Paranoia Doesn't Mean I'm Not Right

Before I checked myself into the psych hospital at the tail edges of my little meltdown/nervous breakdown, I let a few people know so they wouldn't worry. Among the people I told was a man who I report to for my favorite part-time job, the man who talked me into this job. His email reply was short, but supportive.

I emailed him when I got out, mentioning how I'd not done well on the job before I went in and wondering what he wanted to do about that. He usually emails me or calls me a lot during a week just to keep me up to date and to keep in touch.

I've had one text message, basically the same as the one he sent before I went in. And that's it. According to another member of the team, this man who supported me seems to have the same phobia that another good friend of mine (same age cohort as the man with the job): a fear that people with "mental illness" are never as stable or dependable as "normal, healthy" people and as such should be avoided as employees. At least, that's my fear and my current perception of this situation. 

And this situation and these reactions, ladies, gentlemen, and others, are why I choose to make this blog as anonymous as is reasonable and why I have not told my more stable job about it. I'm paranoid, but not a complete idiot. Just a partial one with a lazy streak.

Pecked to Death By Chickens

A good friend of mine has a plaque on one of the walls of her house that says "Having children is like being pecked to death by chickens." (The sign hasn't seemed to have done any lasting harm to her children.) They all understood the concept: they had chickens.

Readers of this blog have some idea of how my life has gone in the past year and some. I haven't blogged much in the last couple of months, what with dealing with the estate, having surgery, finding work that is low-paying but gratifying (and anxiety-producing), and now getting a fairly solid respiratory infection that may have also endangered or even ended another work situation before it started. In fact, it feels a lot like being pecked to death by chickens, Universe-style.

I'm just trying to make progress. All I want is a life of health, financial stability, and the chance to pursue my happiness and my dreams. Given all my fortunate advantages — white, from a middle-class family, well-educated, and highly experienced in my field of endeavor — getting the life I want shouldn't be so hard. But every time I think I have my feet under me, things beyond my control knock them out from under me again: Mom, overwhelming grief and depression, unemployment, emergency surgery for god's sake!, illness, and timing.

Good things have happened: friends have helped and supported me in some places, I found a great therapist (and a mediocre psychiatric nurse), I got the one project. I know that life is hard. I also know that life was simpler and easier for my parents; it wasn't a painful struggle. We were all very happy and content (until my dad died and our lives completely fell apart, but that's a separate story). I just think that continually having to try and shovel myself out of a hole full of mud is harder than it needs to be. Add to that the continuous and uneven peck-peck-peck of my life's disasters — small and large — prevents me from making progress. And it wears me out completely.

You'll notice I haven't given up. I keep trying through some, potentially foolish, belief that I can grasp that life I want, one where I can withstand the difficulties because I have enough of the good to cushion my falls. Or maybe I keep on because, really, what else is there to do?

Only keep trying to dig myself out of the mud and avoid the damned chickens at the same time.

I'm not that fond of chicken.

Life Changer

"Depression is a lifelong, chronic condition, and it needs to be maintained like any other disease." Catherine Winters

A "lifelong, chronic condition." "Like any other disease." 

Oh my fucking god. No one has ever expressed this concept to me. All these years, depression has been something that happened to me, or that I let happen by not stopping it in time. It was something that came and went, often for no discernible reason. And I've always wondered why it keeps happening to me. Why do I keep getting depressed?

Because clinical depression is a chronic condition, like my fibromyalgia. Neither of them currently has a cure or even a known cause, just surmises and theories. But the depression, like the fibromyalgia, needs to be treated and I need to stay on top of things that may trigger an event. Looking at it this way, I can handle it. 

I know how to handle my fibro (and I haven't been doing so well, but I think the heat and sun are providing balance against the lack of exercise), and I have to take a regular med to keep it under control. I know the warning signs of a fibro event (and I am thankful that I haven't had a major one in years). If I can stay on top of the fibro, I can stay on top of the depression. (You have no idea how difficult it was to type that sentence without any modifiers such as "I think I can stay on top" or "I can probably/most likely" stay on top.)

For example, if I overexert myself, do something physical enough to cause extreme fatigue, then I will suffer from this fatigue for a few days. I know that fibro makes me become more tired faster than other people, and it takes me much longer to recover from fatigue. Strong emotional events or highly stimulating events (such as going to a crowded festival or concert) have similar effects. And if I keep going and don't attend to my health needs and the signs from the fibro, I could end up in bed for days and barely able to move for weeks.

So how does this translate to the chronic condition of depression? Well, I didn't have a lot of options this last time, what with grief and exhaustion and all that I had to do. I got hit with a sledgehammer and there was no way around it. But I'm coming out of it, here and there, so I have the opportunity and the mental and physical capacity to examine this condition and learn how to keep it under control in the present and the future.

Like with the fibro, keeping myself healthy will have the greatest benefit for my mental condition. If I eat well, I'll have all the right nutrients and chemicals roaming around in my body and brain. If I exercise regularly (take walks, do a few body strengthening exercises, do some yoga), I'll get endorphins and keep the fibro pain down — pain can trigger depression, which is why fibro and depression are such close companions. And probably one of the most important factors in controlling the depression: do what I love to do. Write. Draw. Make things. Play. Dance. Maybe the effort it takes to completely inhibit my creative aspect causes depression because it takes so damned much mental energy!

There. This whole idea is going to roll around in my mind for weeks now. Always before when I've been told ways to get out of depression, it seemed like guessing. And besides, it always came back. Well now I see it from a new perspective and suddenly everything looks different. As a visual person, I can tell you everything literally looks different. As a tactile/kinesthetic person, I can also assure it that it all feels different, too, as if the texture of everything around me — even the air — has changed.

I'll probably go on about this in the near future. A lot. So you've been duly warned. Now I need to go watch the marbles roll around inside my skull.