write, to play piano, to breathe. I need to check in with myself daily, to sweep out the corners of my mind, to challenge any lies from that self-hating voice that have built up, to kick their collective asses and send them on their way. To water and nourish the good thoughts and encourage them to grow. If I neglect this, things get ugly fast. And they did.

I should mention here that I have serious trust issues. This is due, in part, to dating some serious losers, but it goes farther back than that. Even my first “relationship”, when I was fifteen (which I don’t really count, cuz hey, I was fifteen) was disastrous. I’ve just never felt comfortable as A Girlfriend. I feel awkward and like I have to be someone/something that I’m not. I make boys uncomfortable. I feel smothered when a guy constantly wants to hold my hand and suck face. I like my space. I’ve always been a tomboy and independent. I walk fast and I don’t like to slow down. And it seems that guys always want me to slow down, be softer, hold onto them, want their advice, stop dancing so hard, stop flirting, need them more than I do. But I hold the Artemis archetype. Turn me loose in the forest naked with my animal friends and a bow, and I have all I need. Sorry, lads.

Maybe it’s because of my parents and their seriously twisted relationship (which I will get into in another post.) It’s weird how nowadays, when someone says “my parents are divorced,” people don’t even really bat an eye. But what does that really mean? Do we feel that our families, our roots, were torn and broken? How has it affected us as kids? During our formative years? As adults? Sexually? Relationally? What do we we believe about love? Do we believe it’s possible?

So how, you might be asking yourself, do I find myself in a long-term committed relationship right now? And the answer is. . .with great difficulty. I have so many issues, fears and neuroses surrounding relationships with guys that it sometimes gives me a headache.

The particular issue that ultimately put me in the hospital this time (among other things) was the issue of me-time. I need a lot of it to feel balanced. But being A Girlfriend, I feel guilty for needing any. I think somewhere in my mind exists this Girlfriend Prototype that wakes her boyfriend up every morning with blow jobs and breakfast in bed, sends him off to work with fresh coffee and kisses, greets him at lunch in a naughty nurse’s outfit (holding a sandwich, very meaty), and when he gets home in the evening the house is immaculate, dinner is ready and very balanced, dessert is mildly dirty, and sex always ensues before sleep. She is always funny and witty but not too funny or witty, always comforting and nurturing while at the same time managing to be one of the guys, and can somehow walk that fine line between wide-eyed please-show-me-how-to-put-this-bookshelf-together-girliness, and I-can-play-poker-with-my-boyfriend’s-friends-and-almost-but-not-quite-win. She smells like vanilla and the dishtowels never have creases; her garden is always flourishing but her nails are never dirty. On the (extremely rare, of course) days she decides to be lazy and not wash her hear or get out of her pj’s, she still manages to look sexy and cute. The sheets are always clean but what she does between them is not; she makes amazing chocolate chip cookies and would be a good mother to his kids. What’s that quote? “A woman must think like a man, act like a lady, look like a young girl, and work like a horse.”

So my super awesome solution to this problem is to take no me-time at all, and then get more and more anxious and freaked out over nothing that I end up actually being in a really bad frame of mind.

In our house, there is a room for my me-time. My piano is in there, my cats love the bed, my altar and books are in there, along with all my art supplies. So it’s not like my boyfriend wouldn’t be cool with me taking time for myself. Yet still I don’t do it. Good girlfriends are supposed to be like a never-ending, gushing fountain, eternally pouring out love and energy and support to their boyfriends. Blah, blah, blah.

So, the end result of all this last Friday was that I needed to go to the hospital to feel justified in taking time to myself. It was kind of a pointless endeavor, since like everything else in this town, the hospital here is ridiculously limited, and there are no mental health people to talk to on weekends, so you basically just sit there and do nothing. And the majority of the nurses there have the bare minimum of training in regards to mental health, so there’s a lot of judgement and impatience flying around. When I got there the nurse said to me, “You either have to promise not to kill yourself, or I’m going to put you in a locked room. We’re too busy to be checking on you.”

And the pancakes. I thought pancakes were something that really couldn’t be gross, even in a hospital. I was wrong.

#depression shitthatsucks hospital

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Step Five: Connection

It’s been awhile (again) since I posted anything in my blog. Funny how when I decide to start a blog because I have oodles of spare time on my hands, suddenly life gets busy. We took a trip down back to reality to see Cirque du Soleil, see some old friends (human and otherwise), and generally have some fun, and I also got a new puppy, who has been keeping me busy and exhausted and happy. I’m writing this when I should be sleeping cuz it’s really the only time I can focus (Puppy being asleep behind the toilet where it’s cool. She’s a Newfoundlander and will need her own pool in the summer.)

So, social connection. At this point in my life, my boyfriend comprises my entire human social life, with occasional phone convos and facebook messaging with my awesome friends who are, unfortunately, far far away. This is probably unhealthy, but we’re in a very remote town in northern Canada, and the general social scene is comprised of drinking beer, hunting and skinning animals, and getting into fights at the bar. (Six more months, six more months, six more months.)

MY idea of a good time with friends is having tea or dinner with some fellow witches, then sitting talking till the wee hours about things that really matter, and doing ritual. If we can go to the beach, camping, snowboarding, horseback riding, swimming, or hiking as well, so much the better. Clearly, this town isn’t my thing.

Yes, social connection is important. But I would rather hang out alone than with people who I have to be fake around. So I adjust and I read a lot and draw and other “solitary” things, while always remaining open to the possibility of meeting someone cool.

The other side of this is that, after spending a long time struggling with depression and watching many people become alienated by it, I’ve developed some doozies of trust issues. I don’t like burdening my friends with all the shit I go through. Yeah, we’re told to “reach out” and all that, but when we’re feeling suicidal and hopeless, do we really want to do that, knowing it might push people away because it scares them and they don’t know what to do or say? Not to mention getting SERIOUSLY sick of well-meaning people spouting cliches at us, like “It’s always darkest before the stars come out,” and “Things will be better after a good night’s sleep!” It seems very clear to me that these people say these things more for their own peace of mind than for ours. Because no one wants to admit that something like MDD exists. Something that can’t be easily defined and fixed with a pill. Something that might even happen to you.

So I’ve really stopped trying to make friends in a way, because most people just don’t get it, and trying to explain it gets really old really fast when you get the same ignorant responses over and over again. Then comes the awkwardness, the dwindling social invites. . .because who wants to hang out with a downer? Maybe I’m cynical for feeling this way, but it’s how I feel. Maybe once I’m healthier I’ll feel better about making friends, because my darks won’t be so dark, and I won’t have to worry about scaring people. But should I even worry about this? Shouldn’t true friends be there no matter what?

Would I want to be friends with me?

#depression shitthatsucks connection

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Step Four: Enhanced Sleep

So I haven’t updated my blog in awhile. . .I’ve been working on making a website, and apparently that’s all my brain felt capable of focusing on. I also find it kinda funny that out of the six steps of “the depression cure,” sleep is the biggest pain in the ass for me, and the one subject I’ve been procrastinating over writing about. But I figured it was time for a little self discipline.

The concept according to Dr. Ilardi of “enhanced sleep” has several components – going to bed at the same time each night, getting up at the same time each morning, making sure one’s bedroom has positive associations, keeping your house cool at night, etc. He addresses the issue that a lot of people with MDD suffer from hypersomnia, or sleeping too much. Definitely the case for me. He explains that this often happens to people who may sleep through the night, but their sleep isn’t restful or rejuvenating, so they find themselves tired throughout the day as well. For me personally, I also sleep as a means of escapism when my MDD is bad. I get sick of the downward spiral, the future looks bleak and hopeless, so I sleep rather than allowing my thoughts to take me down those well-worn paths of “Why bother?” and “What’s the point?” and “Might as well kill yourself.”

Despite the glorious escapism that comes with sleep, there are other reasons that getting into a healthy orderly sleeping schedule is hard for me. One is safety. I never really feel safe. Emotionally, physically, etc. You know that “trust test” that you do when you fall backwards and someone catches you? Yeah, I can’t do that. Physically can’t bring myself to, with anyone. Right at the last minute, I always stick a leg out and catch myself. Totally not something I think about, it just happens. But in sleep, sometimes (not often), I feel myself truly just let go, and it’s blissfully sweet. Usually, though, I wake up two hours after I fall asleep in a weird kind of hyper-vigilant state, even though underneath it I can still feel that I’m tired. Lately, I’ve been waking up at all hours of the night drenched in sweat. Like, totally soaked through my pj’s, the sheets, everything. No idea why. My doctor sent me to get a brain scan, and it’s not anything physical. So yeah, it remains a mystery.

The other factor is art. As my therapist says, “Artists tend to hate structure,” and it’s so true, at least for me. The best analogy I’ve heard on the subject of the muse’s unpredictable gifts was from a book on creativity by Julia Cameron. She equated it with having an exciting lover, one who climbs in through your window at night and keeps you up with passionate lovemaking that takes away all sense of tiredness or time. And the picture that society paints of The Artist is of a reclusive painter/writer/sculptor/etc, cloistering themselves from the world when the muse enters, until they’re ready to unveil their latest masterpiece.

I hate going to bed at the same time every night because night is magical. With night comes this endlessly spinning wheel of possibility and nuances, voices and stories that one can’t hear during the busyness of the day. What if I go to bed at 10:00, and the muse comes in at 10:02? It’s worth waiting for . . .

But the reality of art is much more disappointing to society’s romantic sensibilities. There is a lot of “chopping wood and carrying water.” There is a lot of work. Mundane, unromantic, boring work.

Yes, the muse does come knocking, bringing sweet gifts that feel like miracles, moments and flashes of inspiration. I have experienced them. Ideas that have sprung up in my consciousness that I know I didn’t “think of” on my own. I don’t know where they came from. I’ve had fully-formed characters walk into my head, sit down, and begin telling me their stories, urging me to write them down. I’ve had characters, in the middle of a story, veer off into a completely unscripted direction despite me running along behind them, asking them where the hell they’re going. I’ve heard them simply reply, “Trust me,” and watched as, later, this veering off has created a more complex and beautifully meaningful story than any that I could have ever thought up.

But these are moments. There’s something in between them. And that something is called work.

So maybe I need to get into this healthy schedule, maximizing my time in the sun every day, and trust that when the muse has something really cool to put upon me, she’ll wake me up, no matter the hour, and under moon and stars I will listen and write and draw, and the healthy sleeping schedule can go fly a kite. . .at least until tomorrow night.

#depression shitthatsucks sleep

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Step Three: Sunlight

This step of “the depression cure” is kind of a bitch for me. I hate being cold and when I say “I love winter,” I generally mean from a cozy couch with a blanket over me, and a book and a hot chocolate in hand. Looking at it out the window. Doing the outdoorsy things in the winter that I love to do – snowboarding and hiking in the woods – take major self-discipline and many layers of clothing, and even then are usually accompanied by severe grumpiness for the first part of the day. And being Pagan, I try to experience the beauty in all seasons, not just the ones that are “easy.”

But it’s easier said than done. Taking a walk around the block to get some sunlight when it’s cold outside, when I’m already lethargic, low on energy, and experiencing mild-to-moderate anxiety, is more often than not too much for me. Sometimes I can force myself to go, but usually not. I have a sun lamp, and it can definitely help, but it’s never as good as the real thing. I take vitamin D as well in the winter, but again. . .nothing compares with the real deal.

When summer comes, I’m almost never inside, but I’m not one of those people that can just lie around in the sun. I need to be doing something, be it gardening, picking up horse poop, riding, walking the dog, mowing the lawn, swimming, whatever. So summer is really not an issue. Winter is the real dilemma. I’ve moved away from my hometown, which is notorious for being one of the bloody coldest places ever. . .there is a corner downtown there that is the coldest spot in Canada. Seriously. All that winter fury condensed into one tiny intersection. Once winter comes, people just disappear. When you do see someone on the rare occasion you dare to go outside, it’s like your own tiny Christmas. And in the spring, people start emerging like bears from their dens, and the sense of freedom and life is palpable. The problem is, unless you move to southern BC, it’s gonna be frickin’ freezing in the wintertime if you live more or less anywhere in Canada. My heart has led me, after many adventures, misadventures, and false starts to southern Alberta, and that’s where I’m going to make my home (7 months to go!!!) So how do I solve the winter dilemma? How many jackets and pairs of snowboard pants can one girl reasonably wear?

#depression shitthatsucks sunlight

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Step Two: Omega 3 Fatty Acids

I am taking some now.

Not a very rich topic.

Yup.

#depression shitthatsucks omega3fattyacids

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Step One: Exercise

As I mentioned previously, I am doing this “6 Step Program to Beat Depression,” and I’m going to to dedicate a post (or more) to each step as I do it, describing what it involves, how I am tailoring it to me personally, any struggles or insights I have regarding it, etc.

I decided to start with exercise, because it’s one of the steps that’s the hardest for me to begin implementing, and continue doing consistently. For some reason I get a lot of anxiety when I set out to do any physical activities, even ones I love, like snowboarding and horseback riding. I personally think it’s because I was a really sensitive kid, and I had a really scary, not to mention sexist gym teacher, and I remember the feelings of fear and anxiety and inadequacy that always accompanied the dreaded gym class. I never excelled at any “sport” until I started taking Karate, and I found out it came really naturally to me. Same goes for horseback riding. So I think the logical conclusion would be that I don’t play well with others. I still get anxious when I walk into a gym or a sport/class/type setting, so I’m finding different ways to get physical in my current situation.

I’ve decided to start by taking a short walk around the block, which raises its own issues in this town, because I really hate it here. It’s ugly and uninspiring and there are a lot of sketchy people. And the ones who aren’t sketchy tend to be extremely cliquey and will blatantly stare at you, mouth hanging open, as you go by. Yeah. One of those towns. (Luckily, I’m not here for much longer.) So ever since I got here about a month ago, I’ve been mostly living in my head and enjoying the wide array of fabulously cool landscapes there. But I have a body and it needs to stretch and move, so we have to compromise. So I’m taking this walk around the block every day, because I know it also gives me a much-needed immersion into glorious, rapidly-warming-up sunlight! (I love the sun, and that’s one of the other steps as well.) So I walk and try to find beauty, even when it’s very small.

I also work out with my yoga ball and 5 lbs. weights every morning. I’m working on building my core and thigh muscles because I need to strengthen them for riding (horses, that is, though it will help with snowboarding, too.)

My boyfriend and I are starting yoga next Monday as well, and I think that will be good for us both. (He’s much less flexible than I am, so it should be entertaining for me as well.) I’ve never been a huge fan of the eastern philosophies in any capacity, for the sole reason that it’s somehow become cool to be Buddhist (or at least to call yourself one), and in my observation, most people have no idea what they’re doing when they do so. I’ve seen people use the whole “non-attachment” philosophy as a means to justify one night stands. Yeah. And I personally disagree with many of the beliefs as well. But I know a little bit about how our bodies can be maps to our emotional and mental bodies as well, and it makes sense to me that we store memories and emotions in our body. And stretching and sweating it out can definitely be healthy in more ways than just physically. So that’s how I’m choosing to look at it. And it’ll be fun to do something with my boyfriend, since there really isn’t much else to do in this town.

I am also trying to hunt down a riding teacher, and looking into zumba or kickboxing as well.

I really do love being physical, despite my anxiety surrounding it. I love the feeling of stretching my body and breathing life into my joints and muscles. I love feeling strength building and seeing changes for the better. I love feeling capable and healthy.

So, a walk around the block, some delightfully anti-social weight lifting, and yoga with my hunny once a week. . .I think it’s a good, gentle start. And above all else, I am forever keeping in mind that if I don’t do it one day, if I’m more anxious or down than usual, I am not beating myself up about it. I am not perfect. And I don’t have to be.

Later for now.

#depression shitthatsucks exercise

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Winter Weaving

Well, winter is swiftly passing (though for me this time of year always seems to drag by impossibly slowly, so by the time spring actually comes, I’ve almost forgotten what grass is…I don’t know if I’m alone in this), and I figured I would update my blog in case anyone actually reads it. And for myself too. Yeah.

This is the first winter in which I went into it with my eyes wide open, fully aware and with no illusions about how bad it can get, how low I can go, and as prepared for it as I could possibly be. Armed with a sun lamp, vitamin D, the two more epic cats in the history of cat-kind, a yoga ball and lots of dark green veggies for the depression (not to mention the super duper pills my doctor prescribes for me…that was sarcasm. I hate taking them.), kava kava, ridiculous amounts of free time, and herbal tea for the anxiety, and yes, a helluva lot of compassion and gentleness for myself when I’m less than perfect and less than what I expect of myself, which is basically all the time.

The irony of it all is that compassion and self love are two concepts that I’ve struggled with since my early 20′s, when I became a self-proclaimed hippie, flew out west and lived in a tent in the woods for a year and half, and first heard of such an idea. Considering what it would mean to apply it to myself, I was shocked to discover how much self loathing I carry around, definitely more than the average person. Which then became the catalyst for some seriously deep soul searching, some intense asking of my favourite question, “Why?” And the root of a whole new vista of self knowledge that I won’t get into here. But the point of this paragraph is that self love and compassion have eluded me over and over again, like trying to chase down your own shadow. I guess I thought that I would be sitting there on a rock by the ocean one morning, smoking a cigarette in the lotus position while the sun rose and all my fellow hippies were still sleeping, and Compassion and Self Love would just slide into my skin as easily as the passing wind, and my eyes would brighten and suddenly everything would become so clear, and from that moment on my life would be forever changed. All my self hatred would dissolve in the salt water at my feet, I would start taking my dreams and goals and creativity seriously (but not too seriously), I would start eating well, start exercising regularly, teach yoga, find a boy who worshiped me, travel overseas, wear those pants that only come down to the tops of your calves, make your ass look amazing and your legs look capable, and sandals that support your arches. I wouldn’t be gangly anymore. My dreads would be perfectly even and would have beads and treasures hidden deep inside them. I would spend my 20′s traveling the world and then, at the glorious onset of my 30′s, probably on an airplane over the desert somewhere, would come to the neatly packaged conclusion that my real calling in life is to _______________ (insert some kind of natural healing career here), and would then begin a conscious journey into attending university to achieve the schooling necessary to do this. I would have supportive friends who came over for potlucks with strawberry and blackberry wine, bright scarves, attentive lovers who were drawn to my inner light but could never touch it, an old upright piano, a calico cat, and an apartment that was built in 1901 with a Victorian couch. My futon would have suns and moons and stars on it, and when my friends would sleep over we would talk far into the night, and once I had fallen asleep they would lie on their backs, staring at the sarong draped across the ceiling with the perfume of incense wafting down into their nostrils, enchanting them, making them wonder, with the music that softly played. Loreena McKennitt, Sinead O’Connor’s Gospel Oak, Ravi Shankar.

The reality of it, however, is that Compassion and Self Love finally came to me when I was too tired, too beaten down, too broken, to do or to be anything else. I was in the hospital with no one and nothing, and I wanted to die. Because I left the bright scarves, the turn of the century apartment buildings, the potlucks and sleepovers behind, in my quest to find the mountains and the fierce rage of snowboarding, of house music and Jager bombs, or situations that I could describe as sick and fucking epic, and when I found it, all that was in myself that didn’t align with it just fell away, and writing this now, three years later, I still barely remember who I am. Because I sacrificed it all to feel, for one safe and steady moment, normal. What I considered safe and steady, what I considered normal.

And now, I would give almost anything to feel like myself again.

But the funny thing is, I’m not only that girl from Osborne Village anymore – the one who dances at The Toad, the one who eats at Massala and Wasabi and who remembers Out of the Blue when it was cooler, and who has an account at Movie Village. I see myself as a tapestry, woven of so many bright, so many muted, complex threads. Can’t I be a Villager and a snowboard chick? Can’t I love the energy and the pulse of the city, and be a horse person too? Can I love the painting that happens with the written word, and be moved to indescribable levels by music, by art, too? Maybe it’s about integrating our images of ourselves with all the new things we’re learning and becoming every moment, and never limiting ourselves to what we used to be, even five minutes ago. Not worrying that no one has ever done it like this before.

I’ve felt, for my whole life, that I don’t have deep roots, or a strong sense of who I am or what I’m about. So maybe I’ve been shaky from the beginning, so no wonder I feel so lost. But lately it’s my passions that I keep coming back to as a touchstone for who I am. What is it I believe in? Like, really believe in? Down to the bone? What is it in my life that I feel like I’d die if I didn’t have? The things that make life feel worth living? What are my morals, my ethics, even when the world around me seems so devoid of them, or like no one cares? What do I care about? And you start to shape your life around these passions.

I think that as we grow older a refining process begins to take shape within us. We don’t lose our passions…we just start to see time differently. We start to ask ourselves, what matters most? What do I want to put my time and energy into? What do I want to grow in this garden that is my life? What will I cultivate? Because we can’t give 100% to all our passions (if we have as many as I happen to). We each have to create our own medicine wheel, and balance out what goes within it. How much Deer, how much Dolphin? How much piano, how much dance? How much sketching, how many horses, what colours will they be? And so on. Kind of like a recipe.

So every day, no matter how big the snowbanks are or how short the days, I remind myself that January is almost over, and that spring is on its way. Reminding myself of what’s true, even when all evidence is to the contrary.

Bye for now.

#depression winter shitthatsucks

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Up to the Date

I haven’t written in awhile, but I noticed yesterday that someone actually finds this blog interesting, and it kind of inspired me. So I guess I’ll do an update on what’s going on with me.

In a few days I have an appointment to see about going on long-term disability/assistance…and I hate it. Hate it. But seeing as I can’t work, I don’t really have any other options at this point. Starting a new job, I’m always really positive and energetic, but after a few weeks, this lethargy always sets in, and I find myself constantly exhausted, restless, anxious and bored. Then I start feeling anxious before going to work, particularly on Sunday evenings/Monday mornings, so I start calling in sick…and it just gets worse from there. I’ve never actually been fired, but I have left almost every job I’ve ever had because of this. It’s not that I don’t want to be working, because I do. I really do. I love the idea of having a job I’m passionate about, of going in to work every morning excited (well, most mornings…let’s be honest here, no job is perfect), and leaving every day knowing I’ve made an actual difference in the world, even if it was just one person, or one animal, one plant, that I helped. That’s always how I’ve been: idealistic. Which maybe contributes to the depression. I’ve always seen things for what they can be, not for what they are. I see potential.

Apparently this is a Virgo trait. More on that later, though.

So while in some ways it will be a relief to have some money coming in consistently, no matter my state of mind, this decision has left me feeling frustrated, angry and sad beyond description.

My goal has always been to have a small handful of acres in the foothills of this beautiful province I live in, with a view of the mountains. I want my own horse, two dogs, my cats, and a healthy relationship. I want to take a trip somewhere every year, my top three places being Ireland, Hawaii, and New Zealand. Then Italy, the Ukraine, and Germany (that will be my pilgrimage to where my ancestors come from), then China, Australia, a road trip of the States on a motorcycle, Pompeii, Alaska, Easter Island…the list goes on. But the issue now is. . .if I’m on disability for the rest of my life. . .will I always be just scraping by? Doomed to live in an apartment, feeling like a caged animal, when my heart is running through forests and gazing at mountains under starlight and riding bareback along beaches and traveling the world? In short, are my dreams unattainable? At the age of 31, is the life I’ve been hoping and attempting to plan for over? If so. . .then what’s the point of any of this?

People say that suicide is a permanent solution to a temporary problem, and in 99% of cases, I wholeheartedly agree. The only case in which this is not true is when someone has an illness that isn’t going anywhere. If I can’t live the life I want, then quite frankly, I don’t want to live at all. Call me dramatic, immature, overly idealistic, whatever. But that’s just how I feel. I have every right to be happy, just like everyone else does. Why should I be any different?

#depression shitthatsucks disability

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Some Insights

I just found these two quotes randomly; I’m not sure who said them, but I found them very succinct:

“People think depression is about being sad. They think it’s just when you ‘feel down’. It’s not. It’s like a darkness that creeps over you and fills you. It drains all your emotions. It takes everything from you, and leaves you feeling hollow and numb. It’s not sadness. It’s not anger. It’s hopelessness. Imagine waking up and there being no color. Walking outside and feeling no wind. Eating a meal and tasting nothing. Holding someone and feeling completely alone at the same time. When you’re depressed, it’s not a bad mood. It’s a numb, empty, hollowness that seems to never leave. It’s feeling alone in a room full of people. You feel like there’s no hope left.” -Unknown

And the second one:

“It’s like drowning, while everyone around you is breathing.” -Unknown

#depression shitthatsucks notsad

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Impressed

So recently I was talking to my counselor, and she told me something that I didn’t know, and that really impressed me.

We were discussing how I want to go back to school (university), and yet I have all kinds of misgivings because I know how the depression has affected me in the past during the winter, so how could I realistically plan to succeed at years of school if I can’t get out of bed for weeks at a time during the winter?

Well, apparently, awareness and compassion for this disease are growing. It turns out that most universities offer free tutoring for people with depression, PLUS you can also sign up and have a note-taker assigned to you. This is someone who, if you’re unable to make it to class because of your disease, will attend your classes and take notes on the lectures given by the prof. And on top of all that, there’s a program in BC that one can enter and, if your doctor signs off on you having depression, you can have a couple thousand dollars paid for your tuition. Not a lot in the big picture, but still.

#depression shitthatsucks change