Last week, my spouse and I were perusing the photos in our yearbook from our senior year of high school. Back in the day, our classmates bestowed upon me the title of "Most Humorous", aka "Class Clown". Little did they all know, I was (and still am) harboring a dirty little secret:
I've suffered from depression for a good three decades.
My mom brushed it off as the typical angst and moodiness that one generally associates with the teenage years, "growing pains", if you will. I was able to distract myself with school, after school activities, and my part-time job to get through those years. I used humor to help myself cope (hence the earning of the "Most Humorous" title). But as I grew older, and as most of those coping mechanisms and distractions disappeared, the negative feelings and emotions only increased in intensity.
Along with causing the requisite perpetual feelings of sadness, worthlessness, and anxiety that plague me every day, here is what depression has done to me over the years:
I beat myself up. Constantly. Normal people make mistakes, learn from them, and move on. I make a mistake, or do/say something dumb, and I might learn from it, but I also don't let myself forget it for days, weeks, months...even years. My spouse says I'm my harshest critic, and she's right. No one is harder on me than me. Nothing anyone says to me could ever be worse than the verbal lashings I give myself on a daily basis. I've read various articles regarding self-love that state: "You should talk to yourself as you would to a good friend. If you wouldn't say those things to a friend, why would you say those things to yourself?" I certainly wouldn't call my friends what I call myself. I'm pretty sure I wouldn't even say any of that to my enemies. I truly am my own worst enemy.
My creativity is currently in a stagnant stasis. Some artists transform their pain and extreme emotions into amazing works of art and spectacular stories, but when I'm down, I can't muster a sentence, let alone the next great American novel. I do have bursts of inspiration from time to time, but those blips have been coming less and less frequently, which scares me a little, and frustrates me a lot. I'm not someone who writes just to prove I've written something. I need to feel it. I need to be inspired. I want my writing to be authentic and genuine, and I feel like a reader can tell when it isn't. That's why frequent readers of this blog (all three of you) have probably noticed that in the last few years, new posts have been sporadic at best.
And when it comes to my manuscript, well...it's finished. It's technically been finished for about eight years now. It's 301 pages of a paranormal vampire/witch romance which will likely never be published. I've come to the conclusion that even if I do shop it around and somehow get it published, I'll never be satisfied with it. I'll always look at it and think "I should've killed off this character. I should have deleted this chapter. I should have had my antagonist say this, or do that." I've succumbed to the fact that I'll never be confident with my work. Speaking of confidence...
Depression has murdered the confidence I used to possess in social situations, and in life in general. Sure, I was never the pretty, popular gal, but at least I could hold a conversation with someone. I hate that I now second guess, overanalyze, and stress about every social interaction. I'm aware that this makes me come across as shy and awkward, so to save face, I generally stay quiet. As a result, people perceive me as stuck up and snobby, when honestly, I don't always know what to say. Or, worse than that, I know what to say, but I don't want to chance the possibility of sounding like a bumbling moron (I tend to stutter when I'm nervous, which isn't helpful). I touched upon my shyness in one of my first blog posts. I've become somewhat antisocial, and avoidant of activities where the expectation is to interact with people (i.e. happy hours at work, parties, get togethers, etc. This was all pre-pandemic, of course.) It got to the point where I stopped reaching out to/messaging/texting/talking to anyone all together, unless it was absolutely necessary. I simply don't want to make it weird and/or make someone uncomfortable. Oddly enough, when people get to know me, I'm more relaxed, and friends have said I'm actually kind of fun to be around. It's the "getting to know me" part that's the issue. The big problem is that most conversations with people usually play out as follows:
*Cool person talking to me about their life*
My inner voice as they're talking: "This person is really interesting. But I'm not interesting at all. In fact, I'm kind of boring. What do I say next? They think I'm a dork. I know they think I'm a dork. Is my hair sticking up again? Why are they even wasting their time talking to a loser like me? Ah, crap, they look bored. Wait, what did they say about Star Wars? Shit, now they're going to think I don't pay attention. They're never going to want to speak to me again. I totally blew this. God, I'm such a disappointment. Damn it."
Me, when it's my turn to talk, inwardly cringing in preparation for the impending rejection: "So, uh, you like Star Wars, then?"
*facepalm*
I don't want to be this person. I wish I could snap out of it, or suck it up and be happy, like people have advised me to do in the past. It's not that easy, folks. Once depression digs her claws into you, it's excruciatingly difficult to escape her grasp. She's kind of a bitch that way.
However, I do want to feel better, so I'm attempting to employ some self-help type of techniques. When I start to go into the abyss, I think of the things I am grateful to have in my life: I have an amazing, loving spouse, a house we've turned into our home, a great job, and an adorable cat who is in my lap whenever possible. (He's in my lap right now, making typing somewhat of an adventurous endeavor.) I exercise at least four to five times a week, which temporarily puts me into a better headspace, and has done wonders for me physically. I do my best to choose kindness, and I'm working on controlling my stress and anxiety, to quiet that critical inner voice, while being present and giving people the benefit of the doubt instead of instantly assuming that every social exchange will become a worst case scenario situation. I'm trying to reach out to people who I would like to get to know a little better, people who have good, positive energy. I can't say that the process is successful at the moment, but at least I'm putting myself out there, I guess. I'm also focusing on doing things that pique my interest, keep my mind occupied, or at the very least, make me smile. Baby steps.
Why am I blogging about this? Well, this is my blog, so what better platform to utilize for such a personal subject? I wanted the people who sort of know me in real life to see why I am the way I am. I'm risking being perceived as whiny and weak, risking eliminating potential friends, and presumably turning people off with the not-so-sunny subject matter, but I'm sharing this little slice of my life anyway, because maybe there is someone out there struggling through the same thing. If you are a fellow victim of this illness, I won't tell you that "You are not alone", because that phrase is not only cliche, it's bullshit. I can't offer any hot tips or recommend a remedy for you. What I will say is that you aren't the only one going through it. Hang in there.
If you're not dealing with depression, good for you! Consider yourself lucky. My only advise to you would be to check in with someone who might be hurting. One cliche saying that does apply here is that "people might not remember what you say to them, but they will remember how you make them feel". They might not welcome your inquiry concerning their well being with open arms at that moment, but they'll appreciate it, more than they may let on. You won't regret it.
Since this post was pretty heavy, here's a picture of Sylvester's meet and greet with my new trumpet to help lighten the mood.
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