Depression will never leave me. I understand that now. And that's okay.
Depression is largely cyclical now that my menses has returned, which makes it more predictable and somewhat manageable.
About a week ago, I came upon a brief paragraph that described what it was like to be anxious and depressed at the same time: the anxiety makes one restless, whilst the depression paralyzes one from doing anything to remedy, and that inability creates more anxiety, etc.
I couldn't have said it better. Although having been asked many times, I haven't considered myself "anxious" per se. But the paralyzed state and the guilt of not being able to do something, anything, I know very well indeed.
Denisse's wedding that was supposed to carry on in August didn't. Her fiancé, Guy*, who happens to be my age, for the first time in his life, had an epiphany, became introspective, and decided that he needed therapy as a person before he could take up more in life. For the first time, after years of being a pushover, he defied public opinion, stood up for himself and sought professional help.
The point of the story is that the therapist, among many other things, asked Guy if he was depressed.
"I'm not sure," Guy replied.
At this point of the account, as told to me by Denisse, she exclaimed, "Why would anyone answer yes?"
Whoa, what?
She went on to explain that in all her years of dealing with patients, NO ONE has ever answered yes to that question.
I was flabbergasted. "I did," I told Denisse. In fact that was the very reason I knew that I needed therapy those years back.
Guy and Denisse are working their way through their difficult times. When I saw Guy last, he seemed SO much happier than I'd seen him in such a long time. Maybe ever. He was smiling, making eye contact, being engaged, ALIVE.
I walked in that night to our scheduled dinner ready to hate him - a reasonable guttural response, one might concede. But, as soon as I saw how he'd blossomed and grown within a matter of days, all ill feelings vanished. I was so touched by the transformation, I felt genuinely proud of him and glad for him. I was able to see him as a person, once lost, trying to find his way. You know, not unlike me.
Such warm emotions overwhelmed me that I approached him, placed my palms on his shoulders, and with all sincerity, uttered to Guy, "I just wanted to give you some love." And I meant every word.
Soon after my parents left following their brief visit (another essay awaits, perhaps), Jean Henri*, whom I jokingly called my "work husband", was leaving the company. I don't do goodbyes well. Never did as a child, and at my ripe present age, apparently still don't. On top of this, a business associate with whom I had been communicating, become close friends with (or so I'd thought) was becoming distant and lukewarm. I reached out a couple of times, didn't try too hard, and considered it yet another lost cause.
In hindsight, the trifecta hit me harder than I had expected. It's been SO hard to make friends in the past decade or so. It's starting to feel futile: why even bother trying? People leave. They always do. (Abandonment issues.)
I go through extreme periods of how I deal with food - cooking like a maniac as if my life depended on it, or not cooking at all. Not being
able to cook, that is, at all. Must I mention, again, that it is never about food. My current boss, Mila**, a remarkable woman and a wonderful boss, albeit sometimes narrow-minded, could never understand that. Having known me for only slightly over a year, she'd casually say, referring to me, "Oh, but you don't cook..." She means nothing of it. But those words hurt deeply. She doesn't know me at all, my ups and downs, all my struggles. Few do.
This past week, as told to RJ, "depression descended upon me like dense fog". Work is a nice distraction. But when I am home, I become bored, antsy, and don't know what to do with myself. It doesn't help
knowing that there's a ton I could do. I didn't
want to. Even though I desperately wanted to. Makes sense?
In the advent of our house guests' return for the remainder of the long weekend, yesterday, I resumed my reading. I was a little over two months behind in newspaper, magazines, and free publications that I religiously pick up weekly. Once I started, the flow was natural... even though, boy, you should have seen my stack. The sight was quite intimidating.
This afternoon, after all the dust has settled, and all is quiet again, I sit at "my" table, my favorite reading spot. I think, Wow! I still love to read. I still feel enriched. I still have passion. I still have thirst! I guess
I'm not a lost cause. What a relief!
I peacefully sit, read, and marvel. I don't take this peace for granted at all.
*Not his real name
**Not her real name
