Dreaming Through the Depression

                 Dreams stretch and grow and fade and change as we do.  When I was four, I was certain I was going to be a graceful ballerina.  Ballet lessons quickly cured me of that dream.  When I was nine, I was going to own a horse ranch.  I soon realized that I’d rather just love my own horses than deal with other people and their horses.  When I was fourteen, I wanted to act on Broadway.  Having given up on dancing, however, that dream eventually shifted to acting in film.  But when I’m honest with myself, I understand that in a day where physical perfection is paramount, the hundreds of scars that weave across my body will probably prevent that dream from being realized.  So what’s left for me? 

I realize I’m being melodramatic.  There are thousands of other professions in the world.  But I’m not particularly capable of doing something I’m not passionate about.  And I’m hardly even capable of that.  I am limited.  My brain chemistry is such that I have severe limitations.  Such as… getting out of bed.  That can be hard.  I often dream of changing the world for those of us who suffer from mental illnesses.  But I can’t even change my own world.

                So what is my dream now?  I really don’t know.  I really. Don’t. Know.  My emotional… limitations… prevent me from even excelling at my undergraduate studies the way I know someone who possesses my intellect should.  So what do I do?  Do I reassess my expectations of myself?  Do I settle for less?  I don’t know.  I’ll get back to you.  For now, I’m trying to re-learn how to dream.

Suicide Hurts.

Yesterday after a long and difficult battle with addiction, my cousin ended his life.  Everything feels broken today.  Now I know what people mean when they say they feel like the world shouldn’t still be turning.  It just feels… wrong, somehow.  He must have been hurting so bad.

Is it bad that I’m relieved it wasn’t me?  Because there have been times when it almost could have been me.  Is it wrong that I’m almost grateful to know this pain?  Because knowing this pain gives me perspective.  This is the pain of those who are left behind.  I intend to remember it well and draw upon it when (not if) I go back to that dark place where suicide seems like a viable option.  This is a lot of pain. 

RIP Phil.  I understand.  And I miss you.

My Lying Mind- Learning it's the Depression Talking

I’m so tired.  Like my brain and soul are tired.  Like blinking makes me sad because I don’t know if I have it in me to re-open my eyes.  Though it’s Thursday, I have been completely unable to recover from last weekend (death, fire, bears…  I’ll fill you in sometime).  And my mind keeps helpfully telling me a lot of things about myself.  It keeps telling me I’ll fail at school.  It keeps telling me I’m worthless.  It keeps telling me how much everyone hates me.  It keeps telling me I’m about to have a panic attack at any second.  It keeps telling me how socially inept I am.  It keeps telling me I’ll never become the things I want to be.  It keeps telling me there’s something seriously wrong with me.  It keeps telling me I have no right to smile.  It keeps telling me lies.  And I’m learning to recognize them as lies.  I still don’t like hearing them.  And I’m still tired.  I’m almost too tired to fight my mind.  But if I whisper back, “You’re wrong” when it tells me those lies, maybe someday I’ll believe myself.  Maybe someday I’ll be able to shout it.  Maybe someday I won’t even have to say it anymore because my mind will stop lying to me.  For now, though, I’ll just keep whispering like I believe.

Learning to Live with my Depression

                Depression and I are trying to strike a balance.  I can’t go all out and get things done like I want to.  But depression can’t hold me down in the gutter like it wants to either.  Because I won’t let it.  Depression doesn’t want me to get out of bed.  I want to get out of bed and then go to class and then go shopping and then go to a party.  We compromised.  I made it to class.  Depression doesn’t want me to communicate with my best friends.  I want to skype with them for hours.  We compromised.  I sent some of them short facebook messages.  Depression doesn’t want me to do any homework.  I want to do the homework that has to be turned in and the optional readings and study extra.  We compromised.  I did the homework that had to be turned in. 

See, I’m learning that sometimes my “best” is less than I want it to be, but that doesn’t make it any less of a gigantic effort.  And it doesn’t make it any less acceptable.  So I’m trying to re-work my life.  Re-work my expectations.  Re-work… the way I work.  Am I giving in?  I don’t know.  But I know I’m not giving up.

Worsening Social Anxiety

                In order to pay for my cocaine addiction college education, I work at a ranch during the summers taking guests out on horseback rides.  It. Sucks.  OK, it is the best summer job you could ask for, but my social anxiety is getting to the point where talking to different groups of strangers at two hour intervals all day every day is completely. Exhausting.  I’m constantly worrying that I’ve said something stupid or offensive or unintelligible or boring or any number of other adjectives that shouldn’t be used to describe tour guides.  And when I’m not with guests, I’m worried that my coworkers hate me and only put up with me because they don’t have the authority to fire me.  And when I’m not doing that, I’m…  Oh wait.  Yeah, I’m pretty much consistently worrying about one of those things.  So when I get home at night, all I want to do is hide in my bedroom.  But my family wants to spend time with me.  So I either find myself hiding from them and feeling guilty or spending time with them and wishing I were hiding from them and feeling guilty.  Insert the comma wherever it makes sense to you- I’m sure it applies.  And you know your social anxiety is getting worse when you get home from work and find yourself hoping your horse won’t walk up to the fence hoping to be petted.  That happened today.