Depression
I've always been a depressive by nature. Sure, certain aspects of my life and upbringing gave me plenty of cause for situational depression but there's no denying nature and the part it plays.
I used to think that "someday" I'd change like a fat, wrinkly caterpillar transforming into a beautiful butterfly, or an ugly duckling growing into a swan, or a hard, papery bulb blossoming into an elegant iris just given enough time or the right growing conditions.
The inescapable truth is that I have had plenty of time to grow into something else, the sunny optimist, the confident, vivacious gal, if it were in my make up to do so. I'm not a kid anymore, I'm all grown up. I believe I've officially begun middle-age. Like Popeye, I am what I am.
I hate the downward slide of depression. I can recognize it now in a way I couldn't over the first 30 years of the pattern, but I can't stave it off. No amount of hollow "self-motivating" pep talks or acknowledgements of all the good that my life holds has any force. A "change of scenery" doesn't help: the view from over there is ultimately as gray and bleak as the view from over here. "Taking a break" doesn't help: one day spent hunkered down under the covers can avalanche into two weeks of hiding from the world, living on coffee and ice cream (or cigarettes, if I still smoked). The smallest things transform into overwhelming obstacles, even though I'm perfectly aware that my life is not hard, I am not "really" suffering by any sane measure.
No matter how wonderful my family, or how successful my business, or how kind and caring my friends, I cannot "win" against my depressive coding. I can't make it just go away. Every time I think maybe it's gone or good, it comes roaring around the corner and knocks me out of my shoes. The next thing I know, I'm looking at the world through a gauzy filter, a world from which all the color has been drained.
Without constant intervention, this is what I am. And I hate it.
I used to think that "someday" I'd change like a fat, wrinkly caterpillar transforming into a beautiful butterfly, or an ugly duckling growing into a swan, or a hard, papery bulb blossoming into an elegant iris just given enough time or the right growing conditions.
The inescapable truth is that I have had plenty of time to grow into something else, the sunny optimist, the confident, vivacious gal, if it were in my make up to do so. I'm not a kid anymore, I'm all grown up. I believe I've officially begun middle-age. Like Popeye, I am what I am.
I hate the downward slide of depression. I can recognize it now in a way I couldn't over the first 30 years of the pattern, but I can't stave it off. No amount of hollow "self-motivating" pep talks or acknowledgements of all the good that my life holds has any force. A "change of scenery" doesn't help: the view from over there is ultimately as gray and bleak as the view from over here. "Taking a break" doesn't help: one day spent hunkered down under the covers can avalanche into two weeks of hiding from the world, living on coffee and ice cream (or cigarettes, if I still smoked). The smallest things transform into overwhelming obstacles, even though I'm perfectly aware that my life is not hard, I am not "really" suffering by any sane measure.
No matter how wonderful my family, or how successful my business, or how kind and caring my friends, I cannot "win" against my depressive coding. I can't make it just go away. Every time I think maybe it's gone or good, it comes roaring around the corner and knocks me out of my shoes. The next thing I know, I'm looking at the world through a gauzy filter, a world from which all the color has been drained.
Without constant intervention, this is what I am. And I hate it.
Two things, which may or may not help any.
First, the important fact is that you feel overwhelmed and have a hard time dealing with things sometimes. What makes you feel that way is completely unimportant -- whether your life is easy or hard does not make your suffering and pain any less than the suffering and pain of someone with a so-called harder life. Everybody is different. There is no *should* in being depressed, particularly if it's chronic.
Second, you can learn to think around it, but it's not something you can do on your own. I certainly couldn't. I needed the help and support of not just friends, but meds and doctors and counseling and support groups.
Hang in there, Nicole. You're pretty keen.
Dana