I find that I benefit from conceptualizing depression as a friend that is a part of me. We are usually at odds in some ways, but it is a part of me that I can’t ignore or belittle. It needs to breathe just as much as the rest of me. I don’t always succeed at holding on to this conceptualization, but when I catch myself talking too frequently about “fighting” depression, I can take a moment to remind myself that my mental framework might be slipping.
I hear a lot about fighting depression. I know I’ve used the phrase quite a lot in this series. I’m not against the use of it, because friend or not, depression and I do fight in many ways. But I try not say it too much, because that turn of phrase would make an enemy of depression. I can’t view depression as my enemy, because then I have to actively try not to fear it, adding another layer of effort. I have found that fear of depression is not much better than depression itself.
I had a moderate to severe depressive episode in my second semester of university. I didn’t know what was happening at the time. My roommate moved out, and I stopped going to class or work and spent my days under my bed—no, seriously, under my bed—with my computer. The thought of doing anything sent me into an anxiety attack.
After I recovered from that episode, I swore to myself that I wouldn’t let it happen again. I tried to hold myself afloat by remembering how awful it was to be so useless. I was trying to hold the depression at bay using fear. To put it more clearly, I was trying to hold anxiety at bay using anxiety.
Certainly, I was continuously a functioning member of society. But I didn’t like myself. I hated myself every morning that I just couldn’t do the things that I told myself I was supposed to be able to be doing. The only thing I had in abundance was self-loathing for my weakness and lack of control; I barely ever had enough energy to get through the day doing the bare necessities. I continuously wanted to get away from people: socialization was draining and made me irritable. When it got particularly bad, I would tell myself it was because of the environment, the culture, the anything that allowed me to place the blame on someone or something other than myself. That was the only way that I could forgive myself. Amidst all of this, I only occasionally missed work or class, and never anything essential. I kept my grades up and even made time for arts and crafts, writing and reading.
Functional though I was, I don’t think any part of this was particularly healthy. I was trying to force myself to be what I thought I should be. I was constantly at war with myself, unconsciously making my own life that much harder from one day to the next. I frequently had insomnia or hypersomnia. During bouts of insomnia, I would have waking sleep tremors that terrified me: initially because I thought they were seizures, and later because they would occur just as I was drifting off and I would mistake the shaking for an earthquake. I was usually either under-eating over overeating.
Nowadays, though I am generally happy, I frequently catch myself at quiet moments succumbing to morose, sad thoughts.
I catch myself, but I don’t hold the thoughts back. I let the sadness or despair wash over me. Maybe I take a walk. Maybe I try to channel the emotion into a story. Maybe I just sit there and curl up with my computer and a YouTube video. Maybe I text a friend about how sad I am right now. Maybe I blog about it. The point is this: I don’t push it away. I embrace it.
It’s difficult and it can be frightening. In these moments, I can feel depression beside me, sapping me of energy. I said I might walk or channel the emotion into a story, but that tends to be far more easily said than done. For the most part, I don’t have the desire or the will to do anything at these times.
Sometimes this strikes while I’m in the middle of something that I can’t get out of. The dark mood takes over but I’m still in action. I become less talkative and more pensive. But I can still do what needs to be done. If I feel the need, I might excuse myself to the bathroom or something to create alone time.
It is a balancing act of sorts, trying to give the darker corners of my mind the breathing room they need without completely sapping me of willpower. I feel sure that at some point my careful balance will not be enough. But I have found that since I’ve been making an effort towards greater introspection and acceptance of my own depression and limitations, I’ve been happier in my happy moments. Even the sharp, senseless irritability that used to take over from time to time has lost its hold on me. But even for that irritation, when I feel its claws settling in, I don’t fight it. I ask myself, instead, “Why am I so irritated right now?” There usually is a reason: because I want to be somewhere else, because I’m tired, because I had expectations that aren’t being met, or even because someone is expressing an opinion of me that conflicts with my own.
I try to identify a problem, if there is one, and solve it; or if my psyche just wants to be sad for awhile, I don’t stop it. This is my attempt to bring sustainability into what I suspect will be a tumultuous lifelong relationship.