Swallow Two Life Goals Every Morning. May Cause Nausea.

 

My experience with depression has been through a series of realizations.

Realizing you shouldn’t feel sad all day, every day, for weeks on end, for no reason. Realizing that you can’t remember the last time you actually enjoyed yourself. Realizing that you now share the same sex drive as your prized aloe plant in the hallway. Realizing that you not only automatically think negatively about things, but that you will get lost for hours in ruminating on such thoughts. Realizing that you are changing as a person. Realizing the effect it is having on your friends and family. Hopefully realizing that all this is not your fault. Realizing that it’s an illness. Just like any other. Realizing that there are ways to treat it and it’s going to take a lot of work.

I thought that would pretty much wrap things up. Maybe some realizations about how it can be beat (once I beat it of course) and that I have to be on constant watch for signs of relapse. Those kind of realizations would be welcome. However, despite being a goddamn fifteen year vet, I am still very much in the learning process.

The latest lesson is just how much my life is going to have to change if I hope to ever beat this goddamn disease. (I hate that it’s an ‘illness’ or ‘disorder’. Fuck that. Even a stronger word than disease is needed. Plague. Zombies)

When I talk about my ambitions I try to remain vague. Reason being is that my life goals are still those of a grade eight spelling bee champion. I’m not joking when I say that I secretly hope to reach some level of prominence. This is really hard for me to say. I don’t think I will, deserve to, or can. It also goes against my firm commitment to modesty. However, in the quiet moments, I picture myself in positions of political leadership or being a writer of note. A quick review of this blog should be enough to sink both of those battleships.

Still, they are thoughts that have persisted throughout my life, and the farther I get away from them as I grow older, the more they contribute to my feelings of failure and hopelessness. Ridiculous I know. Why can’t I be like my brother and be happy with my big screen television, my Toronto Maple Leafs cable package, and two dogs? Happiest guy I know.

I have recently realized though, that my life simply cannot consist of the effort and stresses required to reach such heights. The personal cost would be too high. If I could pay them at all. Perhaps such pursuits would cost me my life. That may not be an exaggeration.

This is crazy to me. It reminds me of how people have to move to different climates due to tuberculosis. I have to live simply. Practice coping strategies. Eat right. Exercise. Meditate. Blah, blah, blah. It almost seems like the Wednesday after nap itinerary at Silver Hills Retirement Villa.

I want to live my life. Not a prescription for a life.

 

The Makings of an Ass

 

 

Much has been said about the tongue in cheek analysis of the mental disorders of the characters in the Winnie the Pooh books since first proffered in the 2000 edition of the Canadian Medical Association Journal. (http://www.cmaj.ca/content/163/12/1557.full) I won’t go into further here, other than the fact that I felt like Eeyore myself yesterday.

Of course it’s no stretch to compare me to Eeeyore, the sad bastard. I don’t even have to take that stupid quiz that was floating around online.

What I mean is that when I was young and would read the books or watch the show, of all the characters, it was always a downer (obviously) when that goddamn donkey would show up. Sure Tigger is annoying but at least he mixes it up in there. Piglet sucks but is the necessary straight man to Poohs one track foolishness. Rabbit may be neurotic but it’s funny to mess up his overly organized life. What the hell was Eeyore bringing to the table?

I felt like this yesterday at my third (?) last meeting with the best social worker I have ever had. We’ve been seeing each other for over two years and it was the most stable time in my treatment to date. I finally developed a rapport with someone, which is difficult for a perfect asshole like me.

Anyway, here we are on the home stretch of our relationship and I’m carrying on like I was on our first meeting. Just as down, low, and hopeless a heap as when I first shuffled in.

I understand that ‘recovery’ is not a linear path, but this is a little much.

The treatment I have received and attention I was paid was both amazing and humbling. I wish I could be doing better for her. I know I should be saying for me, but I honestly think she’s put in more effort.

It was the first time in my life that I realized that I can in fact be that dark soul sucking vacuum represented by that sad stuffed sack of a donkey. What adventures am I holding up? Am I a mixed sideshow of humor and pity? What exactly is my tail supposed to be?

I’m sure the real answer is that all the goddamn animals represent parts that can be found within us all.  Still, whatever Tigger drinking, pour me a triple.

 

The Couples Dinner

 

I’m climbing out of a hole again. The good news is that I’m climbing and the bad is that I can only make it to a ledge that is forever eroding. This is life of course.

I’m trying to not be too damned macabre or anything, but the old adage ‘as soon as you’re born you’re starting to die’ is as true as it is depressing. The eternal struggle is how to deal with this human condition. How does one marry the fact that we are all doomed yet we have to bring a gluten free macaroni salad to the couples dinner on Saturday?

Look, I am not going to delve into the pits already mined to death by theologians, philosophers, the like. Who the hell am I to even comment on such a complex quandary? A mentally ill gravedigger from a factory town. Sounds like I live in the year 1898 no?

All I can do is relate it to my experience and that of course is…..wait for it……..struggling with depression!

For me it is the fact that all my therapy is designed to change my destructive thought patterns and subsequent points of view through strategies such as behavioral activation, breathing exercises, thought stopping, physical exertion, mindfulness, blogging, meditation, and gratitude. These strategies run the gamut of tenets ranging from thousands of years of Buddhist teachings, to the twentieth century regurgitation of an insecure pseudo-spiritualist with a book deal. What they all have in common is the goal of  bringing the individual away from the world around them. Away from the past and the future, and to settle them firmly in the present. This allows one to forget their hurts, stop worrying about things that are yet to come, and to accept the presence the things which they have no control over.

Sounds helpful right? Yet it is something I struggle with. In fact, it’s most likely at the center of my struggle. While I agree that one should not dwell on the past, how can I ignore the events that made me who I am? Ignore history and be doomed to repeat it? Same with the future. Again, I realize it is out of my control, but is it not my job as an adult with dependents to mind the rivers course? Stand fast in a watch for rapids and the outcropping of rocks. If not me, who? Lastly, all that negativity that surrounds us. The constant flow of soul crushing news of suffering and despair. Animal poaching, human trafficking, child abuse, and white collar crimes that line already full pockets and cut out the knees of those struggling to stand. I call that the truth of our times. I know that I can’t change any of that. Or can I? Shouldn’t I try?

Now my social worker could come in here and highlight and cut that whole last paragraph as an example of distorted thought from my depression. How about this then? How about the fact that I am depressed now, have been nearly half my life, and according to all available statistics, will more than likely remain so in some form or fashion for the remainder of my life. I could have opened a new tab and done a quick five minute search to back up this claim along with all of the other depressing notes in this wall of text. These are facts. So somehow I have to accept them.

That’s pretty much it. The cards are dealt. Play ’em or fold. Goddammit though, I know the fucking game is rigged! I demand a re-deal! Do we have to take this to the street!?

Oh yeah, nobody cares.

The best I can do, at least for me, is invite everyone to the table. If I leave anyone out, I’m libel to spoil my appetite. So set the place cards for Death and Life, Envy and Privilege (they always fight in public, it’s so embarrassing), Greed and Altruism, and Shame and Cowardice. They can bring their friends. Maybe we can have a real round table, break out a couple of bottles, and get to the heart of the matter.  Couples dinners always suck though.

Some Assembly Required

 

I’ve been trying my best to not focus on getting better, or ‘recovery’ as it’s being called. That may sound strange to most, if not all. I mean if you were trying to walk again, why wouldn’t you visualize a lakeside stroll? An evening jog? It seems like it would be a good idea, and hell maybe it is.

However, I’m at the stage where I’m kind of chopping my days up into sections. Getting my feet on the floor in the morning. Getting to work on time. Make it to coffee break, and so on. That’s all I can manage right now. I feel like if I lift my head to see my destination only to find the shimmering, endless blacktop, it could push deeper than ever. Best to plod forward one step at a time.

Besides, isn’t that part of finding true contentment? Isn’t it about learning to enjoy the journey, rather than pine for the journeys end? Mindfulness and all that? Tough go being that present really. I need to see some signs for encouragement. Even “Regular Bowel Movements – Next 35 Kilometers” would be a sight for sore eyes.

When I do think of recovery however, I get rattled a little bit. (Of course I do! Why would I just accept looking at a situation with optimism, even neutrality? That would be crazy!) Sure I want to get better and all, but my scumbag brain starts the old question wheel a-spinnin'”

“You have been depressed for nearly half your life. Hell you became an adult while depressed. What will you be like if you’re not depressed? Depression is your normal. What would you even be like with out the morbid comfort of abject misery? What would you talk about to people? Saving plans? Vacation destinations? What would you even think about???”

That is just a taste of what that bastard likes to get up to.

I do look at people I’ve known that have gone though life transforming alterations. I have a cousin that was like my brother, lived with us while he went to school. He became wildly successful after opening his own business and that led to booze, cars, women, gambling, and cocaine. He got pretty bad. Luckily he got the help he so badly needed and he seems to be close to finding his center again. However, he pretty much steers way the hell away from everyone. I mean there is some hard feelings floating around for what ever reasons, and my family certainly likes to tip a glass, so it’s understandable he avoids possible triggers. Though hell, while I’m happy he’s not dead or in jail, it’s sad to see him kind of gone all the same. I love my family. I don’t want to live like that.

My wife had a cousin in a similar situation but Jesus got him out of his jam and now it’s hard to get him off the topic of our Lord and Savior. He mainly just shows up once in a blue and turns around my picture of Keith Moon. My wife was once very close to him. Now the common ground they shared has eroded.

All the same, I can’t live like this much longer. I have to get this goddamn weight off my chest. The black from under my eyes. My chin picked up. My fucking frown turned upside down. I doubt in the case of clinical depression, that the cure is worse than the disease. I can’t picture anything worse than this.

Most of this has been the disease talking anyway. If I’m worried about having to withdraw from my family once better, I better give my head a shake and see that depression has been doing that to me already. Man, depression is one crafty son of a bitch.

I’m going to put my head back down. I’ll reassemble me once I get there. All the parts will be there, waiting. I just have to focus on finding my way.

Hiding While Seeking.

 

I remember when I was seventeen, after my father had died, waiting with bated breath for a new acquaintance to ask me about my father. Be it his occupation, age, or otherwise, I morbidly awaited the opportunity to deliver the news that he was dead. I don’t know what the fuck I was thinking there. Looking for sympathy I suppose. Another example of my possible martyr complex perhaps.

My wait proved to be in vain however as nobody ever asked. Still waiting in fact. I’m 32. Doesn’t have as much luster anyways. Not the orphaned youth and all. Just another pants wearing adult. Stupid pants.

There could be a few reasons for why it never got asked. You decline in developing many new relationships as adulthood continues. (Maybe that’s just me) People don’t really give a shit about anything beyond the superficial appearance and/or details of those around them. Or maybe I was wrong in expecting the question in the first place. Hell, do I ask after peoples parents? Am I in an Elizabethan novel attempting to court a lady fair?

Maybe I shouldn’t be so hard on myself. Maybe I just wanted someone to talk to about it. Or maybe just simply talk about my dad.

Similarly, since I took leave from work this past winter due to my depression, I have been both fearing and anticipating the questions that may come from my coworkers regarding my absence. Now I have been told I can come off as intimidating. (This is by design so I can avoid what I deem to be ‘small talk’. It’s probably globally referred to as ‘conversation’) Not a compliment perhaps, but it has proven to stave off any unwanted inquiries.

Until last week.

Now, prior to this, I began to think to myself:

‘Fuck it. I’m going to start just throwing it out there. Who is lying helping anyway!? Them, that’s who. Keeping the person asking nice and socially comfortable. Certainly not me. I’m living a goddamn double life here. One more pathetic than the other. Maybe this will change things. Maybe it won’t be bad. Maybe they’ll admire me instead of stigmatizing me! I’ll be the Rosa Parks of mental illness for my goddamn workplace! Move the hell over Mahatma!’

The above is nearly verbatim.

Then last week a guy asked me, simply, flatly ‘Why were you off?‘

Now what did I do? Clear my throat and read from a carefully worded prepared statement? Shoot from the hip? Passionately speak from the heart like William Wallace before the Scots, whipping everyone into a frenzy to surge forward towards legendary triumph?

Not even close. I muttered something about my well documented and often joked about irritable bowel syndrome. The guerrilla street artists can put my murals on hold.

Here I am struggling with my burning ambitions being imprisoned by my illness and I can’t even give voice to its name outside of an anonymous blog! This is so far below who I want to be. I’m a decade out of university here. My energy isn’t exactly being stockpiled over here.

Now I am learning in CBT to go easy on myself. These thoughts are not helpful.

I know this. I’m just tired of having to do every bit of work required in my recovery. I’m tired full stop. Why can’t someone just see what’s happening to me, in me? I guess I’ve hidden for so long, I’ve gotten quite good at it.

It’s time to stop hoping for others to read between the lines. I’ll be in the retirement home waiting for Gladys to ask after my dad after all.  Mental health isn’t exactly dinner conversation.

I don’t have to get a loudspeaker. Courage doesn’t have to campaign. It can just answer the questions as they come.

One at a time.

Upside Down World (A Writing Prompt)

“Hey Doc! I brought you a coffee!” Steve smiled broadly as he handed Dr. Heath a Venti Caffe Mocha with whip and chocolate shavings.

Dr. Heath grimaced as he accepted the drink. “Thanks Steven. I’d have some, but my stomach has been killing me for weeks. I’m afraid this would send me home to the toilet for the day. That, and I don’t need to gain anymore weight. That is a certainty.”

Steve reclined in his chair and kicked his feet up on the coffee table. “No worries Doc! You don’t have to drink it. For the record, I think you look great! A distinguished looking gentleman if I’ve ever seen one!”

Dr. Heath scoffed. “You must need glasses as well as psychiatric treatment my boy. Now, where did we end last week? Ah, yes. You were telling me of some problems you have been having at the paper. Please continue.”

“Well, I wouldn’t call them problems Doc,” Paul chuckled. “I see it as more of a challenge. Everyone is so full of doom and gloom, I thought it might be nice if we seek out some uplifting stories to report on! I think it would help out our readers! Maybe our staff too! Sick time is at an all time high, production is at an all time low. Maybe if we started to report on the lighter side of things maybe people would feel better! Maybe people would look forward to coming to work and we could increase the papers circulation in order to spread the good word! Call me a dreamer, but I think it’s a great idea!”

Dr. Heath removed his glasses and exhaled loudly as he furrowed his brow. “No Steven, I can’t call you a dreamer. What I can call you is a very troubled young man who has been diagnosed as a Chronic Optimist who suffers from delusions of unfettered Joy and Glee. This is a very serious diagnosis and it seems to me you are not focusing on our treatment at all. It’s as if you are blocking out reality all together boy!”

“I do have some day’s when I’m down and all but most of the time I guess I just feel too great to focus Doc.” Paul smiled and sipped his drink. “This coffee is fantastic!.”

Dr. Heath leaned forward and raised his hands towards Paul. “Easy son, easy. Now remember our breathing exercises. Try and calm down. Your excitement is up again. Over something as simple as a coffee as well. I want you to just breathe and listen. I have some homework for you to do this week. Now, since you work at a paper, you should be the first to know that the world is a terrible place, fraught with danger and misery. As a result, mankind is suffering from depression. Rightly so. People cannot improve until the world improves. World peace must reign, hunger end, equality be achieved. This is only natural. What is not natural is your flights of fancy and denial of truths. You need to focus on whats really happening. Only then will you begin to emerge from your illness.”

Steve nodded emphatically. “I hear ya Doc, I do. I’ll try harder. You are a smart man and I want to make you happy.”

Dr. Heath wagged a finger at Steven. “Enough Steven, You have to do this for yourself. For your poor wife that must bear your enthusiasm on a daily basis. For your readers, that they know the truth that surrounds them. Now I want you to take these data sheets on infant mortality to study. I want you to continue your walks in the cemetery and to not be hesitant to join any funeral that is taking place. Misery loves company Steven. I want you to watch this film on the Holocaust as well. It’s in eight parts and is twenty two hours long. Lastly, I have some audio recordings of an artist named Elliott Smith I want you to play in your car. He was a musician from the beginning of the century that killed himself. Listen carefully.”

“Wow, lots of homework Doc. You really care. Thanks!” Steve said as he gathered everything and placed it in his backpack.

Dr. Heath held the door for him as he left the office. “Now get all that done for me Steven. Keep your head down and take it one day at a time. That’s all any of us can do really.”

Steven turned and smiled. “You too Doc! Have a great weekend!” He turned and looked out the window. “Hey look Doc! It’s stopped raining! The sun is coming out! Is that a rainbow?! You gotta see this Doc!”

Dr. Heath quickly closed the door. ‘Jesus Christ.’ He thought as he leaned back against the closed door. ‘The boy is hopeless. I’m going to have to get him on some Irish Whiskey before too long.’

Look But Don’t Touch

 

There was a provincial election this past week here in Ontario, Canada. Despite all the allegations of corruption, false promises, and attack ads in the lead up to election day, only one thing really seemed to bother me. That was a show I watched that profiled all the new member of parliament hopefuls. The show focused primarily on the young age of some of the candidates.

‘This young lady is only 25 years old! She is active in fourteen not-for-profit organizations in her community, president of an NGO which she founded that focuses on curing blindness in malnourished kittens in developing nations, and is currently working on her PHD in International Compassion and Classical Guitar. Her father owns a wildly successful wasabi farm and she has already donated her sizable inheritance to a man who had a flat tire in the rain! She is considered a rising star within the party and a shoe-in to defeat the incumbent who has held his seat for 103 years. And just look at her sense of style!’

Although it wouldn’t seem so, I try to subscribe to the credo of:

“The only time you look in your neighbor’s bowl is to make sure that they have enough. You don’t look in your neighbor’s bowl to see if you have as much as them.”

― Louis C.K.

I do try hard to curb my obviously raging streak of envy. I admit it’s a character flaw I have struggled with all of my life. However, these days the fight to conquer it seems pretty much impossible. Never before have I felt so hopeless and imprisoned by the limitations that I face.

Life seems to be happening at a blistering pace all around me. Meanwhile, I struggle to swing my feet out of bed. I do try and find pride in such a modest accomplishment considering the circumstances. Still, I feel a well of potential rotting within me. All I seem to be able to do about it is dwell on it and ruminate over my tragic lot in life. Everyone hates a martyr.

I’m tired of watching life under glass. Watching people embrace life, overcome challenges, and dismiss trivialities that sink me like a stone. It’s as if I can hear life having a party down stairs with all my family and friends and I can’t find my pants.

Fuck you depression. I have no idea who or what you are, where you came from or why. Ruin my appetite. Rob me of sleep. Haunt my dreams. Darken my eyes. Limit my physical abilities. Muddy my memories. Make me asexual. Hell, go ahead and permanently loosen my bowels.

Just don’t take my future away from me and leave me sitting here to watch the clock run out.

 

 

 

Working Hard or Hardly Working?

 

I have discovered I am guilty of being a pompous Canadian. (we aren’t all overly polite nice people I guess) I have long lorded our national health care program over our less fortunate southern neighbour. I felt I never had to worry about any illness forcing me to weigh my wallet against my well being. I am of course basing this off Michael Moore’s Sicko in which a scene focuses upon a man who accidentally cuts off the tops of two fingers and, due to his income, has to choose one of the two to save. I never thought this sort of thing would happen to me.

My plight isn’t like those without health insurance. The problem isn’t with the treatment I am receiving. In fact I think they are doing the best they can. (Actually I pity them for have me on the roster. I’m sure they’d like to place me on waivers by now.) My problem is with what the vast majority of working stiffs around the world face: Going off work sick.

This past winter I went off and used by more than three quarters of my sick bank. I improved. My depression began to lighten. I was able to engage in a routine which included self care, vitamins, medications, exercise, blogging, journal writing, CBT therapy, meditation etc. I was even beginning to see that my core beliefs were responsible for all things negative in my life. I began to attack them, to root them out and stop them blooming. I decided to go back to work.

It was a decision that is proving itself premature. My routine has gone to shit and work is for some reason more stressful than ever. Naturally I began to sink. My family is understandably strained and has unfortunately validated my core belief that I am a burden to them. Uncharacteristic mistakes have began to pile up at work, subsequently making me sink lower. Really low.

Now, I am blessed to have a good job with great benefits. As good as they are however, If I elect to go off and exceed my available sick days I will only be eligible for only 70% of my pay. This roughly equals losing out on four hundred bucks every two weeks. Three kids, sole breadwinner, this cannot happen.

I could make it through a lot of physical ailments while working. Mental? I don’t know if I can pull this one off anymore