We Never Talk About It

i don’t remember exactly what form it took. could have been a facebook post or a result of some random clicking, but I do recall (very clearly) the impact it had on me. there has been a shift towards campaigns that acknowledge mental health (and illness) and the intended result is to destigmatize this illness and to empower people to realize it is ok (and necessary) to reach out for help. basically this notice that I saw said that depression is a form of brain damage and this hit me like a load of bricks. brain damage. ouch.

i had heard the analogy that if you broke your arm you wouldn’t feel guilty or embarrassed about having to go the hospital to get it fixed. but this metaphor never cut it for me. having an arm broken is something that happens to you externally, is healed and goes back to normal. and it’s a straightforward affair. either you have broken your arm or you haven’t. i feel absolutely positive that no one has broken their arm and spent a decade of their life wondering if it was in fact broken or not. and so long as you do in fact get help, there is one fairly simple and straightforward way of fixing it. i couldn’t really think of anything less similar to depression than a broken arm

i find the language surrounding depression routinely simplified and insensitive considering the people it is talking to. i spent much of life with the question wavering in and out of my conscious mind- am i depressed? eventually the self evidence of it led to a more direct question-what are you going to do about it? and while i tried to be gentle, patient and compassionate enough with myself while i found these answers (while simultaneously coming in and out of the anxiety stress and depression I was trying to decide how to cope with) i got told very bluntly that what i was dealing with was brain damage. my worst fear confirmed-i was broken. and not my bones, but the very thing fueling my intellect, my emotions, and my personality. breaking an arm was akin to a computer problem that could be solved by pushing the restart button. but brain damage? that felt like i’d just poured water on the whole entire motherboard.

i worked with children on the autism spectrum and the more i learned about and experienced this disability the more I saw the traits in myself and others. i often contemplated what the value of receiving an official diagnosis of something was. did it empower? did it become a self fulfilling prophecy? did it damage? it didn’t help that my acute self-awareness mixed dangerously with a neurotic tendency to self prescribe myself as having several mental illnesses without knowing which ones might actually be true or to what degree. to date i had seen traces (or much more) of bi-polar, depression, narcissism, egocentrism, multiple personality disorder, autism and illusion of grandeur. on top of that i was highly sensitive and could see proof my entire life of taking on the thoughts and emotions of those around me. the numbers were against me. if one in four people were mentally unwell, and i was a helpless sponge absorbing a different cocktail blend of neurosis every time i left the house, the argument was starting to look pretty good that i should simply stop trying and stay in bed.

and lots of times i did. i stayed at home, watched hours of television, ate food and made several creative plans of what i would do if i left the house without ever following through. i bought myself skipping ropes and weights and a yoga mat trying to tempt myself into physicality in the safety of my own home. but the follow through was spotty and short lived at best. in the back of my head (in an increasingly more pessimistic voice than i could bare) i wasn’t exactly sure what the point of being well was in the first place. people around me were suffering, miserable, greedy and scared. if i was well who would relate to me? if i was well would i have to stop being empathetic to keep myself from being dragged back down? and if i only hung out with other well people would i be making my life into a narrow elitist bubble?

my pessimism was counterbalanced by deep seeded and ironic care. i cared about all the miserable people around me and i was afraid of leaving them behind. my doubts didn’t stem from whether i could make it out, but whether they could ever join me. and in a world of so much suffering and pain how would i ever knew exactly who to help even if i could?

well the obvious answer was-myself.
truly- the only answer.

i know that i am not well. and i understand how to be well. but i refuse to do it. i am aware that in the state i am in i will need to reach out for help to access what it is that i need. but i am an aries. i am stubborn. i want to help myself and be my own saviour. because i know the helpless feelings are an illusion. that i could turn everything around. but i have to face the emptiness. do the work. commit. and clear all the energy pain and death imprints standing in the way of me doing so. i know this. i know this so well.

so what is the difference between knowing and doing

when you break your arm is the first snap the worst? with depression one never knows when the snap will come again or how much it will hurt. with a broken arm you sign the cast and ask them how it happened. the pain is obvious and conversational. i’ve started this conversation about depression but i am not sure it will ever be with anyone but myself.