Musing: Depression
Homework's freaking me out again, so I'll do this instead.
I’ve started composing this in my head five or six times now and I guess it’s time to finally get it out so I can stop thinking about it. I’ve seen a lot of blog posts and articles by people describing what depression is to them. There have been pieces and parts I agreed with and ones which also hold true for me. None of them really hit the bullseye for me, though, and I realized that’s because depression is one of those things that don’t come in a one-size-fits-all. It wears very differently on everyone and my experience will never be the same as anyone else’s. That’s just the way it is and, I think , what makes it so damn difficult to treat.
Well, for those who can afford to have it treated, but I digress. This isn’t about me bitching about health care in this country. I’ve never been very political and trying to wade in deep enough to form an educated option just depresses me further.
The description of depression I’ve seen written down which matched closest to mine was a woman who likened it to walking around all day with an anvil floating above your head. That anvil could fall at any moment and crush you, so you have to use every bit of your strength, energy, and willpower just in holding that thing up or else... bye bye, baby.
That is close, but it misses a very vital part of depression for me. It loses the fear aspect. In that analogy, the depression’s just there. It’s an inanimate thing that seems to have no will of its own. It’s just there because of some bad luck or strange circumstance, most likely. My depression is much more active than that. I’m afraid all the time: every moment of every day. For me, depression is a hunter; it’s a stalker.
I live in constant forward motion. That may sound smart and healthy when put like that, but stay with me here. It’s really not. There’s a difference between the act of running to something (healthy) and running away from something (less so). It’s a perfectly good survival instinct gone completely haywire. I’m in constant mental motion because I know if I stop, it will catch me. Depression lives behind me and just off to the side. I can see it in my peripheral vision or if I turn my head too fast. I feel it there. I know it’s waiting and if I miss a step, then that’s all she wrote.
It’s not fear of the unknown, either. I know exactly what’s back there. It’s me, pretty much. It’s my fuck ups and my failures. It’s all the incredible, irreparable damage I’ve done to my life and the utter certainty that I won’t ever amount to anything because I’ve wasted too much time and put too many road blocks in my own way. About how I owe so much to so many that I will never, in my entire lifetime, possess enough money to pay it all off. It’s the cold reality of the situation I’ve built for myself and for which I have no one else to blame. Outwardly, I pretend it’s not there.
I go through the motions: going to school and taking random classes, making friends I won’t keep, baking things I don’t care about, and singing, and fishing, and doing the normal things that normal people do. Only, it’s just a front. I don’t feel most of it and I certainly don’t mean almost any of it. It’s just another manifestation of that directionless forward momentum. It’s similar to a shark and how sharks have to keep moving or they’ll die. That’s me, except the shark’s behind me.
I have to move on from that particular train of thought, now, before my head turns too far. I feel anxious just brushing against it like that.
To protect myself I anesthetize myself with television, movies, books, online roleplay, fanfiction... anything that I can use to occupy space in my head. Anything that will keep me from stopping long enough to glance to the side or, God help me, look behind. There are bad things waiting for me there and if I can just block it all out with Dancing With The Stars, Supernatural, A Song of Ice and Fire, Food Network, or anything else that will keep me focused and moving, then I have a chance. It’s a weak chance filled with a whole lot more of the same, empty nothing, but in some ways I guess it beats the alternative.
Recently, I saw my own worst fear happen to someone else. I watched her dissolve into a panic attack that lasted more than half a fucking day because she stopped moving. She stopped watching the pretty pictures and turned around to look behind. There was nothing I could do to help, either. I was too afraid. I shut down, completely: My last refuge from losing it, myself. All I could do was watch and desperately hum Lady GaGa, Disney Tunes, and Michael Jackson in my head. I plotted out terrible fanfic and tortured characters in my head. Whatever would get me through the night. Neither of us got any sleep, but I got to stay on my metaphorical feet, so I guess that’s something.
This is why the anvil theory doesn’t completely work for me. That way of thinking doesn’t have the anvil as a malevolent entity. The anvil doesn’t peek out at you from dark corners while it’s sharpening its claws. It’s not eagerly waiting to pounce the way I feel my depression is. In my gut I know that if I stop ducking and diving long enough, I’ll trip and fall and, I know myself... I won’t get back up. I’ll never be free of it because it’s got my scent now and it wants my blood. I know that sounds overly dramatic, but it's exactly how I feel. It's not a question of if, but when it'll finally bring me down.
So, that’s what I wanted to say. A snapshot of the world from my view, such as it is. Now, I guess I'll go pretend to do some pretend homework for the pretend classes I pretend to give a damn about.
I’ve started composing this in my head five or six times now and I guess it’s time to finally get it out so I can stop thinking about it. I’ve seen a lot of blog posts and articles by people describing what depression is to them. There have been pieces and parts I agreed with and ones which also hold true for me. None of them really hit the bullseye for me, though, and I realized that’s because depression is one of those things that don’t come in a one-size-fits-all. It wears very differently on everyone and my experience will never be the same as anyone else’s. That’s just the way it is and, I think , what makes it so damn difficult to treat.
Well, for those who can afford to have it treated, but I digress. This isn’t about me bitching about health care in this country. I’ve never been very political and trying to wade in deep enough to form an educated option just depresses me further.
The description of depression I’ve seen written down which matched closest to mine was a woman who likened it to walking around all day with an anvil floating above your head. That anvil could fall at any moment and crush you, so you have to use every bit of your strength, energy, and willpower just in holding that thing up or else... bye bye, baby.
That is close, but it misses a very vital part of depression for me. It loses the fear aspect. In that analogy, the depression’s just there. It’s an inanimate thing that seems to have no will of its own. It’s just there because of some bad luck or strange circumstance, most likely. My depression is much more active than that. I’m afraid all the time: every moment of every day. For me, depression is a hunter; it’s a stalker.
I live in constant forward motion. That may sound smart and healthy when put like that, but stay with me here. It’s really not. There’s a difference between the act of running to something (healthy) and running away from something (less so). It’s a perfectly good survival instinct gone completely haywire. I’m in constant mental motion because I know if I stop, it will catch me. Depression lives behind me and just off to the side. I can see it in my peripheral vision or if I turn my head too fast. I feel it there. I know it’s waiting and if I miss a step, then that’s all she wrote.
It’s not fear of the unknown, either. I know exactly what’s back there. It’s me, pretty much. It’s my fuck ups and my failures. It’s all the incredible, irreparable damage I’ve done to my life and the utter certainty that I won’t ever amount to anything because I’ve wasted too much time and put too many road blocks in my own way. About how I owe so much to so many that I will never, in my entire lifetime, possess enough money to pay it all off. It’s the cold reality of the situation I’ve built for myself and for which I have no one else to blame. Outwardly, I pretend it’s not there.
I go through the motions: going to school and taking random classes, making friends I won’t keep, baking things I don’t care about, and singing, and fishing, and doing the normal things that normal people do. Only, it’s just a front. I don’t feel most of it and I certainly don’t mean almost any of it. It’s just another manifestation of that directionless forward momentum. It’s similar to a shark and how sharks have to keep moving or they’ll die. That’s me, except the shark’s behind me.
I have to move on from that particular train of thought, now, before my head turns too far. I feel anxious just brushing against it like that.
To protect myself I anesthetize myself with television, movies, books, online roleplay, fanfiction... anything that I can use to occupy space in my head. Anything that will keep me from stopping long enough to glance to the side or, God help me, look behind. There are bad things waiting for me there and if I can just block it all out with Dancing With The Stars, Supernatural, A Song of Ice and Fire, Food Network, or anything else that will keep me focused and moving, then I have a chance. It’s a weak chance filled with a whole lot more of the same, empty nothing, but in some ways I guess it beats the alternative.
Recently, I saw my own worst fear happen to someone else. I watched her dissolve into a panic attack that lasted more than half a fucking day because she stopped moving. She stopped watching the pretty pictures and turned around to look behind. There was nothing I could do to help, either. I was too afraid. I shut down, completely: My last refuge from losing it, myself. All I could do was watch and desperately hum Lady GaGa, Disney Tunes, and Michael Jackson in my head. I plotted out terrible fanfic and tortured characters in my head. Whatever would get me through the night. Neither of us got any sleep, but I got to stay on my metaphorical feet, so I guess that’s something.
This is why the anvil theory doesn’t completely work for me. That way of thinking doesn’t have the anvil as a malevolent entity. The anvil doesn’t peek out at you from dark corners while it’s sharpening its claws. It’s not eagerly waiting to pounce the way I feel my depression is. In my gut I know that if I stop ducking and diving long enough, I’ll trip and fall and, I know myself... I won’t get back up. I’ll never be free of it because it’s got my scent now and it wants my blood. I know that sounds overly dramatic, but it's exactly how I feel. It's not a question of if, but when it'll finally bring me down.
So, that’s what I wanted to say. A snapshot of the world from my view, such as it is. Now, I guess I'll go pretend to do some pretend homework for the pretend classes I pretend to give a damn about.