Don't Try Suicide
Yesterday, someone, near me took their life. I can't get that thought out of my mind. As I'm writing, I'm at my favorite coffee shop, observing others doing what ever it is they're doing. Some are working, others are sitting and chatting with friends. There's one group playing cards. Mostly they're smiling and laughing; But others have that "my brain is at hard at work" look, while others are involved in serious discussions with one another. The one thing they're all doing is living. And in the context of this post it all looks incredibly fucking precious.
I myself know the very real pain and hopelessness that can result from depression. I also know that feeling where you think it will never get better, so what's the point? But taking your life is never a solution, and there is ALWAYS someone you can turn to. Me, for example, but there are many, many others. You are cherished, and you are loved.
Suicide is never the answer.
The National Suicide Prevention Hotline is 1 (800) 273-8255. It is available 24-7. If you're in a place of darkness, I beg you to call.
Wednesday, September 25, 2019
Sunday, September 15, 2019
Number 56
Respect Your Depression/Anxiety
I'm not sure if a blog counts as a public journal or a private diary; so I'm not always sure who my audience is. It doesn't help my confusion when some of my posts read like public declarations and others feel extraordinarily personal. All in all it's not a huge issue for me, but it often crosses my mind when I sit down to write an entry. I bring it up now because today's topic deals with the struggle I have had in my life dealing with depression and anxiety. And while this is my own story; I know there are many of you out there facing the same challenge in your life. For you folks, hopefully my brain drippings will provide some (very) small measure of help.
I'm 53 years old. I no longer remember how old I was when I was when a physician first conferred upon me a diagnosis of depression. I do know, though, that I lived with depression for a long time before the diagnosis made it official. I got it naturally, I suppose (Thanks, Mom!), but that really doesn't matter in the long run. The important thing was acknowledging and accepting its presence in my life. Doing this allowed me to move forward with a new understanding of how the particular puzzle pieces of ME were put together. It's allowed me to greet depression and anxiety as an old acquaintances, as opposed to bitter adversaries.
I know that all sounds very pithy and concise, so let me assure you that the above paragraph is a heavily sanitized description of the way I was brutalized and battered by anxiety and depression for a big chunk of my life. Even after my diagnosis, it took a looooooong time (years? decades?) to figure out how to live with this stuff in my life. Heck, there are still plenty of days where depression and anxiety can get the better of me. What I finally realized, only recently, was the need for me to respect my depression and anxiety. It wasn't enough for me to just say that I had a "moderate mood disorder" or a "generalized anxiety disorder" - I had to figure out and acknowledge how those two things influenced my day to day life.
To my credit, I was very good at being public with my diagnoses. They were nothing to be ashamed of; and I figured my being open about them would help de-stigmtize the notion that depression somehow equaled insanity. It's all just funky brain chemistry, after all. I was very open about my need to take "my happy pills." I've been on many different ones, at a variety of different doses. Some worked and some didn't, and some worked for awhile and then stopped. Par for the course, really. What really made a difference was adding medications specific to treating anxiety.
But then I made my big mistake. I began to treat my depression and anxiety complacently. Yes I had them, but I was treating them, so all was good. Except it wasn't. My problem was one of lip-service. While I easily acknowledged that I had depression and anxiety, I never really calibrated their impact upon my life. In other words, I didn't respect their ability to play havoc with my mental health.
My days are mostly good, now. However there are definitely days where I can feel the dark clouds of depression and anxiety bearing down on me. But the trick now is for me to accept their presence, to talk to them and find out what they have on their minds. But yet again that sounds too pithy and and a little too antiseptically analytical. Because as I write this, I am experiencing one of my panic episodes, where it feels that my life will soon collapse like a house of cards. Living through these moments is tough - even with the insight I (claim) to possess. I suppose that's the bottom line to these ramblings: Living with these things is really fucking hard. Be kind to yourself.
I'm not sure if a blog counts as a public journal or a private diary; so I'm not always sure who my audience is. It doesn't help my confusion when some of my posts read like public declarations and others feel extraordinarily personal. All in all it's not a huge issue for me, but it often crosses my mind when I sit down to write an entry. I bring it up now because today's topic deals with the struggle I have had in my life dealing with depression and anxiety. And while this is my own story; I know there are many of you out there facing the same challenge in your life. For you folks, hopefully my brain drippings will provide some (very) small measure of help.
I'm 53 years old. I no longer remember how old I was when I was when a physician first conferred upon me a diagnosis of depression. I do know, though, that I lived with depression for a long time before the diagnosis made it official. I got it naturally, I suppose (Thanks, Mom!), but that really doesn't matter in the long run. The important thing was acknowledging and accepting its presence in my life. Doing this allowed me to move forward with a new understanding of how the particular puzzle pieces of ME were put together. It's allowed me to greet depression and anxiety as an old acquaintances, as opposed to bitter adversaries.
I know that all sounds very pithy and concise, so let me assure you that the above paragraph is a heavily sanitized description of the way I was brutalized and battered by anxiety and depression for a big chunk of my life. Even after my diagnosis, it took a looooooong time (years? decades?) to figure out how to live with this stuff in my life. Heck, there are still plenty of days where depression and anxiety can get the better of me. What I finally realized, only recently, was the need for me to respect my depression and anxiety. It wasn't enough for me to just say that I had a "moderate mood disorder" or a "generalized anxiety disorder" - I had to figure out and acknowledge how those two things influenced my day to day life.
To my credit, I was very good at being public with my diagnoses. They were nothing to be ashamed of; and I figured my being open about them would help de-stigmtize the notion that depression somehow equaled insanity. It's all just funky brain chemistry, after all. I was very open about my need to take "my happy pills." I've been on many different ones, at a variety of different doses. Some worked and some didn't, and some worked for awhile and then stopped. Par for the course, really. What really made a difference was adding medications specific to treating anxiety.
But then I made my big mistake. I began to treat my depression and anxiety complacently. Yes I had them, but I was treating them, so all was good. Except it wasn't. My problem was one of lip-service. While I easily acknowledged that I had depression and anxiety, I never really calibrated their impact upon my life. In other words, I didn't respect their ability to play havoc with my mental health.
My days are mostly good, now. However there are definitely days where I can feel the dark clouds of depression and anxiety bearing down on me. But the trick now is for me to accept their presence, to talk to them and find out what they have on their minds. But yet again that sounds too pithy and and a little too antiseptically analytical. Because as I write this, I am experiencing one of my panic episodes, where it feels that my life will soon collapse like a house of cards. Living through these moments is tough - even with the insight I (claim) to possess. I suppose that's the bottom line to these ramblings: Living with these things is really fucking hard. Be kind to yourself.
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