(no subject)
I have made sense of depression that I have not ever made before, and it is ... a bizarre kind of relief.
I've always had it in my head that depression is like riding a runaway horse. Except, instead of the horse, I am riding my emotions. When they start to run away, it's usually toward a horribly nasty emotional state. And for some time I've been able to identify that they're going there, when I am starting to spiral, but like a runaway horse, simply *knowing* that the horse is running away does not by any means make the horse stop.
I observed that I had gotten better at dealing with *actual* runaway horses. That is to say, my horse. If I feel her start to think of running off, I can usually prevent it. Usually. If I catch it before she's gone. If she's gone, well, then I ride it out and get control when I can. Usually, if I go back to the basics and drill her a bit, or sometimes even get off, the running off does not happen.
I told Barbara that the problem was that I could not do the same with myself.
And I called my dad, after the session, telling him that I was unhappy about not doing things, unhappy with feeling unable to do things -- i.e., I was unhappy with getting away with emotionally. I don't think he understood that. He said, well, why don't you just do it? If you want to do those things, why not just make a real commitment and follow through with your plans?
I melted. Of course I melted. If there is one thing I have been doing, it is trying. I don't like to think how much of my effort and energy has gone into knock down drag out fights with myself so that I can get things I need doing done. I don't like to think about how much I've had to try to do basic, basic things that are hard for no explicable reason. And so, the only alternative that seemed left was that I really did not have that much strength; at the end of the day, I did not have enough spine, enough will, to get through. Not enough to make myself try as much as I should. Or, perhaps, that I was broken, so much so that trying wasn't worth it, because it wasn't working.
I had a bad night, you bet.
Then I thought about the runaway horse. If I were riding a runaway horse, and someone told me that the horse was not stopping because *I was not trying hard enough* to stop it, I would think that they were an idiot. Pull harder and fight more with a horse that's running away, pit yourself against its strength, and guess what happens? The horse runs faster, and you get tired. Stopping a runaway horse is not, on the whole, a matter of strength. It's absolutely a matter of knowing what to do and when to do it. It's knowing the tricks of how to ride, of how to stop the horse from running away to begin with. It is never, for most people, a matter of strength.
It's not a matter of strength. Such an odd thought. Such a relief of a thought. It's a matter of knowing not just how to ride, but how to work through already existing problems; it's a matter of training. It's a matter of knowing how to communicate and how to refine things, and some days the bloody horse will still run off with you. But it gets better, and it doesn't get better because the rider gets stronger; it gets better because the rider learns how to deal with the problems.
I've always had it in my head that depression is like riding a runaway horse. Except, instead of the horse, I am riding my emotions. When they start to run away, it's usually toward a horribly nasty emotional state. And for some time I've been able to identify that they're going there, when I am starting to spiral, but like a runaway horse, simply *knowing* that the horse is running away does not by any means make the horse stop.
I observed that I had gotten better at dealing with *actual* runaway horses. That is to say, my horse. If I feel her start to think of running off, I can usually prevent it. Usually. If I catch it before she's gone. If she's gone, well, then I ride it out and get control when I can. Usually, if I go back to the basics and drill her a bit, or sometimes even get off, the running off does not happen.
I told Barbara that the problem was that I could not do the same with myself.
And I called my dad, after the session, telling him that I was unhappy about not doing things, unhappy with feeling unable to do things -- i.e., I was unhappy with getting away with emotionally. I don't think he understood that. He said, well, why don't you just do it? If you want to do those things, why not just make a real commitment and follow through with your plans?
I melted. Of course I melted. If there is one thing I have been doing, it is trying. I don't like to think how much of my effort and energy has gone into knock down drag out fights with myself so that I can get things I need doing done. I don't like to think about how much I've had to try to do basic, basic things that are hard for no explicable reason. And so, the only alternative that seemed left was that I really did not have that much strength; at the end of the day, I did not have enough spine, enough will, to get through. Not enough to make myself try as much as I should. Or, perhaps, that I was broken, so much so that trying wasn't worth it, because it wasn't working.
I had a bad night, you bet.
Then I thought about the runaway horse. If I were riding a runaway horse, and someone told me that the horse was not stopping because *I was not trying hard enough* to stop it, I would think that they were an idiot. Pull harder and fight more with a horse that's running away, pit yourself against its strength, and guess what happens? The horse runs faster, and you get tired. Stopping a runaway horse is not, on the whole, a matter of strength. It's absolutely a matter of knowing what to do and when to do it. It's knowing the tricks of how to ride, of how to stop the horse from running away to begin with. It is never, for most people, a matter of strength.
It's not a matter of strength. Such an odd thought. Such a relief of a thought. It's a matter of knowing not just how to ride, but how to work through already existing problems; it's a matter of training. It's a matter of knowing how to communicate and how to refine things, and some days the bloody horse will still run off with you. But it gets better, and it doesn't get better because the rider gets stronger; it gets better because the rider learns how to deal with the problems.