What is depression? Well it’s different for people and depends on many factors. It is a debilitating condition in many cases. It certainly is for me. The truth is that if you are depressed then you cannot just snap out of it or cheer up. People with friends or family who are depressed are often irritated by the condition.
Depression is NOT
- Bad mood
- Exercise related
- A factor in suicide
I suffer from a number of conditions including depression. My depression is a result of secondary post traumatic stress or compassion fatigue, two rapes, having someone I loved almost die beside me. I dealt with the situation badly and didn’t seek help because I didn’t want to become dependent on those drugs and I’m not crazy; I don’t need some touch-feely bullshit about talking about feelings and stuff. I can cope by myself.
As I discovered, that is all bullshit. I can’t cope by myself. I need the pills. I need the counselling. I can’t sleep and I oversleep – what a joy to have contradicting conditions! My brain is a mess. I’m inarticulate one minute and eloquent the next. My thoughts race, colliding on top of each other leaving me no time alone. I replay conversations and arguments at bedtime. I’m trying to write then down to capture them in a malleable form but I’m never inspired in front of the computer. I’ve resorted to pen, ink and paper. It helps me slightly to write, to spell out my fears but it hurts my hand – haven’t written manually in ages.
When I eventually sleep, I dream of horrors. I dream of tsunami, of beasts, of betrayal, of capture, of rape and of blood. My dreams haunt me but I need to sleep – literally cannot cope without it. In my dreams I am betrayed and I can’t wake up. These dreams linger throughout the day and some last for weeks because they are so vivid. I exist in dreamworld as a living entity and there is no escape. What I would give for a dreamless sleep potion.
The drugs help, sort of. I can get out of bed at least. They help me function but they don’t brighten my mood. I’m often tempted to throw myself off the balcony at work but it’s only two stories, it would hurt a lot, I’d forever be branded the crazy girl and I’m not suicidal. Just want to hurt a little, I guess.
Feel alive through pain – yeah that’s fucked up. I am undone. This is not me. I am fun. I am outgoing. I am my mother’s embodiment of her dream. The choice she couldn’t make.
I am following my dream though. I’m not living in her shadow. From as far back as I can remember, I have felt privileged. How was I so lucky to be born into a middle class family? How was I so lucky to have all that I have – education, healthcare and all the books I could read? I didn’t want to contribute to the problems of our world, I wanted to help find solutions. That statement is in itself privilege incarnate. As I child, I only knew that there were people who went without. At seven, I was fundraising for Peru. I have always wanted to work to help people help themselves. This is what I’m doing now. This is what I’ve always wanted to do. So why am I so fucked up? Why am I not ecstatic at the opportunities I have?
I long for my family. I long for my home. I long for the rain. Ok this the getting a bit self indulgent. I am meant to be writing on depression.
Counselling is important. My counsellor helped me to change my “cognitions” – which verbosely means thoughts. It was helping too. Counselling takes time and even with my natural aversion to giving people any ammunition that can be used against me, I opened up to her. I don’t really believe that most doctors, mind or body, keep medical confidentiality. Others may disagree but my experience tells otherwise.
I have been going to see her for four months, that is until this weekend when I wrote her a letter. I wrote of her manipulation. I wrote of my lack of trust. I wrote to fire her. What did she do? After three months, I was invested in therapy. It was helping and then she tripled the fee. She wanted me to pay triple until my insurance money was all used up and then I could go back to the regular amount. That, in my book, is manipulation. When I started, to determine my price, she asked for my salary. There was no mention of insurance. Now she racketeds up the price. No fucking way I will allow anyone to manipulate me like that. I am my own woman. And even though I live in a very corrupt fucking Hell, there is no way some western chick is going to use me to make her fucking fortune.
Of course, all this leaves me in is a mess. I need counselling but I’m not going to open up to someone I don’t trust. Betrayal is one of my triggers. I believe it is the unforgivable sin, which is unforgivable of me too. Circular reasoning, I know.
So why am I spilling my guts on the internet? Mainly because I have nowhere else. Friends know my situation. Friends get bored. I can play at being light-hearted for about an hour before grumpy DS returns. They try. I know they try and I’m also aware of what a pain it is to listen to me complain and whine and bitch about life, the universe and everything. Can’t tell my family. They would freak out and I am light years and a couple of thousand dollars away from them.
Hell I bore myself half the time. As the Doctor in ST:VOY says “you know, you really should keep a personal log. Why bore others needlessly?“. And he’s right or he would be if he wasn’t a computer generated hologram in a fictional universe. So this is my personal log. These are my confessions. This is where I drone on endlessly about my life and the effect my depression is having -fyi it sucks
This long malingering post is almost at an end. It was going to be on depression and explaining effects and stuff but one of the side effects of my depression is meandering thoughts and inability to write in any sort of structured manner.
So long and thanks for all the fish