There is nothing quite like a cool morning in June in Washington, DC. Fall like weather makes everything look very crisp, clear, inviting. I am sitting on my back porch drinking coffee (decaf –ugh) and acutely aware of how depressed I am. I have been battling depression since I was a teenager. I had very different ways of dealing with it back then. Bulimia, shoplifting, and drinking seemed to help me keep it in check and assist me to play the role of cheerleader and popular girl. They worked for a few years until I ended up in rehab for the eating disorder. Then I had to find new ways of coping.
Now I am 40. A little over 2 decades of battling/accepting my depression when it comes and finding ways to stay engaged in life without just dropping out altogether. Sex, work, exercise, therapy, yoga, meditation and anti depressants seem to be the healthiest way to trudge through these cycles. As a matter of fact I do such a good job at managing myself (I am a great patient) that most people can’t really tell the difference. Sometimes, I can’t either.
Learning how to “manage” one’s self has benefits. I don’t reek (too much) havoc on others, I can keep a job to have money and for the most part I fit in socially. I have studied the “normal” human and done a great job at replicating that behavior. Most of my psychiatrists (which are a fucking crew in and of themselves) are blown away that I have done as well as I have.
Please pass me the fucking gold stars.
But there is a price to this management. I have an inner life that is far darker than most could even imagine. I suppose it does not matter as long as I keep it contained. But there is an intimacy I sacrifice to keep all of this in check. I always feel as if no one really knows me (yes, we all feel like that to a certain extent) and honestly isn’t even interested cause the surface level Wyndi who mimics pleasant human behavior is just fine. The people I feel safest with are people I pay to talk to and who “treat” me. There are a few others – my partner, my animals, and a few kindred mentally ill folks who I have met along the way. Otherwise I always feel as if I wear an inside out raincoat. The waterproof garment does not protect me as much as it contains me. Keeps others from getting wet.
I take refuge in knowing that I am not alone in feeling like this. I feel compelled to point out that this is different than harboring some secret that stands in direct conflict with who I am or who I think I should be. I have a few secrets but even if those came to light some people might be hurt but not surprised. I am talking about living life and being healthy and recognizing that it sacrifices some of the connection I make in the world. I don’t expect anyone who has not struggled with depression or other mental illness to understand that. But I do imagine anyone who has struggled with it knows precisely what I am talking about.
My father, my sister and I all share this malady. Which leads me to believe that it is genetic/environmental (is there a difference?) to some extent. I imagine we come from a long line of people who carried darkness in different ways. Through drinking, killing, stealing, lying, praying and always hiding. Some were not as fortunate and carried their illness in a way that set them apart from others through their appearance and behavior. My father always felt that it was evil inside him. He did not have the benefit of medication and kind, loving counselors to guide him through his psyche. He was brought up to believe it was what Christians call Satan. He did manage to gain a better understanding toward the end of his life but he died fearing Hell. I fucking hate that.
I write all of this to acknowledge all that I have rumbling around inside. Understanding that when I am depressed that it is just part of the truth coming to the surface. It is not my complete self but it is something that is in me all the time. I have even come to find some kind of stability in this temporary, reoccurring state. It comes, it goes, it comes, it goes.
And so will I.
Now I am 40. A little over 2 decades of battling/accepting my depression when it comes and finding ways to stay engaged in life without just dropping out altogether. Sex, work, exercise, therapy, yoga, meditation and anti depressants seem to be the healthiest way to trudge through these cycles. As a matter of fact I do such a good job at managing myself (I am a great patient) that most people can’t really tell the difference. Sometimes, I can’t either.
Learning how to “manage” one’s self has benefits. I don’t reek (too much) havoc on others, I can keep a job to have money and for the most part I fit in socially. I have studied the “normal” human and done a great job at replicating that behavior. Most of my psychiatrists (which are a fucking crew in and of themselves) are blown away that I have done as well as I have.
Please pass me the fucking gold stars.
But there is a price to this management. I have an inner life that is far darker than most could even imagine. I suppose it does not matter as long as I keep it contained. But there is an intimacy I sacrifice to keep all of this in check. I always feel as if no one really knows me (yes, we all feel like that to a certain extent) and honestly isn’t even interested cause the surface level Wyndi who mimics pleasant human behavior is just fine. The people I feel safest with are people I pay to talk to and who “treat” me. There are a few others – my partner, my animals, and a few kindred mentally ill folks who I have met along the way. Otherwise I always feel as if I wear an inside out raincoat. The waterproof garment does not protect me as much as it contains me. Keeps others from getting wet.
I take refuge in knowing that I am not alone in feeling like this. I feel compelled to point out that this is different than harboring some secret that stands in direct conflict with who I am or who I think I should be. I have a few secrets but even if those came to light some people might be hurt but not surprised. I am talking about living life and being healthy and recognizing that it sacrifices some of the connection I make in the world. I don’t expect anyone who has not struggled with depression or other mental illness to understand that. But I do imagine anyone who has struggled with it knows precisely what I am talking about.
My father, my sister and I all share this malady. Which leads me to believe that it is genetic/environmental (is there a difference?) to some extent. I imagine we come from a long line of people who carried darkness in different ways. Through drinking, killing, stealing, lying, praying and always hiding. Some were not as fortunate and carried their illness in a way that set them apart from others through their appearance and behavior. My father always felt that it was evil inside him. He did not have the benefit of medication and kind, loving counselors to guide him through his psyche. He was brought up to believe it was what Christians call Satan. He did manage to gain a better understanding toward the end of his life but he died fearing Hell. I fucking hate that.
I write all of this to acknowledge all that I have rumbling around inside. Understanding that when I am depressed that it is just part of the truth coming to the surface. It is not my complete self but it is something that is in me all the time. I have even come to find some kind of stability in this temporary, reoccurring state. It comes, it goes, it comes, it goes.
And so will I.
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