I'm alive. Apparently.

 I was thinking about this blog recently and so decided to log in and see what was around. 

As we previously learned, journaling didn't really work for me. It didn't have he positive effect I would have hoped for. Quite the opposite, really. And I tried, I did. I gave it a shot, which you can read all about by scrolling. 

Journaling/blogging didn't work for me, but of course, neither did the multiple years I spent on anti-depressants. 

Yes, I'm older. Yes, I still feel like garbage most days. No, nothing helped or, expect, ever will help. Just gotta get through the next 20-30 years and that'll be it.

I will say that looking back at some of these posts I feel stirrings of pride at the quality of some of the writing. So that's something I suppose. I'd like to do that more often, perhaps though not on the same subject matter. 

So hi. Dropping in to say I'm still alive. Perhaps a further update in 2031. 

What was I saying?

I kinda lost my place.


But the losing of my place comes with a couple of interesting observations.  With the new job to which I previously alluded, I have been busier then I have been in a long long time.  This busy-ness caused an unexpected side effect.


Lack of depression.  


Probably it has something to do with distraction.  Which as we have discussed on a couple of occasions, is usually a very good way to dodge a major depressive episode.  Oh how I love those.


So as far as I can figure, the non-stop chaotic nature of my new job has distracted me quite handily from falling into the abyss.  Ahh the abyss.  The Black Dog.  The dark curtain.  The award for most metaphors.  Wait what was I saying?  Oh yes.  Distraction is good as it stops me from going under.


Another interesting observation.  When I'm up, I enjoy and savor being up.  I do a little socializing.  I do a little cooking.  I do a little hiking in the forest.  I become less of a hermit crab.  And one thing I do not have any urge to do when up and functioning... is to write in this space.  It's a reminder that I'm not fully functional  It's a reminder that I live with great pain at times.  It's a reminder.


"So," you are saying to yourself just about now, "If you're feeling better and really don't want to write here when you feel better cause it reminds you....well that must mean.....oh."


Right you are.  Things are deteriorating.  I hate when they do that.  


It's time for the third interesting observation.  When I first started my new job, it was rather like being in a pounding surf, and going under water a bit now and again.  It took all I had to rise above and keep head above water, so to speak.  Now while self-confidence is not my personal forté, I am able to admit to being fairly good at what I do.  That skill has enabled me to rise above the pounding surf, and kind of ride the wave a bit.  Quite normal, I would expect.  The first few weeks of any job can be frantic.  One gets used to the new routine, learns new skills, and gets into a groove.


Except oh-hold-the-phone!  Being in a groove, on top of the wave, and possibly some more analogies I've not yet written, gives my addled mind time to relax and think.  And when my addled mind has time to itself, it tends to malfunction.  And that's where I am.  Slightly malfunctioning.  I can feel the old nasty feelings creeping back into my brain.  They kind of have a cold, numbing feeling.  I don't much like them.  The feeling of disappointment follows close behind, as I thought I had been doing so well.  As I know now, it wasn't real.  Recovery, however slight, was just imaginary.  Depression was waiting in the wings for me.  Ready to wander back into my head when I stopped being to busy to notice.


And so, here I am once again writing in this space, scribbling down my thoughts in a renewed effort to help my mind make sense of what's going on inside.


However.  


I've tasted being vaguely happy, and I want more.

Third Time's a Charm

I had a third post planned for tonight.  It was about the strange things that happen when someone from your past pops up momentarily in a life, and the questions and the feelings that dredges up.  And all about the thought processes all that stuff engenders.  I even alluded to this post when I mentioned brief passing MDEs.


But now it's late and I can type no more.


I'll be back soon with the thrilling conclusion to this strange tale.

But First...

I posted recently about a family member who has recently begun, outwardly at least, experiencing anxiety and depression.  


The update is thus:  said elderly member of the family has been to a Doctor and is receiving help.  Specifics I do not know, but I do know that it's being attended to.  I still feel deep and everlasting shame that I was not able to help.  That won't be muted.  


The story takes a sadder turn now.  The person in question has enjoyed better than average health for someone of that age.  Someone who has been spry, independent, and quite frankly...young.  This person now appears to be approaching a different phase in life.  Physical frailty is becoming more of an issue.  There was a fall.  Then there was another fall.  Then there was a worse one where muscles were pulled , but thankfully nothing was broken.  We all know that's now likely just a matter of time.


For someone who has reached the age this person has, and to have one's health and mind in good stead, we are all supposed, I think, to not be surprised when the downturn starts.  We are supposed to be wistful but accept the transition to the late stages of life as the natural order of things.


But you know what?  No matter how normal, natural, and expected this is... it's still heartbreaking.  Perhaps that too is natural.


What's unnatural is the amplification of the sadness caused by my affliction.

Raining, pouring, etc

Hey.


I have a couple of stories to tell tonight.  One is kinda strange.  One is not.


The Not Strange story is a pretty good one.  It's a followup to my strangely sports-themed post of some days ago.  We spoke of how my department was moving to another part of the country, and how no one was going with it, and how I was going to be taping hockey sticks for some minor league team out in the sticks.


Well.  How times change.  In my unique way of being deliberately vague and yet getting across the gist of what's happening, seems this other championship team in the same major league needed a new head coach.  And so, instead of being sent to who-knows-where, I have had something of a promotion while not having to move anyplace.  Fate moves in mysterious ways.  And thankful I am for it.


In the last couple of weeks I've experience muted joy, which is an odd experience indeed.  I probably should have been dancing in the streets, or at least celebrating in some fashion.  Alas, this dysthymia puts a cork in any exceptional feelings.  It has a tendency to do that.  At least I have been relatively MDE free for a few weeks!  This low-grade depression has a bright side - it just keeps everything, even the bad, down to a dull roar.


I say "relatively" MDE free 'cause there were a few low points.  But that's for two posts from now.

Age Ain't Nothin But A Number

I turn 40 this year.  There I said it.


Since January first, my stomach has churned every time I think of it.  Having typed that I now have to go take an antacid.  Just a second I will be right back.


I realize, on the surface, that it really is only a number.  Technically speaking, I was 40 a few months ago, if you believe that live begins at conception.  So the 40th anniversary of my birth is really just another day.

Except it isn't.  Catastrophization or not, this is becoming a huge depressive trigger for me.  I'm middle aged.  No, seriously, I am.  I can't expect to live much past 80, so 40 is halfway there.  Middle-aged it is.


It's a reminder that the first half of my life has not been of much use.  As we have discussed, I've dealt with depression most of my life.  I have not had what you might call a "happy" life.  I've just managed.  I've kept gainful employment, I have kept my physical health, I have family and friends.....but it's been a hard slog through 40 years.  I feel worn out.  


The last thing I want to do is celebrate my birthday.  I want no cards.  I want no presents.  (I make a decent living and don't need anything.)  I want no cake.  What I really want is to get on a plane, go someplace where no one knows me, and have a normal day being a tourist.  Anywhere but here. 


Celebrating my life seems so empty, so pointless, so fake.


I've expressed my wishes to family and friends, but probably unsurprisingly, people think I am being ridiculous.   I've asked that if they feel the need to buy a present, give something to a charity.  Make someone's life better...someone who really needs something.    The last thing I need is more material goods.  The second last thing I need is a loud reminder of the first rough, hard, unpleasant half of my life.  A reminder that I have to go through that length of time... one more time.


Of course, I could always look at this as an opportunity to make sure the second half of my life doesn't hurt as much as the first.  There, see, I told you a positive ending would show up eventually.

And Another Thing

Oh wait, there's more.  


The previously mentioned life crisis compounded by depression (and a full moon) is just one thing.  


Couple weeks ago I find that someone in my family is experiencing extreme episodes of anxiety and depression.  That person is elderly and unfortunately not able to take medication.  Of course, that person also comes from a generation where mental health problems were thought of very differently.  


"It's a weakness."  "Don't be silly."  "Just get over it."  "We don't talk about such things."  You know how it goes.


I want to be able to say, "Hey.  I know how you feel.  I feel the same way.  It's OK to talk about it with someone.  You aren't alone.  There is help available.  It's not like it used to be.  Me too."


But.


I cannot physically make myself do it. 


I have had an up and down life, thats for sure.  Nothing, however, has ever made me feel more failure than my inability to offer support to others who are saddled with this horrible affliction.  


No one knows the extent of my condition.  No one except me.  The fact that I can't share...quite frankly, hurts.  The fact that I can't share and help make a loved one feel maybe a bit better, devastates me.


Devastation at work, and devastation in the family.  This is not a good recipe.


There is a positive point, albeit not for me.  The elderly family member in question is now suffering in silence.  The immediate family has discovered something is wrong, and I know someone else is helping that person get help.  However I am sure that help would be enhanced by some understanding and support from me.  I have failed to be a good person. Dammit.


I'd say the question of whether mental health problems can be genetic has been answered for my family.

Now That You Mention It

I've been reflecting for the last ten minutes, while I ironed a shirt to wear tomorrow so I can make sure everyone's hockey sticks are in tip top shape.


I've been thinking about the message, the purpose of the Mental Health Blog Party and I think that even though I'm in a disastrous place right now, I gotta make an effort to join my fellow bloggers in getting the message out.


Here it comes.

The purpose and the message is this:


Good mental health is so very important.  I've never had any, so I am just going by other people's opinions here, you understand.  However I know what I feel I wouldn't wish on my worst enemy.  So I have to assume, and believe, that good mental health is something to be striven for.  To work at.  It's eluded me so far, but it won't forever.


Regular readers will know I've been this way for some time.  I've made efforts at getting help too.  Tried a few different drugs, visited with a retired psychiatrist who doesn't seem to acknowledge that he is in fact retired, the story goes on.


After five years on various drugs that kept me from feeling the darkest of dark but also kept me from feeling extra-positive, I decided to go it alone.  It's not gone well.  I don't know what to do.  For me, drugs are awful things that make a mess of my insides, do little for depression, and kind of put a filter on everything else.  You may (I hope) have better results, but my next step is a mystery.


But here is what I do know.  You gotta try.  If I hadn't started the process of asking for help with my Doctor five... oh my it's been six years ago now... I'd probably not be around.  Now I am in a precarious place but I know more about the process, more about how drugs affect me, and more about how I can control the dark feelings.  Most times.


You gotta start someplace.  Mine's not the most inspiring tale of recovery, but it is a tale if, "this is a long process and not all things work for all people so you might have to try more then one."  Which really, is a rather long title for a tale.


You've heard all the usual things, "tell your Doctor," "tell a friend," "call a help line," and so on.


I'm going to tell you to do something different.  Start reading.  learn all you can about how you feel and why you might be feeling it.  I'll even give you a starting point.  All the posts for the May 18th Mental Health Blog Party are a great place to start learning, and reading, and hopefully, recovering.  You don't even need to scroll up... I'll help you out here.  I know I have a lot of reading ahead of me.


Once you are better informed, your choice on what to do next might be clearer.  At the very least you should be able to understand what's going on.  And that's a big portion of the battle.


Carry on, friends.

So it turns out...

...that today is the Mental Health Blog Party.  I'm not sure the three posts I wrote today (the second two are appearing over the next few hours) will qualify under the criteria... but there's some stuff worth checking out at the link.

http://www.yourmindyourbody.org/mental-health-month-blog-party-2011-round-up/

Turns out it's mental health day.  I never knew.  Glad I posted a few things anyway.

Waiting For the Hammer To Fall

It's that time of the month again.  The time of the month where I experience my bouts of lunacy.  Lunacy not helped by meeting the most wonderful person.  A person off-limits, but a wonderful person nonetheless.


But this post isn't about being lonely.  Just setting the stage with that one.  That's the kind of state of mind I've found myself in.  Lunacy supreme, plus a long-lasting dysthymia that just will...not...go...away.  Needless to say, I am not a happy camper.


Thus we come to the reason for tonight's story.  About a month ago, I found out that the department I work for is being relocated.  Clear across the country.  Inconvenient to say the least, since I am lucky enough to live near family, friends, and home.  Then part two was revealed.  No one is going with the department.  It will be staffed on the other end.  Here's where you should envision a long slow, "okaaayyyyyy".


Now, hurray for me and my staff, they have decided that they like us and will absorb us into other departments.  Good news?  Seems like it on the surface.  Let's face it...these days it's nice to have a job.  Finding out you have one after a major change is somewhat comforting.


Life continues.


Until late last week.  The redistribution of jobs was announced.  I don't want to get too specific, but let's say I was the Captain of an NHL hockey team.  (I promise I am not).  Relatively speaking, I have gone from being the Captain of a major league team to equipment manager in the minor leagues.  Actually, strike that, I was probably the equivalent of an AHL captain.  (That's one step below the NHL.)


It's at this point you should know that I'm using sports analogies and I am not even a sports fan.  At all.  I think the NHL is in playoffs right now but couldn't say for sure.  Hockey just seemed like a good universal example.


So here I am, an equipment manager in some regional sports league.  I'm a pretty good "hockey player".  I'm not one of the best in the world, but I am good at my job.  My old job.  I am not a particularly good equipment manager.  It of course doesn't matter much as I am now in the minors where no one is really good.  We're a collection of people who plod about dreaming of being in the big leagues someday.  Some are on their way up to the majors, some have been there and are in the twilight of their careers.


I do not wish to be anyplace close to anything resembling twilight.


Probably one of the only bright spots in my life has been my work.  It's a field I love, and have loved for a long time.  I derive a great deal of satisfaction from my work.  I wouldn't have dreamed the day would come where I am considering leaving the business.  I also know that depression-addled decisions can be, to say the least, ill-advised.


Needless to say, I am close to devastated.  Mixed in with the aforementioned lunacy and low grade depression, I am not in great shape.  I now have to make a Large Life Choice(tm).


Do I change careers?  Trouble with that is that I work in a pretty specialized field and lack broadly transferable skills.   Do I stick around, and be the best damn equipment manager no one has ever heard of? Trouble there is that I won't be deriving the same job satisfaction from taping up sticks.  I am likely to be really frustrated, really quick.


Or do I check with the other coaches in the AHL and see if someone can used a slightly bruised but capable Team Captain.  Trouble there?  You bet.  Then I would have to move someplace where I have no family, no friends, and I would be all alone.  From a mental health perspective, that might not be the right option.


There's been tears, there's been anger, there's been shock, there's been a kicked-in-the-guts kind of a feeling.    I try to end each post with something hopeful, but I haven't got it in me tonight.  Check back.

Food for the Soul

I like music.  I like music a lot.

I work with music every day, and still I am not sick of it.  I like currents, country, classics, dance, retro, swing, 80s pop, 80s hair bands, 70s pop, 40s standards, Sinatra and Deano, 50s, 60s, acoustic vibes, Kentucky Bluegrass, Broadway show tunes and almost every other kind of music you could imagine.  Except classical...but that's not music, it's fine art, and I'm not much into fine art.

I have two iPods, both of which overflow with samples of the above.  The shuffle button on my "big" iPod is likely to generate something surprising.  I have a networked drive in my house with 18,000 mp3 files accessible to my computers and media devices.  I have a wall of CDs.  An actual wall.

And when I am feeling good, music makes me feel even better.  If I am "up" then I can feel ecstatic with the right combination of music.  The right song at the right moment can induce the best feeling ever.  (Before you ask, I don't experience mania or manic episodes.)  I love how music can enhance my mood and I love how I can experience moments of joy that belie the usual state I am in.

But.

When I am not up, in fact when I am down in the dumps and having a rough time and in the throes of a full-fledged MDE, I cannot listen to any music.  It grates on my ear.  One would think that music that has such potential to make me feel fantastic could theoretically rescue me from the depths of depression.

Indeed, I thought that.

Just yesterday I was running some errands and enjoying shuffle mode on the "small" iPod.  Then, for no discernible reason, the darkness descended and I was in a state.  I found myself constantly hitting the "next" button looking for something that did not irritate me.  How strange is that?  In that one moment, the music I so dearly love became unpalatable, unlistenable, and annoying.

Skipping ahead to a favored, up-tempo song that 12 hours before might have inspired singing along, air drums and/or air guitar, and a smile on my lips, was now the worst song ever recorded.

I have no explanation for this odd phenomenon, and I am perpetually distressed that my beloved music can't haul me out of the depths of an episode.

The Most Wonderful Time Of The....Day

Strangely, I sleep OK.  One would expect that in my condition I would be restless.  Insomniac.  Tossing and turning.  But no.

I sleep far too much mind you, and if I didn't set an alarm I would not wake up and would sleep for 24 hours straight, but when I am asleep, things are good.  Perhaps that's why my poor old mind keeps me asleep for so long.  It likes it there.  What I experience is often called "Atypical Depression" where some of the symptoms are atypical of the majority of people living with depression.  Read more here.  Suffice it to say, my body likes to sleep.

I have lots of good dreams, full of happy times.  Nightmares and bad dreams are rare, if not completely nonexistent.   But, we don't live in a dream world.  It's not real.  I can't count that as good times, really.

No, the title-referenced "Most Wonderful Time Of The Day" is this:  The moment I wake up.  Possibly marveling at the sun streaming in the window.  I do like sunbeams.  At that moment in the day, I am happy, things are good.  There is no leaden weight holding me down.  No sadness, no despair.  Just sunshine, lollipops and rainbows.  The day is full of hope, and promise.  There's nothing I can't do!

And then, just like that, it all comes rushing back in like a seventh wave.  Bang, and Ow, I am back in the grips of the black dog again.

It's almost surreal, the state I am in for just a moment each day.  When the dog returns though, it's almost physical in the force of it's arrival.  I'm not an Eminem fan, but he sure said it best, "Snap back to reality, oh there goes gravity".

What is it about that moment in time that all is well?  Is it real?  Is it a holdover from the feel-good dreams playing on a double-feature all night long?  Am I technically still asleep?

The thing to remember is this:  it is possible for me to feel good.  No matter how it happens, or how I get there, it does happen.  That feeling, fleeting though it may be each morning, serves as a reminder of how it can be.  How it will be when I shake off the dog for good.

Lunacy

Lunacy is an interesting word.  It originates from the belief that the full moon can cause behavioral changes in a person.  Hence LUNA-cy.  Centuries ago, "lunacy" was a legal defense for the charge of murder.  "The Moon Made Me Do It" was apparently the defense of the time.  Or, people would wait for the full moon to exact revenge on an enemy as they knew there was a better chance of getting away with it...which is probably the more likely explanation.


I bring this up now as the full moon occurred last night.  Anecdotal evidence is everywhere that the full moon causes...well... lunacy.  Hospital workers, police officers, firepersons, will all tell you that the full moon night is a wild time.


There doesn't seem to be any scientific evidence of the moon's effect on humans, rather it seems to be all legend.   I say "seems to be" because I "seem to be" affected by the full moon every month.  The scientific, logical person in me scoffs at the thought.  "Pffft", it says.  And yet every full moon, I "seem to" have a really low point that usually centers around loneliness.  


It's the strangest thing.    


I begin to pine for companionship, become greatly sad that I an alone in the world, and I head down into a sad despondent slump.  More often than not, I don't even think of the moon causing it until I look up at night, see the bright white ball, and go, "ahhh that explains it".  It's actually kind of rare to see the full moon here as the climate involves a lot of clouds and rain, but if it's a clear night and I look out and see it, I have that "a-ha" moment.  The night before last was that moment, when I was becoming very sad and desolate indeed, and looked out and saw the just-about-full moon..."ah.  here we go again."


It's conflicting.  The logical side of me is busy "pfft"ing, while the realistic side of me is valiantly arguing the case, "Just look - you are sad, and there is a full moon.... AGAIN".  


Am I imagining things?  Is there an effect on humans caused by lunar cycles?  Is it all nonsense?  Am I secretly a werewolf? 


Real or not, at least the moon is waning now and I can probably count on a swing upwards.


Awoooo.

Someone open a window, It's much too funky in here

Yes, yes, I DO still exist.

No, I am not a victim of early blog burnout just yet.

I am also not going to be one of those people who writes constant streams of "Sorry I haven't written in a while!" posts.  At a very basic level, I am writing this blog for purely selfish reasons.  Helping myself feel better.  I even slapped up the "Blogging Without Obligation" banner just to the right over there, which links to a pretty smart philosophy on blogging.

However, in the interests of being a good blog neighbor and communicating with my new blog friends, I did log in to offer this quick update.

Truth is, I have been down down down in a deep dark funk.  It's been rather paralyzing really.

I have so much I want to write about.  I want to do a post on feeling suicidal.  I want to do one on Avoidant Personality Disorder.  I want to write extensively on why Casey Heynes is my hero, why the school principal that suspended him should be fired instantly, how it is ridiculously unfair that the student who made that video is not also suspended and/or expelled and one on why bullying is horribly scarring.  (Sticks and stones may break my bones, but names will never hurt me?  We all know better now.)  I want to write about how reading other people's blogs about depression helped me recognize bad habits in my life.  How sharing other people's experiences helped me recognize how low I am, and how low I have been.

I want to write.  I want to share.  I want to heal, and be a friend to others who are healing.

But I am down down down in a deep dark funk.  It's not one of those deep dark Major Depressive Episodes that makes me question my continued existence on this earth, although goodness knows I have enough of those.  It's more of a thick coating of malaise.  Dysthymia, I believe is the technical term.  It has stopped most activity in my life, not just my writing in this space.

I come home from work, I sit on my couch, eventually I feel drowsy and head off to bed.  I sleep for 9-10 hours, then wake up to my alarm feeling as if I had not slept at all.  I head off to work, come home, and the cycle starts again.  Weekends consist of me sitting in front of the TV from Friday after work until Sunday night at bedtime.  Not good!

Just for good measure, I am achy and painy all over.  The Cymbalta commercials come to mind.  "Did you know depression can have physical symptoms as well as mental symptoms?"  Yes, Cymbalta, yes I did.  Fully aware.  Me and ibuprofen are totally BFFs now.

So.  This is not an apology for not writing, as I am going to write when I am so moved, and not feel guilty when I am not.  However, I have a lot to write about and my wish is to be able to push through that wall that is preventing me from doing so.

Darned wall.

#Winning

Yes yes, I am about to do a Charlie Sheen post.  But I bet it's not what you think....


Much has been said by and about Charlie Sheen in the last week.  Certainly he has brought most of it on himself.  Clearly he is also a fellow with issues.


Or... is he.


What troubles me about the whole Sheen drama is the amount of people who are diagnosing a mental illness.  Words like "bi-polar" and "manic" have been thrown around all too often by people who are not in a position to diagnose.  So called psychologists, counselors, therapists, and psychiatrists are saying things like, "Oh it's clear he is bi-polar", based entirely on excerpts of comments he's made on various radio and television shows.  


Even the general public gets a say in the matter, as normal people-on-the-street are interviewed about what they think is wrong.  How exactly is some random passerby qualified to answer questions on the mental state of someone they never have met and know only through movies and TV?


That kind of irks me.  It reminds me of the news story floating around a couple weeks ago about Steve Jobs.  I saw the story early in it's life.  A Doctor hired by the National Enquirer looked at  pictures some paparazzi had taken of Steve Jobs leaving a cancer clinic.  This (undoubtedly saint-like) Doctor pronounced that Steve Jobs had 6 weeks to live, based solely on the photos.  Later in the day, someone dropped the National Enquirer part from the story, and the mainstream media started reporting it as fact.


Yes, Charlie Sheen is the flavor of the moment and everyone seems to want to watch the guy self-destruct (whether or not thats actually what's happening).  However that is no excuse for supposed professionals to go off the reservation and diagnose someone based on sound bites.  Isn't there some sort of professional code of conduct?  Or is a professional code of conduct totally negated by the amount of money that TMZ might pay for you to say, "BI-POLAR!" on camera?


I think most people assume Charlie Sheen has some sort of issue. Is he ill?  Or is he just Peter Pan, refusing to grow up.  Whether it is a real mental illness or its something as simple as a guy who has boatloads of money preferring to party and live with porn stars rather then conform to society's definition of what a man his age should do, only Charlie Sheen and his actual Doctors know. 


The nonsense that's been going on in the news does a great disservice to real mental health professionals, and trivializes people who are living with actual mental health issues.

Regrets, I've Had A Few

Anyone who says, "I have no regrets" is quite frankly, lying.


Perhaps they are sociopathic and have no feelings at all.  Oh but that's rather harsh.  I know... let's just give everyone the benefit of the doubt and say anyone who says, "I have no regrets" is slightly self-delusional.


We've all done things we regret.  We hurt someone's feelings.  We said something that unintentionally embarrassed someone.  We lost our temper.  We stole a gumball from the corner store as a kid.  Something.  Doesn't need to be a big thing, although goodness knows many of us have some whoppers in our past.  We all have things in our past that we wish had turned out different.  That's regret.


The constructive thing to do is look at regrets as lessons.  Life lessons to be learned.  Look back at something that happened and say, "OK that was bad, but here's how I would handle that next time".  Learn.  Grow.


Of course, that's all well and good for someone without a mental illness.  "Normies," as the interesting folks over at Mixed Nuts call them.


For someone like, oh say....Me, it's much harder to translate a regret into a lesson.  I tend to dwell on things.  things that may have happened 20 years ago... or more.  As I have discussed before, I also sometimes "catastrophize" things.  Combine those two things and you've got a recipe for more darkness.  A fragment of a memory of something that happened in high school and has very likely been forgotten by all others concerned, can have a physical effect on me.  When one pops up, I can feel it hit me like a briskly swung pillow.  I usually openly and physically flinch when something like that enters my addled mind.  It's quite ridiculous, in fact.


I read someplace that learning to deal with past trauma (real or imagined) involves a very important step.  One has to learn to remember the event without re-living the event.  That's key.  I just don't know how to do it at all.  Been trying that one for years.  I still remember and re-live stupid things that happened ages ago.  It's like I am a skipping record that repeats the same part over again without getting to the end of the song.


In the end, I have to remember that regrets represent moments that something went wrong.  To not learn from these moments would be something to regret even further.

"Regrets, I've had a few, but then again, too few to mention"

The Perfect Storm

In the atmosphere of our fair planet, weather systems move around.  They ebb and flow, bringing rain here, sunshine there, snow over yonder.  Sometimes the weather gets testy and a storm develops.  Sometimes, angry weather systems get on a collision course with each other.  And when they collide, Bad Things(tm) happen.

It is often, but inaccurately, called a "weather bomb".  That's the new term meteorologists made up to have it all sound very menacing.

You may have guessed that I am in the process of using analogy to make a point.  And...you'd be right.  Recent posts have alluded to my attempts at staving off a Major Depressive Episode (MDE).  It's been nipping at my heels like a starved wolf, trying to get in.  (Ooh, more analogy!  This post is clearly symbolistically overloaded.) (symbolistically - It is so a word!)

Yesterday the weather bomb dropped.  It almost made an audible SPLAT as it hit me.  It was all a collection of little things, mostly, that all accumulated and slammed into each other.  And me.  A bad day at work.  Finding out that something I did wasn't up to standard.  Finding out that it happened several months ago and a couple of people have had a lesser opinion of me ever since...but yet no one told me, or gave me a chance to make it right.  A friend was hurt by something I said in an offhanded way.. and of course I didn't ever mean to hurt anyone's feelings.  Someone I knew years ago, and am not even close to anymore, de-friended me on Facebook.  Valentine's Day was this week..and as we all know.. I'm a bit lonely these days.  There were a couple of other small items that dropped in the Weather Bomb Mix, and before I knew it I was nose-deep in another MDE.

Then the Bad Thoughts came.  The dark and sinister ideations.  The crazy plans to quit my job.  The plans to move someplace else.  All the instant "running away" urges that are, I know deep down someplace that at the moment seems faint and distant, utterly ridiculous.  These urges must be stopped.  Like many jobs, mine is stressful and tough at times... but it's not THAT tough... I have to remember that.

But it's hard.  When the depression is swirling around me like a tornado, it's easy to fall off course.  The bad ideas come roaring in on the disturbed wind and set up shop in my mind before I can say, "what was that"?

It's hard.  I try to remember the CBT techniques I learned.  "STOP the bad thoughts."  I try to remind myself that I am catastrophizing.  I try and repeat over and over again like some pleading mantra, that I am a Good Person.  I have a Good Life.  I Will Make It Through This Period.  And for a few minutes, it works.  Then it all comes roaring back like some other violent weather-related phenomenon.


Oddly, when I started writing this post, I felt shame.  Embarrassment.  I had come so far with my journaling and blogging and enjoying the moral support of my new blogging friends.  How could I have this bad of a backslide?  (I am not fishing for anything here... just admitting the strange emotions that overtake me)


OK, so it's reality check time.  CBT skills ahoy.

• I am in a temporary state of crisis.  It will not last.
• I have been journaling for mental health for less than two months.  To expect instant and permanent and lasting success is unrealistic.  This, like any therapy, takes time and work.
• Bad things happen to good people.  None of the things that happened are permanent, and I have the power to make them better.
• No one is going to judge me harshly for falling into the pit again.  Quite the opposite, in fact.  Shame and embarrassment are unnecessary.
• It's not my fault, but I can make it better.
• Amazing that all the self-convincing I have been doing pales in comparison to the therapeutic value of writing this down.  

On the real-and-not-catastrophized down side, it is apparent now that my depression is having an effect on my work.  I thought I had it pretty well under control when it came to my professional life.  In fact I had believed, until yesterday, that work was the ONLY part of my life I had under control and functioning properly.  I need to work on that.  Immediately.  The tricky part of that process is: how much is true.. and how much is my mind playing dirty tricks on me.  the truth lies in the middle, I suspect.


It's a long weekend coming up.  I've got to use it to my advantage and relax, decompress, and heal.


This too shall pass.

It's The Most Wonderful Time Of The Year

Actually, no... it's so not that at all.

Lots of people turn up their noses at Valentine's Day.  It's a manufactured holiday, they say.  All a scam to make money for Hallmark.  The chocolate companies are in on the deal too.  It's all manufactured.

First off, it isn't.  Perhaps the way we mark the day is manufactured and invented, but St. Valentine's day is a real day.  There were several Saints named Valentine, and over time, various legends and stories coalesced into a martyr for love.  Long before, I am quite certain, Hallmark was invented.

To tell the truth, the way we mark and celebrate Christmas is pretty far from the original intent and story, but no one thinks Christmas is a scam to sell greeting cards and chocolate.

But, enough historical perspective.  In no way would I want to take away from a day that celebrates love.  A day where people who have found love enjoy each other's company, and celebrate that love.  How can such a day be a bad thing?

For a normal someone, it's not.   For a single person, it might be a reminder that one is alone.

Oh but for a depressed someone who is also lonely, February the 14th is a heavy day indeed.  It's a rough one.  It's not up there with Christmas... but it's heavy.  It's a strong reminder that I am alone.  It's a strong reminder that I don't get to experience romantic love.  It's a strong reminder of the effects of depression on my life.  And yes, there's a small amount of anger.  The anger from before.  Anger at myself for being in this fix.

I want to swat at the anger like one would shoo a buzzing fly.  Get, get away from me, pesky anger!  Pesky depression brought on by a reminder of the state of my life!

Pesky.  I've always liked that word.

Today is probably going to be a rough one.

I've got to start my distraction techniques early in the day.

Once Upon A Time

I have a story to tell.  It's a story I have never told any other human being...ever.


It's a story about the time I...am having trouble typing this sentence...decided to end my life.


I must tell you right off the top, I hereby give you permission to find this story amusing.  Looking back, I certainly do.  Years later I find the complete lunacy of the situation to be laughable.


Oh but now you are confused.  Let's back up.


I was all of nine years old.  That's right, nine.  (You can see how this has the potential to be amusing at the same time as it is troubling.  Also shocking.)


I was not a generally happy child.  Certainly like any kid I had my ups and downs.  However, I know now that I have been living with depression just about all of my life.  I recall vividly the feelings of despair.  The heaviness, the hopelessness that I know oh-so-well today, I recall feeling when I was very young.  It was a heavy burden that no one should ever have to bear... let alone a young child.


Of course at the time, depression wasn't something you talked about, or even mentioned.  The word "depression" didn't really exist. One did not admit to feeling such things, and if one did, one was quickly told to not be "silly".  And to "just get over it".  And all the other things that many of us know now are ridiculous.  I didn't even know at the time I had something with a name.  I just knew I was miserable, and hurting, and sad.


And....nine.  Did I mention I was nine?


Back to our tale.  It was a particularly bad day.  There may have been some family dust up, or some friend who unknowingly said the wrong thing.  Possibly both.  I can't recall correctly.  Either way, I was in my room, despondent.  Then the dark thoughts came.  The mere fact that suicidal thoughts can occur in the brain of a nine year old child underscores how serious this illness can be.


I lived in a small town at the time.  We had two TV channels, as cable hadn't gotten to us just yet.  I was not familiar with most of the rest of the world.  I didn't know the word suicide.  I didn't even know what it was.  All I knew was there were very dark thoughts and a vague idea that the pain and suffering might stop if I just ended my own life.


Isn't that just one of the most disturbing things ever?  I was nine, for cryin' out loud.


Here's where my memory gets crystal clear.  I had this bedside lamp.  It was a sailboat.  Expertly crafted with paper sails, strings for ropes, and fancy wood and brass work.  It really was quite the lamp.  Behind the sails was a 40 watt bulb that lit up the ship.  You could almost imagine the sun shining through the sails as the boat tacked into the wind and set off on some journey to a far off land.


I didn't know about suicide, but I did know from TV that they put bad people in something called the electric chair.  And...a lamp has electricity doesn't it?


Now remember please, that I have given implicit permission for you to find this amusing.  You may chuckle.


As you may have just figured out, my nine year old self unscrewed the 40 watt light bulb and carefully set it aside.  I put my index finger into the light socket.  And with my other hand, flicked on the switch.


It was at that moment that I discovered that 120 volts of electricity really really hurts.  This made no sense at all.  I wanted the pain to end, not to make more!  This whole thing wasn't working out as planned.


I don't recall what happened next.  Likely I just went back to being a nine year old.  Naturally, at the time, I had no idea of the magnitude of what had happened to me.  I went back to being a sad kid, but now somewhat mindful of light sockets.  It wasn't until years later when I realized there was a mental illness afoot, that I looked back on that episode with fresh perspective.  And, after the shock passed, I was able to almost laugh at the fact that I thought it would be a super idea to jam my finger into a light socket.


As an adult, I have had other very dark episodes, where the urge to act has been great.  I have managed to make it through them...although a couple of them, which I can clearly recall as if they were yesterday, were almost overwhelming.  It took one of those episodes for me to begin to ask for help.


Light sockets hurt.  Remember that always.

Quoted

---

"This guy's walking down the street when he falls in a hole. The walls are so steep he can't get out.

"A doctor passes by and the guy shouts up, 'Hey you. Can you help me out?' The doctor writes a prescription, throws it down in the hole and moves on.

"Then a priest comes along and the guy shouts up, 'Father, I'm down in this hole can you help me out?' The priest writes out a prayer, throws it down in the hole and moves on

"Then a friend walks by, 'Hey, Joe, it's me can you help me out?' And the friend jumps in the hole. Our guy says, 'Are you stupid? Now we're both down here.' The friend says, 'Yeah, but I've been down here before and I know the way out.'"

---

The West Wing, Episode "Noel", © NBC Studios