I generally abhor the confessional-style of writing, so
please bear with me.
Several years ago, I was diagnosed with dysthymia. It is perhaps better known by the less-snappy
moniker, “persistent depressive disorder” which the Mayo Clinic defines as a “continuous
long-term (chronic) form of depression.”
It is not adjacent to awesome.
Having possessed a ruthless penchant for melancholy for many
years, I wasn’t surprised when the verdict was handed down.
Unlike the popular depiction of depression as being a dark
cloud that hovers above one’s noggin, I have a slightly different take on
it. It comes across as more
insidious. Fans of Tolkien know of Grima
Wormtongue, the character who provided ill counsel to King Theoden of Rohan.
Depression, as least as I know it, operates in a somewhat similar manner. It whispers.
It prods. It suggests. The messaging is rarely, if ever,
life-affirming…even though it sometimes passes under the guise of “well
meaning.” It plays on resentments and fears,
and it does so flawlessly.
“You can’t do this
project. Why would they even ask you? You should focus on what you do best.”
“You’ve been working
hard. You deserve some quiet time, why
not stay in your home office all weekend?”
“Vacation? You have too much going on. Who wants to spend time traveling? Between
client projects and class assignments, you wouldn’t be able to enjoy it anyway.”
I know I shouldn’t indulge the disquiet, but I do. A check of my Pandora account will show
artists like Elliott Smith on heavy rotation.
Oh the list goes on as this grim counselor is ever-present
and always ready to offer its perspective.
In terms of behavior, I am generally able to push past the
siren song and accomplish what needs to be done, more so at the job than in my
personal life. That said, it is
exhausting, which feeds into the inclination to disengage in a (typically
futile) effort to recover. Of course the
fatigue endures, which makes me less likely to run, write, meditate, or do
anything else that might conceivably improve my state of mind. Coupled with anxiety issues, well, double the
lack of pleasure, double the dearth of fun.
Medications? On and
off them for years. Some worked for a while.
Others gave me disquietingly vivid dreams (see: sleep, lack thereof). I
am taking something now, and it seems to be helping me stave off the lower
lows.
Counseling helps.
Having someone to talk through the issues and challenges helps take off
some of the edge. It can offer a
positive anticipatory effect (“today is tough, but at least I can talk with Dr.
X tomorrow”) and real world advice on how to handle the rougher patches.
So why this topic? Why now?
I don’t know. Perhaps the recent loss of my Dad triggered
something. Perhaps I am square in the
midst of a mid-life existential crisis.
Perhaps I am scarfing too many Little Debbie Zebra Cakes.
It would be easier to say I am writing for some high-minded,
altruistic reason, to help others who suffer similarly. But honestly, at this point, I am just trying
to stay above the waves and this blog is a piece of driftwood that I grabbed.
That seems sufficient for today. Anyway, for the good of our Republic, don’t
forget to vote.
Stay tuned, as more will follow.
