Emotional Makeup

I'm not doing well.

Thanks for the summation, Matt Fraction.

This is not at all something I like to talk about, so I apologize in advance for all the jokes I will hide behind. I posted here about six months ago, and while I'd like to say that I'm all better, that I'm doing better, that things have changed and in fact, I don't even need this blog any more!

That would be a boldfaced lie. The year has passed by in a blur. I don't feel like I've accomplished anything beyond surviving, which I know is more than nothing, but I'm not even doing that well. I've pulled my head above the surface long enough to catch my breath, enough times to keep it together outwardly, but it's been close.

Now, I want to be perfectly clear about the fact that I am NOT suicidal. Don't worry, that's not what this is about. This is my own version of writing my way out, but the hurricane in my own mind and I haven't quite figured out where New York is yet. I've been listening to a lot of Hamilton, can you tell?

Which actually brings me to the main reason that I see this current bout of depression as different from all the other ones. I have never felt so apathetic, and for so long. I don't know where I'm going. I barely know who I am, and the parts that I see, I hate.

I'm not supposed to say that, am I? Self-love is the watchword. Love yourself! You're perfect the way you are! Positivity! I've loved myself before, but the version of myself I've seen lately? I don't know her. She's boring. She doesn't have any goals, barely speaks to her friends, isn't going anywhere.

Speaking of Hamilton, I think that's one thing that really made me realize how deep down into this hole I'd sunk. Lin has this fire, this drive, and he gives that to Hamilton. I've always been passionate, full of ideas and dreams and a secret sense that I am here to do something. I'm still not sure what that is, but I used to be so sure I'd find it. And at my core that surety is still there, but in the day to day, I can't find it anymore.

One of the hardest things about depression is that it's invisible, but even more than that, if you've had this much practice, it's far too easily hidden. I'm careful. I'm able to keep my shit together on the outside just enough to "pass", so to speak. If I can't keep my house clean, I just avoid inviting anyone over. If I don't have the energy to be social, I blame work, or the flu, or any number of believable excuses. Dark circles from insomnia just take a bit of concealer. Another day passes, and no one the wiser.

I suppose I am lucky that my own struggles don't entirely incapacitate me, but I've always found the "starving children in Africa" argument to be a waste of time. Let's assume that there will always be people who have it worse than me and accept that in comparison my life is very good, and move on.

With all these things in mind, I have two goals or missions for myself. First, I want to be more honest about my needs and the reasons behind me. I want to tell someone that I just can't hang out because I don't have the mental energy instead of claiming a cold. Secondly, I want to get my passion back. I don't have a specific step-by-step plan for that just yet, but I'm working on one, so maybe that will be my next post.

Anyway, I know this post is a bit all over the place and rather self-indulgent, but I'm giving myself permission to do that kind of stuff on this blog. It's a blog, yes, but it's more of way for me to force myself to admit things to myself by admitting them to strangers and friends online.

If I do this enough, maybe I can write my way out. If the hurricane is my own brain and New York is a better life, well...I like to think Lin would still approve.

An Increasing Spiral

I am wildly impatient. When I've decided what to do, when I've clicked a button, I want it to happen now, if not yesterday. If I had a nickel for the number of times I've frozen a computer by clicking on too many things at once, I'd be rich enough to buy a better computer that would go fast enough. So when it comes to my own mental health, my own self-improvement, I have trouble giving myself the time and I space I need and deserve.

I can't entirely remember where I read this, but someone once said that recovery isn't a straight line but more of a spiral. Even if it feels like you're back where you started, you're probably still improving in a smaller way you didn't notice at first. While my mind accepts that easily, try telling my heart. It's disheartening, though, isn't it? You'd think that after 10+ years of the same fight I'd have developed stronger muscles. Maybe I have, but damn would it be nice to set my weapons down for a moment. I'm tired.

Depression. What a big word. I don't use it much, and I think maybe it's a bit like Voldemort-- names have power, and unless you're ready to face the enemy, sometimes it's easier to stay a step back. Oh, I'm not depressed, I'm just tired. Feeling down. Having a bad month. Much more approachable that way, isn't it? Much easier to ignore.

It's been a weird, or bad, or down...well, year really. It snuck up on me, because for a while there, things were going so well. Finally, I thought, everything was coming together. A fulfilling job that left me with ample free time to pursue hobbies. A solid group of friends. A budding relationship. Sure, the bad days came, the anxieties jumped out from behind curtains, but I bounced back like those bottom-weighted dolls that refuse to fall over.

So, when things started to roll downhill, I told myself it would be fine. I'd forgotten the signs. No one manned the watchtowers. It came in steps. A breakup that hit harder than expected. Friends moved to different countries. But I put my head down and kept busy, kept working, and ignored the signs telling me that Things Were Not Okay, that they were in fact Getting Worse.

The thing that's always been tough for me about my depression (as if there's only one thing?) is that it's subtle. I've never really felt suicidal or the desire to hurt myself, and half the time I don't even feel exactly what you could call sad. It's more of a cold wet blanket that I can't quite seem to shake off. It's heavy and cumbersome, and the easiest way to ignore it is to just fall asleep under it. It's like the opposite of rose-tinted glasses; it makes everything a bit gray, a bit damp, a bit less exciting. Everything seems harder to do, because even the smallest movement requires so much more effort than usual. I guess the fancy word is apathy.

But apathy is tricky. It feels like exhaustion, and with the way I overwork and overschedule myself, it's normal for me to be tired. To a point. However, when I spent nearly the entire two weeks of my winter vacation in bed doing nothing because even getting up to get dressed seemed like more than I could handle, I knew that something needed to change.

I guess that's part of what this blog is about. What's the buzzword these days? Living mindfully? As much as I'd like to avoid thinking my thoughts and feeling my feelings, in the end, that's what leads to things getting worse than they need to be. It's time to start keeping myself accountable and, like Dumbledore, calling my enemy by its name.

Say Something

Honesty. Openness. Authenticity. Quite a list of loaded words, right? If we call a person fake, two-faced, or phony, we're not paying them a compliment. And yet, when I'm asked by a friend or colleague "How are you?", and answer beyond "fine" or it's many permutations will likely be deemed as oversharing. TMI. So what's a girl to do?

These days, the internet brings even more confusion to the issue. As Stephen Marche wrote is his great article in the Atlantic, "it’s a lonely business, wandering the labyrinths of our friends’ and pseudo-friends’ projected identities, trying to figure out what part of ourselves we ought to project, who will listen, and what they will hear." I love that concept of "projected identity," because things like Facebook, Twitter, Tumblr, all the ways we create identity online, give us more ability to curate our image than ever before.

Just think about it. If you're a control freak like me, you can obsessively manage the things you post and that are posted to your Facebook timeline. Don't like a picture? Delete it or untag yourself. Did something embarassing? Don't write about it. Achieved something impressive? Brag about it. It's putting on a smile and cleaning the house before company comes over, but writ large. It's even telling the embarassing story, but only ever in a way that, in the end, just makes you look better. How cute and clumsy! How relatable!

I must admit, I do the same thing in so-called "real life"; as it turns out, I can't get away with only talking to people over the internet. Crazy, right? It might not be something to be proud of, but I have an uncanny ability to put on a smile and charm and tell a funny story no matter what's going on in my mind or my heart. I call it my customer-service face, because I really honed this power during my many service-industry jobs.

So this brings me back to honesty and openness, especially in regards to mental and emotional health. While of course it's not always the time or the place to unpack your emotional carryon, I think too many people decide it's  never the time, especially in a public forum like Facebook. Well, I don't agree. I grew up in an environment that was all about keeping up appearances. No matter what goes on in your home, in your mind, make sure none of it shows! God forbid anyone see your house with a speck of dust in it.

It's time to change. As a friend recently wrote, "I think that by opening dialogues, we help others feel less alone." Depression, anxiety--all of these things isolate you. It often feels like you're the only one who has ever experienced what you're going through. You look at that perfect coworker, your stalk successful friends on Facebook and only see what they choose to show.

So, I guess it's my turn. That's what this blog is about. I...well, I admit, this is really difficult for me. I've been sitting here in front of my computer for about 30 minutes trying to write a few simple words. As someone who is more comfortable writing than speaking, it's odd when I come across something that won't even come out on the page. I've been honest about the subject in personal conversations, but if I'm not to be a hypocrite, I guess I have to write it here.

Since high school, I've suffered from varying levels of depression and anxiety. The anxiety may even go back as far as childhood. There. It looks so simple once you write it out, right? I've developed so many strategies to hide it from the world, but not only is that counter-productive for my own recovery, it only leads to other people suffering from similar problems feeling more isolated.

That's what this blog is for: an attempt at openness, an open dialogue, and an admission, to myself and to the world, that yes, I am a human dumpster fire, but that's okay. At least the fire is smaller than it used to be.