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.

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.

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.

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.

The Dance

The ballroom is spectacular.   The decorations are perfect.  The band plays music you love, that makes you feel happy and alive, it's the perfect accompaniment to the movements of the dancers as they ebb and flow around the room.  The tuxedos are crisp and pressed, the brightly colored ball gowns wave in time with the music.  Laughter fills the air.


Affliction has paired you with one specific partner, joined at the hip for all time.  You lead your partner 'round the floor as the dance goes on.  You insist on the lead, and all is as it should be.


Sometimes you stop for refreshments.  The punch in particular is quite favorable.  It's a sweet, effervescent blend of the freshest fruit juices and sparkling water.  Made just for the dance, it seems indistinguishable from the proverbial nectar of the gods.  Perhaps it is just that.


The floral arrangements arrayed about the room lend further splashes of color to the festivities.  Bright arrangements, picked just at their peak. Sometimes you swing by on a circuit of the room and catch the delicate scent of the mixed bouquet.


The sunlight streams from the windows, brightening the whole room, twinkling in the bubbly punch, drenching the flowers with life-giving rays.


Your hands, and your partners', are in the perfect waltz position.  Any ballroom dance coach would beam with pleasure as you floated by, as if carried by the spring breeze.  One hand raised to the side, one hand on a waist, 'round the floor you go.  Barely do your feet touch the floor.


Sometimes your partner whispers, "Oh can't I lead for a bit?  You must be tired from all this dancing.  Let me lead."


A smile.  "No, I'm fine", you respond pleasantly. 


And the dance goes on. 


Then, later, a moment of distraction.  A smile and a nod to someone across the room.  A yawn.  A blink.  Suddenly all is not as it was.  Your moment of inattention has allowed a change to take place.  Your hands have somehow reversed and now the hand that was raised is on a waist, and the waist hand is held high.  In an instant, your partner is leading.


You've been led before, and a feeling of dread starts to rise, for you know what comes next.


A transformation seems to come over the room.  A transformation that is strange, yet not a stranger.  Not for the first time, and perhaps not for the last, you wonder if it's real.  You can't be sure if, now that your partner is leading, everyone else sees what you see, hears what you hear.


It's much darker in the room now, as the sun seems to be filtered through some sort of haze.  The sparkle, the shine, the warmth, have all disappeared.  The punch sits in the bowl.  It's inexplicably flat, and completely tasteless.  The flowers, deprived of the sun, have wilted.  The bouquet of aroma has gone from the room.  The colors of the dresses seem to have faded.  They almost look dingy in the changed room.


The band, moments ago the best musicians one could hear, now sound discordant.  Off-key notes ring out and echo in your head.  The music is too loud, played poorly, and you aren't sure you recognize the song.  Still, you've heard it all before.


Now your partner whispers different things in your ear.  Disapproving things.  About how you don't measure up.  The disapproving tone seems to come from all sides, as if your fellow dancers were judging you, and finding you wanting.


You are really tired now, for the pace of the dance seems to have increased and your energy seems to have been drained.  If you could just could sit, rest, breathe deep, you'd be able to stand up refreshed and lead once again.  Your partner ensures the dancing never passes a chair.  Weariness creeps in.


A small part of your mind protests.  "Wait - this is all wrong.  Wasn't it really nice in here just a few moments ago?  How did this change?  This isn't right at all."


Your partner, as if hearing the same thoughts, speaks in reassuring tones, "Just let me lead."


The small part of your mind that had been objecting grows ever smaller.  Soon, you can't hear it anymore.  Of course the ballroom has always looked this way, rooms can't transform in an instant.  Must have been your imagination.


Sometimes, when the ballroom is at its blackest and the music at its most discordant, something else happens.  Your partner, taking advantage of the darkness, leans in very close to whisper softly.  Almost too softly to hear.  Something about hurting yourself.  But that couldn't be right, could it?  Then you hear it again, seemingly from another direction.  You are sure the words are coming from your partner but they seem to surround you.  What's worse, in your current state, the words seem to make sense. 


"Yes, yes, it would be better if I weren't here", your mind says all by itself.  How'd that happen?  How did your partner's ominous words get into your subconscious, laying waste to all you thought was true?   


"But it all seems so sensible", your mind chimes in, fuelled by the faint whispers of your partner and the growing chorus of negativity that's all around you now.  Your partner smiles cruelly and stokes the fire some more, supplying a non-stop stream of thoughts you know deep down to be wrong.  You know them to be wrong, but they are crashing over your soul now like waves.  It's difficult to remember where you are, the reason for the dance, or why leading was so important not that long ago.  It's kind of hard to breathe.  And what was that last thing you said?


You are really very tired now, and your partner continues to lead.  Round round you go, tired and beaten.


Then, a moment of distraction.  Your partner stops for a moment to sip the tasteless punch.  It's an opportunity.  You find the energy, somewhere, to take it.  You snap your hands back to the raised position, the other on a waist, and once again, you are leading.


The haze goes out of the room as the spring sunshine courses through the room.  You notice the beauty and deep colors of the flowers once again.  The bubbles in the punch sparkle in response to a wandering sunbeam.  The band, moments before hunched over their instruments and struggling to play, are suddenly the picture of musical perfection.  The darkness lifts.  You look around, unsure of reality for a moment, as the world returns to the way it was.


A fresh new energy courses through you.  Head high, back straight, you briefly wonder how, moments before, you could have been seriously considering the awful things running through your mind.  You're thankful that you came through it...again.  


After a time, you hear a voice, "Can't I lead?"


You know, as you've always known, that your partner must never be allowed to lead.


And the dance goes on.