Sometimes the depression I deal with is so crippling that I can just stare at a computer screen, know that I have at least a dozen things to do, and not be able to bring myself to do any of them. In many instances, I’d rather go lie down and curl up into a ball, ignoring all responsibilities I have in life, including my children.
That said, none of my children will ever go hungry or sit in a filthy diaper more than a minute or two past the time of its discovery, but it’s often their need of me that keeps me going, and little else. It’s like that with a number of things in my life; it’s not about what I need, but if someone else needs me, that gives me the drive to keep going. If I can be there for someone else, that’s enough for me. That’s probably why school and my business are great for me; they distract me and keep me going when I wouldn’t have the drive to do so otherwise. But sometimes, those distractions aren’t always enough.
Now, anyone may look at my Facebook, Twitter, or any of the social media platforms I’m a part of and say, “Wait, she looks happy. This isn’t the face or life of someone who is depressed.” But therein lays the myth. Depression isn’t about being sad or mopey all the time, though I do have those moments.
The National Institute of Mental Health (or NIMH) characterizes depression by “a combination of symptoms that interfere with a person’s ability to work, sleep, study, eat, and enjoy once-pleasurable activities. Major depression is disabling and prevents a person from functioning normally. Some people may experience only a single episode within their lifetime, but more often a person may have multiple episodes.”
What I’m experiencing currently has been off and on now for about the past two years or so. There are days when I’m fine and perfectly content and able to be “normal,” and then there are days like today where I was out with my kids, met a couple friends, and everything was great…and then I came home, and I almost couldn’t function anymore. I just wanted to lie down and do nothing but swim inside my own head.
At this point, some readers might be wondering why I’m writing about this and whether or not I’ve sought out therapy. Well, I’m writing this because writing serves as its own form of therapy where I’m concerned. As far as regular therapy goes, I really don’t have the time for it. That’s not an excuse, but a legitimate truth. Perhaps I may have time this summer, but then that brings in the lack of funds for something like that. I’m not against therapy, and I’ve even enjoyed it in the past. I just don’t know that it’s worth it for me, and I don’t really have the support system to foster any positive changes or plausible long-term goals. Perhaps those do seem like excuses to someone who doesn’t know me, but this isn’t about persuading anyone. It’s just me, getting things out of my head and writing about it.
I operate fairly well under moderate amounts of stress. I’d even go so far as to say that stress is a positive driving force in my life. However, within these past two years, the stresses in my life just keep piling up. I’m not going to break into a tangent with my sob story, but let’s just say it’d be difficult to top it—though it isn’t out of the realm of possibility that it could still get worse. Much, much worse.
I think I’ve already digressed enough at this point, but the deep breath I was able to take just now is more than enough to justify this entire writing, though that doesn’t mean it will be read by anyone. And maybe that’s a good thing.
Written by Kat 