(no subject)
Depression is not what the books and doctors like to tell you. Chemical imbalances and the like. If it were an imbalance, I'd take some pills. Fix what's going on in my brain. I'd be better. Its also not that textbook definition, marked by staying in bed, feeling of worthlessness, etc, etc. Its not something that comes and goes. The phrase "Bouts of depression" angers me. Because there is no such thing. If you're depressed, you carry it around inside you like a virus that, at any moment, could manifest itself. You don't get over it.
The voice in your head that reminds you to take out the garbage or to mail your rent check... The reminder voice? That naive, well-meaning, voice of unforgetfulness. In a depressed mind, even when I am feeling just fine thank you, speaks differently.
Instead of, "Laundry's done, fold that" its "Jake's calling? He must be breaking up with you"
Instead of, "5 o'clock, dinner time" its "You're taking notes and you don't know what's going on?! You're faking! You'll build a whole career on faking and pretending! Then what?"
Instead of, "Turn left at the next corner" its "Your roommates hate your guts. If you weren't such a whore, maybe people would like you better!"
The voice speaks mostly in questions and exclamations, til I want to put a gun in my mouth. The voice thinks this is a great idea. Its cheering the thought of a gun in my hands. Too bad for the voice, there's no gun in the house.
Its not as if you can't see it coming at you. But its not a train, you're not standing on the tracks. Its more like a walk in the woods, you pass a certain tree, you put your hand out to steady yourself on the trunk as you stumble, a bee stings you. Now, you're in pain. Sure, if you'd looked, you'd have seen the bee. You'd have placed your hand differently or just let yourself fall to your knees in the woods. But you didn't look, and now there's a welt in your hand, poison of a weak variety pumping into your veins. The bee dies, though, and that makes this analogy a little wrong. Because the depression, the voice, it doesn't die.
So when you fall back down into that dark deep pit, its not like you couldn't have maybe done something to prevent it. But its a sneaky little bee, a covert virus. Warning signs that you know to look for ("Hey, I'm not sleeping anymore" "Wow, I haven't eaten all day and I'm totally not hungry" "Geez, my neck is killing me!" "Hmmm... I'm drinking during the week again? Alone?"), they go unnoticed. If you looked, you'd see them. But you're busy. You think nothing of the fact that you don't sleep, you write it off as stress. When you realise you haven't eaten, you force down some food. You take an aspirin for your neck. The drinking... That's a hard one to get around. But you write it off just the same. Its not a deliberate closing of the eyes as it is a failure to put all of these symptoms together and realise that some bad shit is about to go down.
I don't think about suicide when I'm like this, generally. At this point, when I'm feeling low for no reason, I know what's going on. The suicide thoughts get squashed before I can really consider them. Its when I'm fairly happy. Feeling fairly good. Then the thoughts get me. Another bee? Perhaps, though I've found no correlation between these thoughts and an oncoming low. I'm happy and then, something happens. Something minor that upsets me. I'm having a great day then my mom calls to harp on me to move to Alabama. BAM, why not take that bottle of pills? I'm feeling confident in myself and then my sister and I have a fight. SUDDENLY, that knife drawer is looking very comforting. That sort of thing. An event that makes me anger and tinges itself along the edges with sadness. An event I brush off with ease later that evening. By then, of course, I've run through the list of things I could take or do that would get me out of here. And I'm stressed and exhausted by the time I let the issue go.
Its not what they told me in therapy. Its not a chemical imbalance, its not a stage I'm going through. By why go and spend $120 an hour to try to convince someone of what I already know? Therapy has been a wash since the beginning. I know what's wrong with me (My first therapist knew too). I know that no one is going to give me anything for my anxiety, my panic attacks in the middle of the night, the voice that keeps telling me that I should just end it all before I end up back at the bottom (Go out on a high note, its telling me). And I know that by taking these drugs, imagining that they are given to me, would lift the cross from my shoulders. I'd be blameless. Its not me, its the way my brain got wired, Messed Up. But considering that's not what I think it is... The point of going to therapy is moot. Do I believe there are chemicals in my brain that are fucking me up? Yes and no. More no than yes. There's something fucked up, but I find it hard to believe its all chemical. I find it hard to believe its mostly chemical.
In everyday life...
By admitting one's own insanity, does one admit his or her sanity?
In a court of law...
By admitting one's guilt, does one admit his or her own innocence?
Just because you can see where you're going doesn't mean you can stop the train, my friends. Just because I know I'm crazy doesn't mean that I am, in fact, saner than someone who doesn't know. And just because I know what brand of crazy this is.... Doesn't mean I want pills to correct it.... Where would all the beauty I see in the world come from if I didn't spend time seeing nothing but ugliness?
The voice in your head that reminds you to take out the garbage or to mail your rent check... The reminder voice? That naive, well-meaning, voice of unforgetfulness. In a depressed mind, even when I am feeling just fine thank you, speaks differently.
Instead of, "Laundry's done, fold that" its "Jake's calling? He must be breaking up with you"
Instead of, "5 o'clock, dinner time" its "You're taking notes and you don't know what's going on?! You're faking! You'll build a whole career on faking and pretending! Then what?"
Instead of, "Turn left at the next corner" its "Your roommates hate your guts. If you weren't such a whore, maybe people would like you better!"
The voice speaks mostly in questions and exclamations, til I want to put a gun in my mouth. The voice thinks this is a great idea. Its cheering the thought of a gun in my hands. Too bad for the voice, there's no gun in the house.
Its not as if you can't see it coming at you. But its not a train, you're not standing on the tracks. Its more like a walk in the woods, you pass a certain tree, you put your hand out to steady yourself on the trunk as you stumble, a bee stings you. Now, you're in pain. Sure, if you'd looked, you'd have seen the bee. You'd have placed your hand differently or just let yourself fall to your knees in the woods. But you didn't look, and now there's a welt in your hand, poison of a weak variety pumping into your veins. The bee dies, though, and that makes this analogy a little wrong. Because the depression, the voice, it doesn't die.
So when you fall back down into that dark deep pit, its not like you couldn't have maybe done something to prevent it. But its a sneaky little bee, a covert virus. Warning signs that you know to look for ("Hey, I'm not sleeping anymore" "Wow, I haven't eaten all day and I'm totally not hungry" "Geez, my neck is killing me!" "Hmmm... I'm drinking during the week again? Alone?"), they go unnoticed. If you looked, you'd see them. But you're busy. You think nothing of the fact that you don't sleep, you write it off as stress. When you realise you haven't eaten, you force down some food. You take an aspirin for your neck. The drinking... That's a hard one to get around. But you write it off just the same. Its not a deliberate closing of the eyes as it is a failure to put all of these symptoms together and realise that some bad shit is about to go down.
I don't think about suicide when I'm like this, generally. At this point, when I'm feeling low for no reason, I know what's going on. The suicide thoughts get squashed before I can really consider them. Its when I'm fairly happy. Feeling fairly good. Then the thoughts get me. Another bee? Perhaps, though I've found no correlation between these thoughts and an oncoming low. I'm happy and then, something happens. Something minor that upsets me. I'm having a great day then my mom calls to harp on me to move to Alabama. BAM, why not take that bottle of pills? I'm feeling confident in myself and then my sister and I have a fight. SUDDENLY, that knife drawer is looking very comforting. That sort of thing. An event that makes me anger and tinges itself along the edges with sadness. An event I brush off with ease later that evening. By then, of course, I've run through the list of things I could take or do that would get me out of here. And I'm stressed and exhausted by the time I let the issue go.
Its not what they told me in therapy. Its not a chemical imbalance, its not a stage I'm going through. By why go and spend $120 an hour to try to convince someone of what I already know? Therapy has been a wash since the beginning. I know what's wrong with me (My first therapist knew too). I know that no one is going to give me anything for my anxiety, my panic attacks in the middle of the night, the voice that keeps telling me that I should just end it all before I end up back at the bottom (Go out on a high note, its telling me). And I know that by taking these drugs, imagining that they are given to me, would lift the cross from my shoulders. I'd be blameless. Its not me, its the way my brain got wired, Messed Up. But considering that's not what I think it is... The point of going to therapy is moot. Do I believe there are chemicals in my brain that are fucking me up? Yes and no. More no than yes. There's something fucked up, but I find it hard to believe its all chemical. I find it hard to believe its mostly chemical.
In everyday life...
By admitting one's own insanity, does one admit his or her sanity?
In a court of law...
By admitting one's guilt, does one admit his or her own innocence?
Just because you can see where you're going doesn't mean you can stop the train, my friends. Just because I know I'm crazy doesn't mean that I am, in fact, saner than someone who doesn't know. And just because I know what brand of crazy this is.... Doesn't mean I want pills to correct it.... Where would all the beauty I see in the world come from if I didn't spend time seeing nothing but ugliness?