"I've got nothing to prove this time; just something to show you."
"You look depressed," he said. His eyes were red and worried. I've been back on meds now for a few months. Does he think that they aren't working?
"How do I -" I began. His tense, thoughtful brow stopped me.
"You seem to be… Wearing your depression right now," he clarified. "I haven't seen that for a while. It's so easy to forget…"
I smiled ruefully. There it was; an outsider's perspective. An identification of mental illness that makes it mine, but not a part of me. Instead it is depression as clothing. Depression as make-up. Depression as that heavy lead blanket that shields one from harmful x-rays in the dentist's office. And what a metaphor that is…
I can only agree.
It seems to me that the life I used to try to lead was, in fact, leading me. The only real reason I had for maneuvering as I did was to somehow prove wrong those who believed I could not move in that way. The unintended consequence was that by so strenuously arguing that their positions were powerless, I instead gave all my power to those very positions. I got caught up in arguing and ended up shouting "Duck Season!" By the time I'd caught my breath and taken a moment to examine the necessity of the argument itself, I was already sporting comically charred features and readjusting my head on my body.
As a result, I spent a good deal of my life trying to combat my depression on its own home turf - the very environment in which it took hold and flourished in the first place. Not very tactically sound.
So, I figure that it's no good trying to return to that particular battleground until I've got a position stronger than "Nuh-uh!" A merely contrarian stance can fuel me for a short time, but it's empty calories. There's no nutrition there. Ultimately, I still feel that the initial statement was false, but my own counter-argument did not address the underlying claim. I've proven already that the mission in question is beyond me, but I have yet to see evidence that the mission in question is, in fact, necessary to succeed. Frankly, I question your definition of success.
Here's what has happened: My I.Q. - for all that faulty measure is worth - did not drop sharply when I left. I did not lose my drive to succeed or my motivation, nor did I lose any direction for my own future. (One cannot lose what one does not have in the first place.) At this point in my life and in history, I do not believe my own prospects to be any more grim than they would otherwise have been. Dealing with the social and emotional impacts of my actions has taken some time, and I'm certainly nowhere near done, despite what I claim in my sunnier Pollyanna moments. The benefits to my mental health and overall sense of well-being continue to make themselves clear. Even when wearing the lead blanket of my depression, I am calmer and more honest than I was two years ago.
In deciding to forgo the Adderall that made my former lifestyle possible, I have traded an artificially enhanced figure for the blessing of sleep. Not to mention the opportunity to relearn trust and to discover what might actually motivate me when my motivation is not synthetically created. I'm pretty sure, too, that the antidepressants are doing their job better when they don't have to combat the screeching paranoia that the amphetamines now tend to produce in me. For that alone, it was worth letting my natural aversion to the structure of Academia consume any aspirations to "success" I might have had. Perhaps some around me still feel that I am worth less now than I was when I was actively pursuing my degree. I can only counter that a live drop-out has more potential than a dead student. Dramatic, perhaps. Overly so? I can only really express how it felt; mood disorders are rarely subdued and tasteful matters.
I have worn my depression much less in the past season. When I do don its weighty mantle, I tend to shed it more quickly and easily. I still don't really know what to do with myself when I do manage to struggle free - as implied in my last post, I'd sort of expected my next step to materialize in front of me as soon as I cleared this one. That hasn't happened yet. The only thing I really know or sure is that I do not want what I used to have. Not in the way I used to have it. My decision to leave school may have been a terrible mistake, but as far as I can remember it's been the only major decision I have ever made that I made only for myself. That, alone, was valuable.
"How do I -" I began. His tense, thoughtful brow stopped me.
"You seem to be… Wearing your depression right now," he clarified. "I haven't seen that for a while. It's so easy to forget…"
I smiled ruefully. There it was; an outsider's perspective. An identification of mental illness that makes it mine, but not a part of me. Instead it is depression as clothing. Depression as make-up. Depression as that heavy lead blanket that shields one from harmful x-rays in the dentist's office. And what a metaphor that is…
I can only agree.
It seems to me that the life I used to try to lead was, in fact, leading me. The only real reason I had for maneuvering as I did was to somehow prove wrong those who believed I could not move in that way. The unintended consequence was that by so strenuously arguing that their positions were powerless, I instead gave all my power to those very positions. I got caught up in arguing and ended up shouting "Duck Season!" By the time I'd caught my breath and taken a moment to examine the necessity of the argument itself, I was already sporting comically charred features and readjusting my head on my body.
As a result, I spent a good deal of my life trying to combat my depression on its own home turf - the very environment in which it took hold and flourished in the first place. Not very tactically sound.
So, I figure that it's no good trying to return to that particular battleground until I've got a position stronger than "Nuh-uh!" A merely contrarian stance can fuel me for a short time, but it's empty calories. There's no nutrition there. Ultimately, I still feel that the initial statement was false, but my own counter-argument did not address the underlying claim. I've proven already that the mission in question is beyond me, but I have yet to see evidence that the mission in question is, in fact, necessary to succeed. Frankly, I question your definition of success.
Here's what has happened: My I.Q. - for all that faulty measure is worth - did not drop sharply when I left. I did not lose my drive to succeed or my motivation, nor did I lose any direction for my own future. (One cannot lose what one does not have in the first place.) At this point in my life and in history, I do not believe my own prospects to be any more grim than they would otherwise have been. Dealing with the social and emotional impacts of my actions has taken some time, and I'm certainly nowhere near done, despite what I claim in my sunnier Pollyanna moments. The benefits to my mental health and overall sense of well-being continue to make themselves clear. Even when wearing the lead blanket of my depression, I am calmer and more honest than I was two years ago.
In deciding to forgo the Adderall that made my former lifestyle possible, I have traded an artificially enhanced figure for the blessing of sleep. Not to mention the opportunity to relearn trust and to discover what might actually motivate me when my motivation is not synthetically created. I'm pretty sure, too, that the antidepressants are doing their job better when they don't have to combat the screeching paranoia that the amphetamines now tend to produce in me. For that alone, it was worth letting my natural aversion to the structure of Academia consume any aspirations to "success" I might have had. Perhaps some around me still feel that I am worth less now than I was when I was actively pursuing my degree. I can only counter that a live drop-out has more potential than a dead student. Dramatic, perhaps. Overly so? I can only really express how it felt; mood disorders are rarely subdued and tasteful matters.
I have worn my depression much less in the past season. When I do don its weighty mantle, I tend to shed it more quickly and easily. I still don't really know what to do with myself when I do manage to struggle free - as implied in my last post, I'd sort of expected my next step to materialize in front of me as soon as I cleared this one. That hasn't happened yet. The only thing I really know or sure is that I do not want what I used to have. Not in the way I used to have it. My decision to leave school may have been a terrible mistake, but as far as I can remember it's been the only major decision I have ever made that I made only for myself. That, alone, was valuable.
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