DISCLAIMER: I am okay. I am posting this as a glimpse into depression. This is one day. Not every day. I know these are lies, to a degree, that the disease tells me.
The Black Dog* is visiting today. It is snapping at my heels with frightening fervor.
I am sitting in my truck watching as a storm threatens while on a break from cleaning up after other people.
A bit of trash skips like a sandpiper along the drift line. Takes a piece of me with it down-shore, past sleeping skimmers and gulls.
Bereft.
This is all I can think in the moment. Where is my heart? My joy?
A howl sets up through the slight opening in my truck door; the wind is mourning the passing of day after day of a seemingly purposeless existence.
I lean my forehead to the glass, the cool lets loose a torrent of tears. Where is my heart, I wonder again?
I lost most of it nine years ago when he “put [his] foot down” on my existence. I recently buried what tiny, insignificant fragment I lost in the wake of a confusing friendship.
I have no room now for a heart that loves. There’s an ugly, pitted stone in that space.
I cannot see myself ever truly loving anyone romantically again. I tried and got it wrong too many times. I am the common denominator, as my ex would gleefully point out, no doubt.
It’s risky business, love. Frightening and pointless at this age. I am too old and soon to be undesirable at any rate. Better to enjoy meaningless fun with an FWB. Better to be a stone.
I push the truck door ajar. Feel the damp, warm air tickle the almost impossibly fine, invisible hairs on my calves. Feel the salt find my lips and eyes. Feel the sand blow up with a quick storm gust. Prepare to do battle with discarded Styrofoam and plastic bags again.
I often think of leaving this island. Is there anything here for me?
Birds. I will always have the birds. If I love anything, it is these denizens of the coastal sky: gulls, pelicans, terns, herons; all are frequent guests of the rehab for which I volunteer. All, at one time or another, have been passengers in my truck. Raccoons, opossums, and alligators, have also found their way into “Betty’s” cab at one time or another. I live for them: the animals.
I know my child needs me in that way adult children need us even though we don’t actually do anything but burden them after a point. I know other family members would miss me. I know the dog loves me but, doubtless, someone else would make a better pet owner.
So, I live for the birds.
Someone well-meaning said, “You only get one life.”
I was supposed to grab that and stop mourning my losses, I guess. Stop missing someone I care about. Stop being sad that my marriage failed. Stop regretting losing my job skills. Stop fearing a future that looms, money-strapped and unfulfilled.
Instead, I thought, “Well, thank the Universe for that because I’m tired and I don’t want to do this sh*t anymore.”
I know I can get past today’s bereavement. I know, somehow, I can find purpose again. I have no clue how. Picking up peoples’ trash, saving animals other people willingly destroy, walking an unruly dog, and burdening my child with my loneliness do not seem like valid purposes and only slightly better than those my ex always tried to comfort me with: “but you keep the house clean and cook for us.”
So, how? How do I find purpose in this storm of mediocrity?
The Black Dog snaps and growls, “you are worthless,” in my head. I am unsure how to tame it today.
Last Updated on January 3, 2023 by Lee Ellis
Fighting the bipolar monster for much of my life allows me to not just read but truly feel your words. Much of this is me. I begin to hear the tiniest noises, I get that pinch in my gut, the anxiety wells up my body into my brain then all the energy just drops to the ground. I begin to cry. I share this with you.
Sending much love, Cary. That anxiety is overwhelming, I know. I’m doing a lot of 4 am wake-ups right now. Not a few crying jags. I had the habit of sitting in my car crying when I would get home in the previous house. I still do it here even though it’s just the dog upstairs. I’m hope that in gleaning something from this blog, it gives you a little solace. Always feel free to talk to me. As much as I feel my own stresses, I *am* able to be there for others.
A black cloud darkens my days sometimes. Follows me around asking what I’ve done with my life, why I’ve let fear whittle away at any potential my younger self had. It’s only once the cloud lifts, that I see what I have done isn’t all that bad 🙂
Fortunately, while these days have been more frequent these last nine years, in the last year they’ve been easier for me to stomach. Sometimes, it honestly takes a talk with the therapist to remind me though that I am recovering from some pretty difficult times and having to relearn how to *be* in the world. I think we all question our choices at times. Especially when certain milestones hit. I’m looking at birthday # fifty-mumble-mumble next week. ?
LOL! I hit 65 this past autumn. Have to keep reminding myself to look forward, not back. And yes, recovery takes time. Go easy on yourself 🙂
I have always been someone’s daughter, someone’s wife. Never was I alone on or my own, till I was. I became an orphan at 37 and a divorcee at 40 without any skills or preparation to take me forward. My whole life was spent with someone till that point. Now im all alone too, and have been for 16 years. The first few years literally made me sick, I was so distraught my body’s immune system turned on me, gracing me with not one but two autoimmune diseases from the shock and stress of it all.
Now my days are filled with disability, doctors, and medications to treat two illnesses that I will have the rest of my life. Thats what depression has done to me. Made me one of those chronically ill people you see in the doctors office. The last few years I have learned to keep the beast at bay, so I have more good days than bad. But that fear, loneliness, sense of loss of purpose is always there trying to come to the forefront again. I have come to the realization, at least for me, that we are not the abnormal ones. It is society that considers grief, heartache, the paralyzing shock of loss of a part of ourselves.. abnormal. As if it is normal to just get over it all like some sociopath without heart.
I have come to realize that the sickness is in those that dont grieve and carry the loss. I carry my losses, they don’t paralyze me anymore, but I do have days I cry for them. I will give them their time grieve for them in my way, and then pick myself up slowly and look toward the things that are beautiful in life still. A pill wont save us, because we are doing nothing wrong. We are feeling, intensely but that is normal, the abnormal part is denying it, and trying to mask it with meds. Feel it, recognize a part of your heart is gone, but its a big heart, it still has room. Depression is normal , its a part of loss and grief. Some do feel it stronger and longer, the trick is to accept it understand its part, but not let it continue to take the lead.
Sometimes I think mental health professionals want zebras where its just regular horses. You are not sick, you are emotionally wrought, soulfully devastated. You need to find the way that works for you to survive it, there is no one size fits all. Medications dull grief, but enhance false feelings of euphoria, they can never cure just cover. Behavior therapy with a good therapist can help so much more than just a psychiatrist. Cognitive Behaviorists can teach you to adapt the mind to deal with long term grief and feelings of utter despair. I saw one for 2 years it helped tremendously, I still have those moments where a memory or something in life will bring it all back. But now I am ready to work with it and accept my loss honor it and go on. And there has been a lot of loss, deaths, divorce, financial, health, sense of self worth. And above it all the loneliness, alone with the ghosts of the past.
I am having another difficult day. Lots of things making me feel irrelevant in my little community. In my fam. I want to call the therapist but I know what I’ll hear. So I’m just powering through. The funny thing is that my marriage made me sick. I won’t bash him here or myself for what I tolerated, but I have been physically healthier in the last twelve months than I have for the last 23 years. Rather shocked me. Definitely about the stress. I am still under stress and I’m having very difficult days but I am, for now, not suicidal nor sick with worry. Thank you for your input. I agree that medication can only do so much. I get no sense of euphoria or dullness from it. In fact, I feel almost nothing at all except perhaps slightly less need to cry myself to sleep.