-the tunnel-

It’s been the better part of the last 5 years that I have felt like this – a cycle of ups and extreme downs. Sometimes, it happens gradually; I call it the “D”.

Darkness. Depression. Despair.

In our culture (and maybe moreso in these hateful times), depression has become ubiquitous.

Everyone has gone through their own intense period of sadness – it spins creative art, it drives others to their doom; it’s what your irritating next-door neighbor and your gregarious high school crush have in common.

But even with all the public awareness campaigns and (surprisingly) open-minded personal accounts of those coming forward to share their stories, people in the grip of depression still know. It doesn’t matter.

I cannot tell you how isolating “D” is, but it’s been beautifully depicted here and here.

Everything is muted. For me, everything slows to a crawl. I have had days I wake up and stare at the ceiling, thinking how difficult it is to put my left foot- then right foot- on the ground. To take a bath. To brave the commute. I don’t feel sad… I just feel empty.

My thoughts slow down. Every word out of my mouth is a struggle. A complete sentence is a celebration in itself. My writing is non-existent (as you can see from the absences in my blog).

My thoughts are on a continuous barrage of self-deprecating scripts – how unworthy I am, how I continually f*ck up all the chances given me, how fat/ugly I have let myself become, how my patients don’t deserve me, how I have made the worst major life decisions so far, how pitiful my future children would be (to get a mother as mentally unstable as I).

Yes, “D” has far-reaching claws.

I know when I’m like this, I need to spend one day just to disengage – I unplug, I absent myself from any social event (even to the point of ignoring my partner’s calls).

Isolation feels comforting, it is the only thing that soothes, that lulls. But it is also the act that disables the very thing you need to stop the cycle.

This is the danger of “D.” It tells you…nay, screams at you… how alone you are.

Some days, I force myself to write. My writings when I am in dark periods are voluminous and revealing, terrifying in its savagery and self-hatred but heartbreakingly honest.

I’ve sought professional help for the past 2 years. None have really worked and I don’t want to try medications.

I try to apply the salve I crave when I get like this – I “go through the archives.” What has surfaced again and again is Fear and a deep sense of “Not Enough.”

To get at and to overcome this shame and self-hatred will hopefully be my purpose for the next few months. Too much is happening in my life, too much that demands my presence – and “D” holds me back.

I cannot allow it to do that anymore… too much is at stake.

My spirit, my sanity, my light.

I was trolling articles from KateC and Book of Life once more. This hit the spot tonight:

“We cannot stop the attacks of the world, but we can – through an exploration of our histories – change what they mean to us.

We can take measures to expose ourselves to the gaze of friends or, more ideally, of a talented therapist who can hold up a more benign mirror and teach us a lesson that should have been gifted us from the start; that like every human, whatever our flaws, we deserve to be here.”

From http://www.thebookoflife.org/criticism-when-youve-had-a-bad-childhood/

I wonder how many suicide success stories would have been averted had someone made them realize this: We ALL deserve to be here.

No conditions necessary. No checkboxes to check for us to deserve our life, to deserve to keep living.

Our very humanness is proof.