Thievery

I am fully convinced now that Depression steals from people. I have had whole parts of my identity stolen from me. That's not to say I can't get them back. But it is trying to take things from me. It is greedy, and it grabs at things, and holds onto them tight, and hopes that I will forget I once owned those things.

Like what? For one, my interests. I like to cook. But it has been so long since I've truly been able to remember the pleasurable parts of cooking that I have lost a lot of my cooking skills. People who I would characterize as good friends, and people who hardly know me, all think that I don't know how to cook, and that I don't really enjoy it. It surprises me and irritates me when I discover this attitude and belief in people. It is frustrating when my friends give me the same look my mom used to give me when I said I wanted to sew a quilt (she's seen me with a sewing machine--straight lines are harder than you think!) when I say I like cooking. I do like to cook. But even now, as the meds are returning me to a place of balance where I have interest in DOING things again, I struggle to make that true again. Because I've forgotten how somehow. And I can't think what to do. I have vague intentions of doing it again, and more often. But I feel deeply rooted in the rut in which I have entrenched myself.

It also has stolen my happiness. And I don't just mean the ability to feel it from day to day. I mean, while I've been so deeply immersed in a dark and dreary existence, I missed LIFE. I didn't choose things that maybe would have put me in better places. I seem to have lost some of the bonds with friends and loved ones that kept us bound to each others' daily lives. I'm alone. Other people around me seem to have managed to end up happy and WITH people, and DOING things. I do things, but alone.

I can't quite fully articulate what depression has stolen. People who have never felt it will often say, or privately think, that we are responsible for the loss we experience when we allow things to happen TO us. I don't dispute that. I have let a lot of things happen to me. I have been in those deep dark places where I don't care, because of a crazy chemical imbalance. It is all my fault my life is not different. And at the same time, it is NOT my fault. I have control over where I am, but I don't have control. I feel both ways. In my healthy moments, I can see what I should have done. But in those unhealthy moments, I didn't see it. 

So many times, from so many people, I've heard the viewpoint expressed that the dark ugly points in our lives make our lives richer, and deeper, and more the person we are meant to be. And on my sunny days, I agree with this concept, and sometimes even embrace it. But on my dark, desperate, miserable days, I despise this theory. I find it deplorable. What doesn't kill us might make us stronger. Or it might debilitate us and suspend us in our anguish.

Deeper and Uglier (or, Where Is the Love)

Just when I think that I have seen the worst it will be for me, and that I can hold onto brighter times in the future, things get worse. And uglier. And my sorrow and anxiety and all those bad feelings delve so deep. If I had the option, I would have had weeks of not getting out of bed. Things have been looking pretty bleak. The world is pretty hard on people struggling with depression, especially when they mess up. Even people who have that shared experience are hard on you. In some respects I think they are harder on you. I am struggling to find an explanation for why friends who say they love me, who have been through some form of this, have so little tolerance for my misery. Perhaps it is because things haven't been as bad for them. Perhaps it is because their ways of coping are different from mine, and they don't understand why I'm not coping like they do. Perhaps it's because they are just as critical of themselves, and this is more about projecting than truly judging me. Whatever it is, it feels devastating to me sometimes.

This perhaps reflects my personal issues with wanting to please people. I really, really, really, want my friends and loved ones (and bosses, and coworkers, and the waiter, and the bus driver...) to think I'm great. I want them to think I'm smart. I want them to think I'm trustworthy, honest, and a solid friend. It's not enough for me to know those things myself. I need other people to see that, and acknowledge that. But, also, I think that most "normal" people would feel a little forsaken if their friends had indicated, when it was taking everything in them to hang on, that they weren't doing enough, and that they were not good enough the way that they were.

I think of one friend in particular. If she were to read this, she would probably dispute it, and say that she had never said I am not good enough. I've seen her do this to other people, so I shouldn't take it so personally, right? The bottom line is, though, that she sends the message, with her irritation, and her dismissal of the things I have to tell her, that if I were more on top of things, I would be more healthy, and my misery is due to my own laziness. Perhaps there is some truth to this. Depression is an ugly tangly thing, and the apathy and lack of interest in activities can lead to being more sedentary, which can then lead to feeling more depressed... it's one of the ugly truths of the disease. But, I spend a lot of time and effort pushing past that. And it's exhausting. That's where I feel like she needs to cut me some slack.

Really, I need to stop worrying about what she thinks. I know that's the healthy thing. But the reality is that we care what people think of us. Especially people we love. We want them to be proud of us. We want them to respect us. We want them to support us.

Why does it have to be so complicated?

Writing.

Sometimes I think about writing. I think about coming home from work and spending the whole night writing, and how I will love it, and it will soothe my soul and I will feel all creative and have an outlet and not think about the crap at work, and the crap in my personal life, and it will be magical. And then I go and catch up on Facebook. And then there is pinterest....

So, clearly I am leading a rich life recreation-wise. I'm totally rejuvenated each morning and just RARING to go back to work, as you can imagine. Which, as you may guess, means I hate everyone's stinking guts, and was telling people to bite me as I wrote back the stupid diplomatic, cooperative emails. So, yeah. Happy, happy.

We won't get into the reasons I dread work and feel incredibly isolated, alone, and helpless every day now. I'm hoping this feeling passes soon. This morning, however, I had an anxiety attack larger than I have had in a while, and was convinced as I drove into work that my boss and the HR guy would be sitting in my office, and they would fire me. Don't ask me why. I am not aware of any (more) ways I have screwed up. But I'm still terrified  I've tried to talk to my boss about the impact some of the ways she manages me cause me to panic and despond. But, um, yeah. She takes it personally (as she in teh same breath tells me I need to learn how to not take things personally), and doesn't understand why I don't trust her. And yet, tells me that if I get fired, I will bring it on myself. Um, thanks for putting those positive thoughts out there? So, now? Don't really trust her. Because she doesn't seem to believe in me. And I want to tell her to bite me.

But, seriously, I used to love writing, and swore I would be a writer forever. I'm now failing. Haven't really written since college, in any kind of meaningful way. Sooooo... I really should start writing instead of pinning stuff on my boards on pinterest....

Tomorrow.

Motivation

So now that my meds have been at a fairly good level for a while, I'm feeling less apathy. I'm actually feeling a little bit of energy, and interest in doing stuff. The problem is, I've got some pretty good low-energy routines and habits. My laptop is my friend. I can talk to friends, read the news, watch tv, check my email, do work, read about things, buy things, listen to music... all from teh comfort of my bed. But I shouldn't just crawl into bed every night when I get home and stay there, right? It's occurring to me that perhaps this is not a good habit. I know, I should have thought about this a while ago, right? But my bed is so comfy and it's so nice to lay down when I get home. And then I never get up.

I am realizing I have this whole other part ot my living space, and it might be healthy to be out there sometimes. I could eat meals at a table instead of on my bed. I could watch movies on my tv. I could do projects... in all that space. don't ask me what kind of projects, but I'm sure I have some to do. Not crafts. I hate crafts. I could read books. I only read books when I'm outside or at restaurants alone now. As a result, I've been reading the same book since like December. It's a good book. But perhaps I should try finishing it sometime soon.

This might also help me with my goal of keeping my apartment cleaner. Right now, my bed is my island. All of my activity happens on my bed. Which can make my room get very messy very quickly when I don't want to get up and put things away or I don't look up from my computer enough to notice my surroundings. Bad. I used to clean and organize when I was stressed. Recently I've started doing this at work again. It's time to get my personal life clean and organized. I've been feeling icky for too long. It might be time to start taking care of myself again.

And then after all that energy comes into me and I feel actual interest and energy around those thoughts, I get up, and do something for 5 minutes, and I don't want to be. Because I like my routine and this living life thing takes energy.