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.
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...
I'm going to a party tomorrow evening. I hadn't even decided until about two days ago that I was for certain going to attend. More and more, I am finding big parties overwhelming. There is something seriously awesome about getting hugs from 45 people who actually recognize you at a party. And there is something depressing about the fact that less than 5% of those people actually know anything about me.
I think my distaste for parties comes from the fact that I tend to have the same experiences repeatedly. The cast of characters I seem to stumble upon has become more predictable than a Kate Hudson rom-com. Here's a short list you won't find on IMDB:
The Fucked Up Person: "So I was on nitrous the other night and I was looking at the popcorn ceiling in my friend's apartment and I thought WHOA. I wonder if that's what Mars looks like. Do you think they have popcorn on Mars?" This person will not wait for me to answer whether I think there is popcorn on Mars but will forge ahead tangentially until I "need to go to the bathroom." This person may or may not notice that I have left.
The Really Fucked Up Person: No quotes. Just saucer-sized pupils and incessant giggling. The upside is that it's easy to gracefully get away because they truly have no idea where they are or who you are.
The Too Much Information Person: "Yeah, so my roommate just up and moved out because of this wacko dominatrix she met on Craigslist. My rent is due in 3 days and I am B-R-O-K-E broke. I'm also super fucked up because I'm being hounded for this hospital bill from like 3 years ago when my boyfriend's cousin blew up his meth lab in his garage. It was so sick, but then like, I got sick. Hey, are you getting another beer?" This is all in response to the seemingly innocuous question of "How are you?"
The Looking For A Better Offer Person: This person will politely greet and hug you but it's tough not to be acutely aware that they are scanning the room for someone more interesting/hotter/selling drugs.
The Universer: Uses words like energy, vibration and aura. Is probably sporting a hula hoop like a purse. Believes "things happen for a reason" and that because it is so obviously true, you believe that as well. It is dangerous to engage this person in conversation because listening to them is like listening to a baby talk. There are sounds but none of it makes sense.
The Angry Guy: Cannot wait to tell you how such-and-such person(s) has fucked him over in infinite ways. Seems on the verge of knocking over a liquor store. Is on a personal mission to inform the entire community that Joe-Bob is an asshole without stopping realize that his personal mission more or less personifies him as an asshole as well.
The Perpetually Stoned: Conversation is usually impossible but they will offer you special cookies.
The Bad Parent: Tells you stories of how terrible their kids are and you inevitably wonder "What the fuck are you doing at a party? Why aren't you home teaching your kid not to be a psychopath?"
The Goo-goo Parent: Thinks EVERYONE cares that they have recently birthed a human being. Believes that pictures of recently hatched human being supercede all else. Will whip out small person photos despite the thumping music and black lights. You point out that their baby has horns but they cannot hear you.
The Old Hippie: Starts most conversations with "Remember when..." or "Did you hear about when we..." Usually has a collection of Natty Ice cans around their feet and probably half a doobie clenched tightly in hands that have never seen anti-bacterial soap.
The Creepy Guy: Will hit on anything that *may* have a vagina. Is occasionally wrong. Breathes on you and has no concept of personal space. Tries to flirt but leaves you feeling sexually harassed and wondering if the party has an HR department.
The Party Swingers: Probably not actual swingers, but often have no boundaries at parties. Prefer to ask forgiveness rather than permission. Will probably fight at some point during the evening and create awkward situations by asking party-goers to choose sides. Often resort to such tried-and-true tactics as making out with the partner's arch enemy. Will probably have nasty make-up sex in your bathroom. Put out some extra towels.
Lest you think I am the penultimate elitist wet blanket, I have occasionally BEEN some of these people. I am most certainly not immune to being annoying or getting fucked up. But the parties are frequent and I admit to being bored with all the nodding and smiling. I also tend to reserve my alcohol-fueled brilliance for small gatherings.
Predictable caricatures aside, I will don my party smile and do my best to enjoy the interesting and ignore the annoying.
Party on, Wayne.
It's my absolute favorite time of year. Halloween is around the corner and I love the promise of cooler days, snuggling under warm blankets and having an excuse to bake. Unfortunately, it's the time of year I seem to be most prone to depression and anxiety.
I've long tried to figure out why but have yet to discover why my favorite season seems to summon depression like fleas on a cat.
That's the I-don't-know-why piece of my regularly scheduled melancholia. The I-do-know-why piece is that the season holds a rather unpleasant anniversary for me. It's been almost two years since That Day. With as many tears I've shed, hours spent in my therapist's office, and uncountable conversations, you'd think I could just move forward along my merry way.
Sadly, grief doesn't work that way. I have forgiven (to the best of my ability which is not completely) but I haven't forgotten. I still get angry. I still feel betrayed. I still ask myself if reconciliation was the right option. Unflatteringly, I still entertain thoughts of revenge. I still suffer from the insecurities of wondering if I am truly "good enough."
I remind myself that everyone makes mistakes and try to ignore the voice in my head that counters with "But, how does one make THAT mistake?" I remember the bond that brought us together before and the bond we've fought so hard for since. I try to push the images out of my head that have haunted me for two years.
The others involved are still in my life but the bonds have faded which somehow makes "the incident" seem all the more pointless.
I find it much easier to feel hope and optimism when I'm not so close to That Day.
I am currently on a break from Facebook. I spontaneously decided on Wednesday that I would take a week off from reading or posting. Why, oh why, you ask, have I chosen to teeter on that cliff of social and cultural relevance?
There are a couple of reasons.
It is, as you all probably know, a colossal time waster. I get a number of fascinating work related articles and I put off reading them because I am watching a video of a cat in a bag. One cat in a bag video is fine. Five is questionable.
It has felt increasingly superficial and narcissistic lately. Granted, I knew it was the pinnacle of narcissism when I opened my account but lately it's felt that way on levels that would give even Charlie Sheen pause. People who I meet once at an event send me a friend request and then never speak to me again. Instead, we go on wordlessly observing each other's lives until I inevitably hide them because they are A) annoying or B) annoying and forget they exist. People I went to high school with send me friend requests without even so much as a "Hi! We went to high school together and passed notes during Basketweaving Class. How are you?". Same conclusion with random event people. And oddly enough, I get requests from people I BARELY SPOKE TO IN HIGH SCHOOL. Why are you friending me now? What is the point? Are people really feeling internally validated by the number of friends on their pages? (And the answer is yes. I was so that person when I had 20 friends. Sue me.)
The third reason is somewhat difficult to articulate. Inexplicably, I feel left out of things even when I've been invited to them. I actively choose not to go and do something I would rather do instead (which is usually a big fat nothing) but later feel a sense of wistfulness. Logically I know I probably didn't miss anything awesome, but still... And the cake topper on that one is when I see friends who've gotten together without me and I feel like the dorky second grader eating lunch by herself. The really stupid part is... I do this too. So why does it bug me when other people do it? If only it were the 80's and I could go on Sally Jesse Raphael to figure this out. The red glasses knew all.
I've decided that too much awareness is a bad thing. At least for now until I can stop being all tween-y about it.
I will mostly likely resume my Facebooking at some point. But it will probably be with the same restraint I reserve for nutritionally void foods.
By the way, I had oatmeal for breakfast. I thought someone should know.
Nearly every little girl dreams of getting married. And when it finally happens, it's a whirlwind of rosettes, table settings and starvation so the boning in the dress doesn't squeeze a rib out. There are dreams of a nice home, date nights at a local winery, and offspring (or pets). When I was engaged, I suddenly developed wedding ring radar. Within about 10 seconds, I could tell you if our waiter, gas station attendant or mechanic were married. I studiously observed other couples at restaurants. I wondered if they knew "the secret" to being happily married. I wondered constantly what it was like to be married and also wondered if I (or we) had the chops to make it work.
When I thought about what the bumps would be, I sort of imagined that it would be me picking up Edward's socks and shaking my head with a knowing smile as the camera went in for a tight shot and the 50's housewife music implied that picking up dirty socks is actually a pastime of mine.
What nobody told me is that marriage is hard. Really hard. And that eventually, I would wonder about the structural integrity of those socks and whether they could be used to strangle a spouse. This was shocking.
Murder was not part of the plan. Determining what my specialty would be in a circus act so I could actually run away was not part of the plan. Crying in the shower, breaking my favorite coffee mug, and emptying half a box of tissues in one sitting were not part of the plan.
Where were my dirty socks?!?!?! I wanted a refund.
There have been times in Edward's and my relationship when I truly thought our marriage was over. This was especially true in the beginning. We would have a massive fight complete with yelling, door slamming and if we were really going to the top, somebody would pack a bag. Because how do you recover from that? How do you return to status quo after going after each other like vicious roosters?
These instances were WAY beyond flowers, chocolate or wine. If Edward had tried to fix things with a pretty bouquet, I probably would have been inclined to bathe them in bleach or run them over with my car. FLOWERS. Flowers. After he accused me of all those things. The nerve.
THIS is the dirty little secret about relationships. This is not what your mom whispers in your ear right before you walk down the aisle (although perhaps she should). This is also the point where many people decide that enough is enough and walk away.
Neither Edward nor I grew up in peaceful homes. We were both children of divorce and we both lived in particularly volatile home environments. I honestly can't tell if you if our parents' marriages would have worked if there had been more apologies, more contrition and more willingness to work on personal issues. I don't know. Some people just shouldn't be together.
What I do know is that a lot of people hit that wall... that terrible nasty wall covered in spikes, sarcasm, and already chewed gum. They do not see a way around that wall usually because they "haven't done anything wrong." And so relationships disintegrate.
The reality I stumbled upon like a giant hairy spider in the bathtub is that marriages are MESSY. There will be broken hearts, metaphorical blood, sticky ectoplasm, and a general disarray that cannot be cleaned with any type of Oxy or Sham-Wow product. And the icing on the cake is that cleaning up is a bitch.
I don't know if it's possible to adequately explain all of this to bright and shiny newlyweds. Even if you could articulate it, I suspect it would fall on deaf ears. It's easy to get lost in cake tastings, dress fittings and the knowledge that you will never have to attend another fucking office party ALONE.
In some ways, I feel like the grizzled-missing-a-limb veteran chain smoking in the corner watching the bunny-ear-wearing "freedom fighters" camping on Wall Street. It all seems so ridiculous when you look at the big picture (or compare "the war on the middle class" to the war that took place in the tunnels of Vietnam).
Edward's and my marriage is considerably different now than it was umpteen years ago. There is much less door slamming and yelling. We usually manage to find our way to the couch so that we can at least argue sitting down. We don't always agree on how things went down or if things that were said were inappropriate, but it is far closer to what I imagine "adult conversation" to be. If we really get stuck, I take the issue to my therapist or we go together. We have learned to agree to disagree. And as unsatisfying as it often is, it beats haranguing each other for being "wrong."
He also doesn't really wear socks anymore. Perhaps this was a smart move.
The only certainties in life are death and taxes (and you can get around that second one if you're careful). So, how do we determine that a person is *safe*? Not safe as in being sure that person will not boil your bunny, sell your Grandma's ring for the-most-awesome-phone-yo, or volunteer to house-sit as a cover for a designer drug operation.
No. I mean "safe", as in they will keep your cherished secrets, not judge you when they totally should (because that was a pretty awful thing you did), or MAYBE (given the "right" circumstances), help you hide a body.... or a body part.
I consider myself a decent judge of character but have become decidedly more suspicious in my bronze years (we aren't quite to golden yet). As much as I *want* to believe that most people are good, the pragmatic part of my brain remains guarded. My armored heart is as much from suspicion as it is from just plain 'ole getting stomped on.
I have observed that the majority of people whom I encounter and might possibly start a friendship are either A) selfish or B) lack sufficient coping skills.
The Selfish are generally emotional politicians. They hang around long enough to see what you can offer but when push comes to shove, they quickly bail and catch the next possible coat-tail. Unfortunately, they are generally gregarious folk who are fun, vivacious, and suck you in like an infomercial. It's easy to tell when you've been targeted because you find yourself short on cash, energy, and Facebook friends but you do have a closet full of Mary Kay, wrapping paper, and broken promises.
The Coping Retarded are another breed entirely. I understand these folks rather well because I used to be one (and on really bad days, I fall right back in line with them). CR's usually have decent intentions but lack the coping skills to problem solve, diffuse conflict and often jump to ridiculous fucking conclusions. Their coping skills are... well... retarded. CR's are generally drama queens, codependent, and keep a watchful eye out for those who are just waiting to screw them (which is pretty much everybody).
I used to wonder why I had the worst luck with friends. And I became more confused upon hearing so many other women complain about friends. I couldn't figure out why we were all pissing in each other's Cheerios. Simply declaring that people suck wasn't good enough. It's general, lacks explanation, and doesn't lend itself to any type of resolution. To an observer of human behavior coupled with a pathological need for reason, this was wholly unsatisfying.
Lumping folks into the Red Robin or Blue Bird groups is somewhat satisfying. I keep my distance from The Selfish and politic only the necessary amount. I feel empathy for the Coping Retarded and this helps me not mail them anthrax. (I still think about it but don't actually purchase the baby powder anymore.)
I wish I could say that I have a foolproof vetting process. I don't. I use my wicked observational skills, intuition (this is about as accurate as a weather forecast in the Midwest), and I give a friendship some time before purchasing the BFF necklaces.
Cheers to grown up friendships, good decisions, and a *little* bit of baby powder in my bathroom closet...
