Depression Rules

Depression is an evil mistress that can manifest itself in seemingly insignificant ways all the way up the Blues Grande which generally involves unwashed hair and boatloads of shame.  It can be ninja sneaky or it can arrive with the fanfare of the histrionic aunt who arrives at Thanksgiving and does not shut up.  Ever.  


As difficult it is for me to get a lasso around these slippery devils, I know it's arguably even more difficult to watch someone you love get sucked into the Hole of Gloom.  So, this is a survival guide of sorts.  Some rules of engagement for interacting with, loving, and tolerating your very own Daria...  


1. Being codependent just makes it worse.  While I get that it comes from a place of love and concern, I already feel like a loser because I can't just "fix it" and then I feel even worse because it's affecting you so profoundly as well.  After while, I feel pissy about the repeated queries of whether I'm okay.  NO.  I'm not.  But THAT is okay.  You being unhealthy while I'm already unhealthy is adding emotional food poisoning to an already terrible meal.


2. You can't fix it.  No matter how much you want to.        


3. It's helpful to remember that depression doesn't tend to have a short shelf life.  It generally arrives for a sizeable visit and asking me 8 hours later if I'm "still depressed" makes me want to throw the newest (and largest) edition of The Diagnostic and Statistical Manual of Mental Disorders at you.  I would be willing to open a Twitter account so I could tweet the exact moment I feel better in order to avoid this.    


4. You still can't fix it.  You can bring me flowers, chocolate and coloring books.  And while those may lift my spirits temporarily, sugar cannot fix a chemical imbalance.  If it could, Betty Crocker would have changed her business plan years ago.  


5. Please don't tell me what I *should* do.  If ground up newt genitals could cure depression, I would have my own newt farm in the backyard.  Trust that I've investigated the plethora of options and am doing what I feel is best.  


6. Learn what depression really is.  A somewhat depressed person may kill you for telling him or her to "cheer up."  If you must dole out this intensely ridiculous advice, find a very depressed person as they will not have the energy to inflict bodily harm.  Probably.  (And consider whether you would suggest to a diabetic that they learn "how to process insulin better.")     


7. You still can't fix it.  But I love you for wanting to.


8. I rationally get that completing a small list of relatively easy tasks isn't a massive to-do list, but even the smallest of things can seem insurmountable.  Trying to "understand" why we're overwhelmed isn't probably terribly productive for either of us.  And usually, you want to understand so you can fix.  But as we've briefly discussed, you cannot.  


9. This doesn't end.  The light of the end of the tunnel could be daylight or it could be another train.  I know this.  You should also know this.  Just as a diabetic's pancreas won't fix itself, my brain won't either.  And if you suggest I "work on being more positive", I will add shanking you to my small list of easy tasks.


10. As unsatisfying as it is, there often isn't a why.  As much as I WANT to be a logical mass of neurons, I'm not.  So when you ask me why I'm depressed, I feel compelled to find a reason even if there isn't one.  The fact that it exists without rhyme or reason is more frustrating to me than it is to you.  And would if I could, I'd get you a little shot glass of it so you could have a small taste of my What-The-Fuck juice.


11.  You can't fix it.  


12. Nope.  

        

Miss Communication

My first memory is hiding in the kitchen pantry while my mother and father screamed at each other.  My second memory is following my mom around the house while she piled things into cardboard boxes as she moved out.  


So, it's shocking to no one that loud argumentative voices make me cringe (and that is the best case scenario - don't ask about the worst).  This has presented a repetitive issue in Edward's and my marriage.  He is, by nature, a loud person.  He raises his voice excitedly, gesticulates wildly, and at times, seems larger than life (especially after a shot or three of bourbon).  This is, admittedly, one of the reasons I love him.  


However, the flip side of his sideshow personality is that he tends to raise his voice when we argue.  It doesn't take a Freudian to figure out where that comes from...  his dad is very similar and likes to win arguments by being louder (and of course, he's always right).  And to his credit, he has eradicated much of that "gift" from his father.  


I, on the other hand, unwillingly and indisputably turn 5 years old again when he raises he voice.  I realized recently that this trigger goes a lot deeper than even *I* realized.  


I recognize cognitively that a raised voice isn't in and of itself "bad", per se.  Unfortunately, this logic goes completely out the window and is replaced by a visceral reaction complete with tears, snot, and a generous helping of defensiveness.  


In that stupid single moment when Edward gets emotional and raises his voice, I completely forget that I am a rather functional adult with a whole arsenal of coping skills.  Instead, I turn into a fearful child on the verge of tears who has no idea how to defend herself in the bad scary world.  


This is fucking annoying.     


And of top of being annoying, it has produced something of a stalemate between Edward and myself.  I think raising one's voice during an argument is inappropriate.  He thinks it facilitates communication.  I react poorly to it and often find it nearly impossible to have a logical adult conversation, which is frustrating for him.  It has been easy to blame him for my re-activeness and disagreements between us often turn into a grand royale clusterfuck with cheese.   


Recently, I took this issue to my therapist in hopes of finding a happy medium-ish.  As we were discussing the dive into emotional oatmeal my brain takes during an argument, I was struck by a sudden vision of my 5 year old self cowering while my rather tall father yelled at me with his booming voice that seemed to carry for miles.  Immediately, I realized that is the manifestation of the aforementioned emotional oatmeal.  And, suddenly I understood the reason I get flooded so easily when we disagree.  


I'm going to need a bigger suitcase for my Daddy issues...