Not Waving but Drowning

Trying not to slide under the waves of depression.

Jeremy D. Nichols aka #1 Bronc

Aug 06, 2022

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Not Waving but Drowning

By Stevie Smith

Nobody heard him, the dead man,

But still he lay moaning:

I was much further out than you thought

And not waving but drowning.

Poor chap, he always loved larking

And now he’s dead

It must have been too cold for him his heart gave way,

They said.

Oh, no no no, it was too cold always

(Still the dead one lay moaning)

I was much too far out all my life

And not waving but drowning.

Source: New Selected Poems (New Directions Publishing Corporation, 1988)

Hey y’all,

I am not okay, and I have not been all right for some time. I am sorry that I have not written a post in over a month. But I’m in the kind of depression where I cannot reliably do even the activities of daily living consistently. I cannot even do things that I normally enjoy. I mean, I can’t even shop right now. It reeks of effort. I can’t leave the house unless I absolutely must. I can’t play Dungeons and Dragons with my friends on Zoom. I can barely watch tv—even shows that I am crazy about, like Better Call Saul. And I have isolated myself from everyone but Jennifer and the kitties. I know that I need my friends right now. I know that I need movement and fresh air. I know that I am not doing any of the things that might help me pull out of this current depression, but I’m exhausted from the last one.

The poem above is one of the great short lyric poems of the Twentieth Century. I feel like it really speaks to me right now. I feel like I’m drowning in the sea and that every time I thrash and struggle my way to the surface to get a breath depression pulls me down deep beneath the water before I can breathe. I struggle to hold my breath.

I am being pushed deeper and deeper. My lungs burn as I hold my breath. How long can I hold it?

I have never had a depression this deep that didn’t end in hospitalization. And I don’t know what to do to get myself out this time. To be fair, I never do. You would think that spending most of my adult life depressed would better prepare me for how to cope, but it’s always an unpleasant surprise. It’s like having an escape room for one in my head. I must solve a series of increasingly tedious puzzles in order to free myself. If you know me at all, you know that I abhor puzzles of any sort. Even when all the neurons in my brain are firing correctly. When my brain is like it is now, it feels impossible. I don’t know how I’m going to get out.

Let me just say that while I am exceedingly bleak right now, I am not a danger to myself or others. I don’t have any thoughts of self-harm. In fact, I’m very concious of the fragility of life and what a precious gift I’ve been given. In years past I would castigate myself for wasting that life, but lately I have tried to have more self-compassion—to remind myself that I have been fighting mental illnesses almost constantly for the last twenty-five years or so, and it’s worn me out. I’ve done my best. Maybe my life’s work is this struggle. I hope not, but reframing it in a way that doesn’t invole self-hatred is growth, I think. The fact is that I can almost never stitch together enough weeks of relatively normal moods to really work toward my goals and desires. The periods are so brief that I mostly just rest and recover from whatever nental health crisis that I just pulled out of. I’m tired, y’all.

I am in despair and I am so weary. I don’t know how long I can fight against the bipolar disorder that is trying to kill me. I truly fear for the future. We’re all about to live through contstant climate disasters and man-made crises, and I have no idea how I’m going to survive. I’m not a survivor type. I’m a lay down and give up type. I’ll make jokes while I sink down into the mire, but I know I won’t fight for my life. I’m a human Artax. I know this because I don’t fight for my life now. I have lived my life like I’m content to let entropy slowly me destroy me. I’m not happy about it, but it’s true. I know it’s just the depression talking, but I feel like I’m just waitin’ around to die.

I realize that I am very desolate right now and that this depression will eventually lift, but thank you for indulging me. This is not really a cry for help as much as it is me letting y’all know that I’m being pulled under the waves of depression. . . again.

I suppose that is a cry for help.

Thank you, as always, for reading.

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