Recognizing something and changing something are not the same thing

I’ve discussed my depression before with regards to events in my life that contributed to my depression, I mentioned that I was going through a depression in one of tam’s recent posts (an awesome post and discussion by the way) but this will still be a first for me.  I am going to describe some of what goes on in my mind and my heart when I am in a depression.  Please be gentle.

A deep well of sadness has erupted inside me.  There is no real connection between my feelings and what is happening to me.  For no reason at all I feel as though I’m about to burst into tears.  At random times throughout the day I’ll feel my heart constrict and next thing I know I’m blinking away tears.

Am I depressed?  Yes

Do I have the big “D” Depression?  Yup, never officially diagnosed but for this I don’t need a doctor to tell me what I already know and given my familial history it’s not a shock.  I can pretty much trace the rises and dips of my moods, a continuing roller coaster of ups and downs with the occassional corkscrew.  I can pretty much predict how it will go – on the upswing it’s fairly normal, my responses are normal, my reactions to people are normal, things are blessedly normal then I hit the top.  And I have to work at holding on to myself.  My heart hammers away with ecstasy and I feel as though my soul will leak through my skin in white-hot joy.  I walk around with my hands clenched for fear that I’ll float away.  I feel like Johnny Depp’s character Captain Jack Sparrow – touched or fay, if you prefer.  Then *boom* I hit the bottom.  Anger, sadness, deep depression, exhaustion, lack of interest or passion, at it’s worst, thoughts of death-dying.  Everything is cause for despair, panic and rage.  Nothing can go right, I have small moments of faux peace – sort of a surface quiet, a peace which is dark in a bad way and hurts deep down in my soul.  It tears me.

Sometimes the ups and downs are gentle.  And sometimes it’s like scaling and then leaping off of a pyramid without climbing equipment or a parachute.  I prefer the gentle ups and downs.  Those I can handle.  It’s the others that damage my soul, my friendships and my relationships with my family.  I know I should probably have some chemical “help” but I’m more scared of that.  I went on anti-depressants once – n.g. (no good), if I can help it I will never do that again.  It made me feel like an alien in human skin, I would find myself staring at my hand trying to convince myself that it did in fact belong to me.  But worse than that it actually caused me to have suicidal thoughts – I spent a whole day keeping myself from leaping into traffic.  I stopped taking them after that.

It’s not always so bad.  Most of the time I do okay it’s just sometimes it goes beyond my ability to control.  I have times where I recognize a certain turn of my thoughts or my emotions and I can stop it from going down that road.  Sometimes, sickeningly, I don’t want to stop it.  I’ve had moments where I realize the road my thoughts are leading me down and I can hear His warning or His attempt to knock me out of it and my response is “Leave me alone,” “I can’t help it,” or “I’m aware, thank you.”  Why?  Because sometimes I don’t want help, I don’t want to feel normal – I want to wallow in anger or self-pity and not be responsible.  I hate that about me and have been working at putting a stop to this behavior.  I don’t talk about feeling convicted on things much, mostly because it isn’t the language I want to use, but on this I can tell you that when I allow myself this course of action I feel convicted.  I know it’s wrong and I know that He knows that I know it’s wrong.

Then there are the times I can’t control it, it spirals away from me and all I can do is hang on.  I have moments that tip me off, I see it happen and I think to myself “here we go.”  I can’t get the bag of cereal open so I explode into a rage and scream curse words and punch walls, I drop my mac&cheese on the floor and suddenly I feel like the universe is against me and I want to dissolve into tears, I’m driving in traffic and I make it through the yellow light just in time and suddenly I feel invincible and untouchable and drunk-giddy, I wake up and experience a moment of disorientation and suddenly I feel one step removed from the world for the rest of the day, I get a rude customer at work and suddenly I’d love nothing better than to go home and sleep for several days.  I don’t like it.

Now it’s true that I’ve used the gentler ups and downs as creative outlets.  I’ve given my characters some of my rage and despair or I’ve used those feelings to charge the language I use to describe them and their surroundings.  And yes, sometimes I allow myself a bit of melancholia in pursuit of my writing, but again it’s something that I exert great control and caution over.  I know when it’s enough and I know how to shake myself out of those small moments of melancholia.

It’s when it comes on unexpectedly, without warning, with no external stimuli and with no control that I am afraid and desire to feel normal or some semblance of normalcy.  I don’t like the way I react to things or the way I treat people or the direction my thoughts go.  It isn’t pleasant.  Frankly, it terrifies me deeply.

The depression is the worst.  The anger explodes like a flash but doesn’t last, the ecstasy vibrates like a tuning fork and eventually settles down but the depression hammers down relentlessly taking all that I have, all that I am until there’s nothing left but me bleeding on the floor, gasping for air and pleading for it to stop.  In moments like that I know how easy it would be for me to take my life in my hands.  But I have made promises to certain people to not do that and I hold myself to keep those promises forever.  No matter what happens I can’t break those promises.

I am such a mass of contradictions.

And a mess of emotions.

But I try – to maintain equilibrium, control and if I can’t do that then I just maintain.  And try to hold on to some emotion because the only times I’ve seriously considered suicide are the times when I felt hollow and numb.  “I’d rather feel pain than nothing at all.” ~ Three Days Grace “Pain.”

Gypsy Woman

I couldn’t believe it.  I stared at the screen in shock.  My biggest secret had just been splashed all over the most popular entertainment show ever.  I looked over at Ben who was also in shock, his bright blue eyes were wide and his mouth hung open displaying his red tongue for all to see.  I realized that I also had my mouth open and snapped it quickly shut feeling my teeth click against each other and making a conscious effort not to clench my jaw.  I unfolded my legs and stood up feeling the suede brush against my bare skin.  I stood there with the warm, hard plastic remote cradled in my hand watching the face of my best friend spill my confidences to the reporter.  Her violet eyes oozed contempt and victory.  As though this whole thing had been a competition and she had won.  I looked over towards our big bay windows and had a sudden image of reporters swarming everywhere trying to snap a picture of America’s Most Wanted.  I could see them; their big black shoes digging into the soft moist soil of my yard, their treads tearing at the bright, green shoots of the Kentucky blue grass.  They’d jam themselves up against the window smearing their spit and sweat and cologne all over it.  I looked back at the television but they had changed to another story.  Another person who would soon be swarmed by paparazzi was front and center on the screen smiling, oblivious to the hell they would soon be experiencing.  I clicked the television off and the soft electronic hum emanating from it was cut off. 

 

Ben stood up and walked over to me; he reached out and put his warm hand on my shoulder.  He had such soft hands.  Or at least he did once, a long time ago.  I looked over at him, he smiled and just like that he had faded like the last vestiges of a fog on a warm summer morning or that wonderful dream being cut off by the raucous cry of your alarm clock.  The warmth of his hand on my shoulder stayed.  I walked over to the bay windows and pulled the shades down.  They made a soft zipping sound as they covered up my view of the outside world.  The green/blue of the grass, the green of the leaves on the trees and the dark, dark red of Ben’s roses, all covered up by a sheet of cloth zipping down over the windows.  I walked over to the door my bare feet cold on the wood floors.  I shoved the bolt home listening to the snick as it made its home in the hole opposite it, its special opening that would protect me from ne’er do wells.  I followed suit with the back windows and door and than made my way upstairs feet padding on the carpet as I slid my hand gently up the maple banister.  I walked into my bedroom and sat down on the window seat.  I stared outside, it didn’t take them long to show up.  They tore up the yard and the roses and pounded on my doorbell desperately trying to get one picture of the most recent hot news.  Then one of them looked up.  I knew I’d been spotted, there was nothing for it now; I’d be on that six o’clock news and the eleven o’clock and probably on the morning news and the late afternoon entertainment shows.  I’d be mentioned in all the little talk shows and late night shows.  They’d crack jokes about me in all those strange Comedy Central and vh1 late night shows.  And not one of them anywhere would say the thing that they most wanted to say, “Prove it.” 

 

Because no one wanted me to prove anything – they felt safer cracking jokes and raising their eyebrows than actually asking me to prove it.  Because if I did prove it, there’d be nothing left to hide behind, there’d be no more jokes, no more raised eyebrows.  They would have to accept what I was.  And they couldn’t fathom doing that.  I sat there with my knees tucked up under my chin wistfully watching them snap their irritating pictures; I’d get phone calls soon enough, people wanting me to appear everywhere just to make a quick buck.  They’d ask me about my childhood, when did I first know, do I see a lot of them, blah, blah, blah.  And behind all those questions would be a smirk, a snigger, a certain amount of disbelief.  They wouldn’t give me the chance to definitively prove myself.  I’d just be able to answer questions and come off sounding like a nut job.  All because little Melody couldn’t handle the answer she got.  Those violet eyes snapping such rage at me when I told her and pain too – but she let the rage get the upper hand and now my life had been changed forever.  It could never go back to the way it had been.  All those people who trusted me would now avoid me like the plague.  All because Melody didn’t get the answer she wanted.  The answer she thought I should give her.  I guess maybe the blame rests partly on me; I’ve never been comfortable telling people what they want to hear instead of the truth.  Mom warned me once if she warned me a thousand times that that trait would get me in trouble.  Well Ma, you were right.  And yet I don’t regret what I did.  I told people the truth, I didn’t give them the dime-store answer just to make them feel good, I gave them something real, something no one else was willing to do and I knew I could hold my head high knowing that.  I wouldn’t shy away from this challenge, from this hardship.  I hadn’t yet and I wouldn’t now.  Let them make their quick buck.  I can see the headlines now – “Modern day Gypsy fortune-teller and ghost whisperer!”  That’s right kids, line right up buy your tickets and get a glimpse because the circus might be gone by morning.  But don’t forget you get what you ask for so be wary.  Be wary Melody, you just got what you asked for.  I walked down the stairs, slipping my peasant skirt and blouse on as I walked, I reached down and adjusted my ankle bracelet and smiled.  Be very wary Melody Violet-Eyes, the Gypsy is on her way.  I opened the door and walked out in the crowd answering questions, posing for pictures and handing out my card.  I smiled and the sun clouded over; oh yes, Gypsy woman is on her way.