It's been seven months since I last posted a blog, though I feel I've composed hundreds of blog-like soliloquies in my head since then. They just haven't made it here.
My limited term employment position ended back in May and I spent two months unemployed and severely depressed. It wasn't the actual lack of a job that caused my hibernating depression to come back out and play--it was the loss of a routine, loss of social connectedness with people, the feeling of being worthless and unable to have financial independence, the fruitless job searching efforts. It was having no reason to get out of bed or care about anything. Having no job made it easy for my old thoughts to come back into my head and bully me. I knew all along that my job would end when my hours (just over a thousand) ran out, but at the time, I was under the impression that I would be getting this particular summer job. Some major miscommunication later, the cushion of stability I had going into the summer was ripped out from under me. I depleted my checking and savings accounts in no time since I had been living paycheck to paycheck and was unable to pay the full balance on my credit card for the first time in my life. I was also faced with a new roommate who turned out to be less than wonderful and had major trouble finding a new home for my four rats that I could no longer take care of. My only semi-close friend here in Madison moved away and my anxiety was so bad that I became disconnected from the volunteer work that had brought me here in the first place.
Just when I thought I had accepted myself, faults and all, the unrelenting thoughts in my head starting beating me up over and over again--my own internal bullying. I could not escape my madness because it was always going on in my head. I was becoming increasingly more neurotic and a hypochondriac with terrible mood swings and anxiety. One particular panic attack left me standing cross-legged in the middle of the hallway of my apartment at midnight with my pants rolled up so the bugs "couldn't crawl up them," wide-eyed, shooting quick glances in every direction, jumping at every shadow on the wall, too panicked to even move. I felt like I was living a double life, appearing totally normal by day, and at night having anxiety attacks/crying spells which usually ended up with me thinking that it all just wasn't worth dealing with anymore. My head felt like it would explode from all the ruminating and I would drown out the sobbing by covering my face with my pillow or taking a shower.
In mid June, on a Friday night, I decided that the next day would be my last. I went about that Saturday with a calm and peace in my head and throughout my body that I had never felt before. I didn't have to pretend anymore. I could do or say exactly as I wanted because there would be no social consequence--I would be gone soon. I felt lighter and completely liberated. I had never been in a state of suicidality for more than a few hours before, but this time the feeling persisted for nearly 24 hours. I knew that probably the only thing that would distract me out of my mood would have been a phone call from a family member--but no one called me that day and my roommate was out of town (I felt a little bad that she would be the one to find my dead body when she returned).
Suicidal people don't seek out the help of hotlines or their therapists when they are going to kill themselves. I think that is something that is grossly misunderstood. You are in a completely irrational mind-set that cannot and will not let you see the situation from a position of rationality. And in that state you don't care about the people you normally love. The pain is so intense and has been for such a long time that destroying yourself is the only way to destroy it. I did not seek out help. The only thing that stopped me with going through with it was that I somehow lost my suicidal edge and now thinking rationally, I certainly didn't have the power within me to end my life.
A few weeks later my boss called and said that she was creating a limited term, but full-time, position for me to replace an employee out on maternity leave. I was truly touched by her compassion and willingness to reach out to me. I had always felt accepted in that work environment, but couldn't believe how people would go out of their way for me. Of course, she had no idea just how close I came to never getting that call.
Right now I have job stability (one limited term job ends soon and another will begin), though money is always tight, I have no health insurance, inept republicans have taken over the country and I still haven't paid off my credit card. I had a period of neutrality during late summer and my head stayed clear for quite a while. My depression seems to be working in cycles that are only revealed slowly by years and years of trying to figure out the patterns. Which is worrisome since I am at the beginning of the great decline. I'm trying desperately to avoid these patterns and survive the winter by preparing myself, both mentally and physically. But there is one major problem. I have no meaning in my life. Which along with everything else I'm dealing with is a major pre-cursor for suicidal depression.
And I don't know where to find this elusive meaning. I'm still just as confused and frustrated with my life as I was in college. I don't know what I want to do, I don't know what will make me happy, I don't who I am, I have no friends, I don't know where to find people that are like me, and I feel empty and completely disconnected from people. I have another new roommate that I can no longer stand and which has made even my apartment not a a place that feels remotely close to "home." For my own mental health and stability I really need to get a place on my own. I just can't live with other people. That is what I'm working on right now.
The only things that keep the constant negative thoughts from returning are my distractions: constant new music on my ipod, watching movies on my computer, day-dreaming/making up stories in my head. And routines help: commuting every day to work by bike, waking up early every Saturday to go to the Farmer's Market, playing in a newly formed orchestra, taking care of my chameleon, going to the gym three times a week. But it's just not enough. I feel overwhelmed and burdened and helpless and lost and alone. I hate weekends because there is too much time to think and too little planned activity and I get more depressed. My neuroticism is too intense. A shower curtain pulled to the wrong side will make me blow up with misplaced anger. Or tupperware stacked improperly. The odor of my roommate's burned rice on the stove for the third time in a week and the nauseating perfume she sprayed to hide it. A slow biker that I can't pass. A girl putting gobs of unnatural and unnecessary make-up on while riding the bus. Finding recyclable materials in the trash and subsequently having to take them out and put them in the recycling. The anxiety is endless.
I feel unable to care about things the way I used to. I have no drive or determination to make this world a better place because mostly, it's seems too fucked up to fix. And I can't live in it. The problems are so obvious, but the people in charge and the structures in place seem to promote greed and power, not people's well being or the health of the environment. They bitch and complain about crime and amp up police forces and over-crowd the prisons, but the real problems lie within why people are motivated into commiting criminal acts in the first place (poverty, lack of education, no jobs, and poor parenting because of things like low minmum wage, no help for kids with learning difficulties, schools that are falling apart, a terrible health care system, lack of rehabilitation services in prisons, greedy food conglomerates and agri-businesses, loss of community structure, massive consumerism and the constant struggle to find happiness where it will not be found, etc). You can't just continue slapping band aids on cancer and expect it to get better.
Speaking of getting better, I might even have been motivated enough at some point to jump on the band wagon and make one of those "It Gets Better" videos that everyone is doing for Dan Savage's project (I look forward to reading his column in the Onion every Thursday). But, I'm certainly not at a point where I can say anything gets better. Especially because my bully is ultimatley myself. And I'm not exactly living a gay lifestyle--I still have not been in a relationship with anyone, am not sexually attracted to any gender, and have alienated myself from all the LGBT friends I've ever made. For me, things don't really get better, they just get tolerable, briefly, then get worse again. Depression wreaks havoc, goes into hibernation, then wakes up and destorys anything worth destroying in my life. And I'm certainly guilty of letting people drive me into suicidal thoughts--the "I'll show them" mentality. It's slightly ironic that many of those people have been queer themselves, but that just goes to show that anyone can be a bully and LGBT status is not enough to sustain a friendship. I've watched a considerable amount of those videos since they kept popping up like crazy all over my subscription box on youtube, and honestly, I found most of them to be rather cliche and impersonal. I'm sure the videos have been a comfort to some of those young people who feel alone, but they don't change how someone deals with the hell they're living in. Truthfully, all the seriousness in the world has never helped me snap out of a suicidal state. But humor has. Looking through a comedic perspective on the horrors of the world makes them seem more manageable. Take, for instance, why news programs like The Daily Show and newspapers like the the Onion are so popular. Distractions and a good sense of humor seem to help me the most. It was after watching Alex Day (Nerimon) videos on youtube that yanked me out of the state of suicidality that I was in on that Saturday night in June. It was reading a funny response to someones question on a forum about how many sleeping pills does it take for a lethal over-dose that pulled me out of another almost suicide attempt. Or sometimes it's just something that makes you feel real or made you happy once. It was interacting with animals at a pet store that derailed another suicidal inclination for me. Sometimes I try to write about what's going on in my head right in the moment and that makes it feel more real, but less of a reality. It also helps to get rid of anything you know you would use to kill yourself. I no longer keep sleeping pills in my apartment, or large amounts of anti-depressants/mood-stabilizers. I suppose I can't get rid of cliffs or rooftops, but I'll try to stay away from them when I'm in a not-so-good mood.
So how would I describe myself now, six years since my depression first started and dozens of therapists later? Alive, mostly. Alive and just trying to cope with one day at a time. Wondering if there really is any meaning for me out there or if I already have that meaning within, but just can't see it yet.
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