These days I struggle to live even the bare minimum. Perhaps struggle is not the right word. This is the Dictionary.com definition of struggle:
I suppose I contend with an adversary or opposing force; unfortunately, that opposing force is depression. Am I contending resolutely? I reckon that is the real question. I think that I used to grapple with depression, battle depression, and yes struggle with depression. This particular depression came on so gradually that I did not notice I was even in it until I found myself in the very trough. Through involuntary flailing, I have somehow ended up rising slightly above the trough.
This time around I feel unable to fight against depression. I feel demoralized, dejected, and defeated. And this defeat came without a fight of any sort. (Apart from the involuntary flailing). I find myself in a deep hole with no tools save a well-worn spade and a battered megaphone. Do I keep digging or do I cry for help?
I suppose I should cry for help. <insert shrug emoji here> I have told those closest to me that I am in a depression. I have told my therapist and primary care physician. And now I’m telling y’all. I have avoided telling social media that I am depressed because I am unwilling to have people offer to pray for me (an act that is both pernicious and useless) or try to thrust some home remedy or other advice on me. The last time that I was depressed, I made a TikTok diary that I shared on Facebook and Instagram. I feel like that was an error. Though I have no evidence, I feel as though making that video diary extended the depression by several days, even weeks. Or maybe it just made me hyperaware of my mood. Either way, it took facing my mortality to fling me out of that particular depression. I would like to get out of this one without being poisoned by any of the dozen or so medications that I take.
Like every other time I have been depressed, I have some idea of how I got here, but no idea how I will find myself back to “normal”. One day I wake up and realize that even though I overslept, I am still tired enough to sleep for several more hours. My activities of daily living (which I backslide on even when I am not depressed) are quickly forgotten. Feeding myself and Jennifer, normally a pleasurable task, becomes a tiresome drudge. Same with personal hygiene. I usually enjoy being clean, but when I get depressed I just don’t give a damn.
As for keeping the house clean—I cannot stand to do that even when I’m manic. The urge to deep clean when manic is a common behavior of folks with bipolar disorder that has skipped me entirely. It’s not that I have no urge to bring order whilst in the grip of mania; that manic energy is instead spent obsessively reorganizing kitchen cabinets and desk drawers, building playlists or otherwise fiddling with iTunes/Apple Music, optimizing storage on my computers and other electronic devices for hours upon end, writing three pages of a screenplay or novel before beginning ten more—that I write only three pages of (obviously), and making lofty plans about what I am going to do when I win the billion dollar lottery, become a famous actor/writer/standup comedian/dread pirate, etc. Notice that my plans never include how these occupations will ever become mine—those tedious details and processes are far too mundane and not grandiose enough to hold my interest. Also, I don’t want to forget that important part of a manic episode—jawing at my friends and family about my ideas and plans so ardently and quickly that they cannot get in a word edgewise. If I let them talk, they will harsh my high and try to talk me down to reality, and I ain’t got time for that—NOSIREEBOB! I’ve got castles and pirate ships to build in the sky. I have imaginary money to spend on supercars, chateaux in France, the finest food—also in France, new teeth to eat that food with, bespoke clothing from Saville Row, those handmade Belgian loafers that Michael Jackson and Bernie Madoff made famous, etc. I have less selfish fantasies like paying off the mortgages and car notes of all my loved ones who own homes and cars and buying homes and cars for those who don’t. Paying off or picking up the medical bills of everyone I love. Donating tons of money to animal rescues and housing the unhoused. Thank you for taking a little trip to “The Land of Manic Make-Believe” with me. My original point was that I hate house cleaning even with an elevated mood and when depressed I lose what little executive function I have and my house begins to look like the beginnings of a hoarder house. Which only exacerbates my already low mood. Below is an actual picture of where the couch is in the office where I am writing this post. I think that I may have a problem:
I would almost rather post a nude picture of myself here than post the above picture.
Almost.
That is how ashamed I am of my inability to keep tidy. I am not even sure why I am showing y’all this at all. I doubt that more shame will motivate me to get my office cleaned up, but I want y’all to know what I’m dealing with here. I know that the clutter is depressing my mood further, but I have no energy to rectify it. When I get tiny microbursts of inspiration to clean, I use that energy to tidy small bits of the common areas of the apartment. And even after doing that, I would be too ashamed to have company see the mess. I should try to be gentle with myself when it comes to the cleanliness of my home, but my self-talk is truly toxic. Is this toxicity helping me? Of course not. But it feels better to punish myself than to have a little grace about things that I do struggle with like completing chores or as KC Davis calls them care tasks. I have read her book, How to Keep House While Drowning: A Gentle Approach to Cleaning and Organizing, and watched many of her TikToks about how keeping a clean house does not make one morally superior and conversely that having a dirty house does not mean that one is morally bankrupt. Cleanliness should be morally neutral. Tidyness is only a way to make one’s home more functional. I understand all of this intellectually, but I still feel like a bad person for having an untidy home. I may have left the church many years ago, but the fire and brimstone I was taught there are rooted deep in my psyche. Twenty-plus years of therapy and atheism have yet to purge this religious poison out of my mind. Maybe it will always be there. Who can say? All I know is that l need my home to be more functional, and I just don’t have the spare energy to make it that way. Nor do I have the money to throw at the situation. So for now, I live in disarray.
It is not just my activities of daily living that have suffered. My lousy mood and heightened irritability became so noticeable at work that my clients spoke to my boss about it. I was not in trouble, but I could tell that my boss was disappointed. Not as much as I am disappointed in me, but disappointed nonetheless.
I took this reprimand as a reminder to tie the old “I’m okay” mask on good and tight.
As the lyrics to Nuxx’s massive 90s club hit “Born Slippy” say:
Let your feelings slip boy
But never your mask boy
I know that part of why I am so exhausted on my days off is because of the masking that I am required to do to maintain gainful employment. I cannot slip up in this area of my life any further. I must maintain a calm and capable persona at all costs. I know this, but it is so tiring. So tiring that I find myself unable to even go to do my internship hours.
NEWS:
I just found out that I was terminated from my CRSS internship.
I am so relieved.
One of many reasons that I have been in such a dark depression is because of my internship. Without getting into details, it was an incredibly disappointing experience. Hopefully, I will be able to complete my hours at a place that is a better fit. One day when I am employed as a Certified Recovery Support Specialist I will tell y’all all about my first internship. But until then, I’m going to wrap this post up. I still want to do at least some of my goals. The next post will be all about them. One of those goals is off the table for now. Jennifer and I decided to give our bicycle away to a refugee family—members of the family can work making deliveries now.
I don’t see myself buying a new bike any time soon, so we will consider the goal to:
2. Ride my bike at least one mile.
officially off the table.
Thank you for letting me pule about my current depressive state. I am climbing out of the hole. Slowly, but still climbing. Even if my climbing is more like involuntary flailing, I am rising nevertheless.
Thank you, as always, for reading.
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you're not alone with these feelings! i do also want to say that, for me, one sentence from kc davis is what has stuck with me almost as a mantra: "anything worth doing is worth half assing." not just not judging yourself for falling behind -- believe me, i really understand this -- but also being actively pleased with having a cleared corner of your desk or two clean plates or a bowl of instant ramen. giving yourself that better situation for functioning, not because it looks a certain way. it's always a struggle but this has helped me over a year or two of thinking about it and working on it. my apartment is a mess right now!
i am glad you shared the picture of the office because seeing the welsh flag made me happy <3
good luck getting through this xx