Tag Archives: sad

Depression Expression

What do you call your depression?  How do you describe it?  How do you combat it?

This is something I wrote a few days ago:

I am so sad.  So deeply, deeply sad.  It’s almost that it is so strong of an emotion, so overpowering and overwhelming that simple words do not come close, not nearly close enough, to describe even an ounce of it.

I wish I were able to depict it artistically in some way.  I understand and appreciate those who do.  Sometimes I will google “sadness” or “depression” and click on the images tab to find the one that speaks to me the most.

All the synonyms, again, are unable to express it nor define it correctly nor accurately.  It is so immense and heavy and weighing.  Sorrow, gloom, despair – these all seem like cardboard cut-outs of the same word, and it does not express the true nature of it.

Sometimes in pictures, it’s shown as a heavy burden, like a ball and chain.  Or a weight on someone’s back or shoulders.  Sometimes it’s depicted like a ghost shrouded in black, or a scream, or a soul being tortured in some way.  Agony, defeat, these are getting closer when you look at others’ visual depictions of it.

It is a hopelessness

And that is where my writing ended that day.  It is strange for me to be unable to put things into words, as writing has always come so natural to me.  I can see poetry possibly being an effective strategy for helping me to express my depression, though I haven’t dove into poetry for 20 years.

Let me know what tools you use to describe your own depression, or to express whatever turmoil you’re struggling with inside.

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The Sad

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I don’t want The Sad.  I didn’t ask for The Sad.  It’s just here anyway.

I’m kind of angry at The Sad and it makes me mad that The Sad tricks me into thinking I’m the only one with it.

It comes and goes as it pleases and disrupts my life and poops on it and then leaves.  I’m glad when it’s gone but I hate that it has returned and I hate that it is always returning.

Why is it so hard to beat The Sad?  All the things I know to do don’t make sense when The Sad is around.

I have no words for The Sad.  I can’t even write to beat The Sad.  And now I have to go to work and fight every moment against The Sad so that I don’t just up and leave suddenly when it becomes too overwhelming and the only other thing I can do is drive home and sneak into bed and hope that no one notices and no one finds me and tries to make me do anything other than hide.

 

 

Wrong Way On a One-Way Track

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FYI:  This is not actually me.

I feel like I’m headed toward a breakdown.  Like a runner who’s running a bit too fast and starting to lose traction but can’t slow down soon enough.  This is the exact scenario I work so hard to avoid, and yet – here I am.

Starting to flail my arms and trying to maintain my balance, but who am I kidding?  We all know I’m about to fall.  And I’m going to smack the ground.  Hard.

I could write about how hard it is as a mom with bipolar disorder.  I could write about how my husband tries to support me but we’re having marital problems.  I could write about how I’m terrified that my oldest son will develop bipolar disorder and my worst fear is that one day he will commit suicide.

I know my coping skills.  I am to:

Image result for running and almost falling

This is just a pretty picture that reminded me of a place I used to go to on my dad’s farm.  It was an old train track in a wooded area behind the acres he farmed.  When Mom got sick and there was no one to take care of me, I’d ride with him in the tractor.  If I got bored he’d let me out at one end of the field and I’d wander down the grassed-up tracks till he came back around to pick me back up again.

– write
– take walks
– utilize my support system
– stick to a routine of regular sleep
– eat healthy
– SEE MY THERAPIST.

I haven’t seen her since…October?  That is when I realized that my insurance isn’t paying for my visits (and won’t until February).  This is what stirred up problems for me last time, too – I wasn’t seeing a psych nor a therapist for months leading up to my breakdown.

Tomorrow I’ll call the office.  I’ll make an appointment.  I’ll find a way to pay for it later.  I have to see someone.

Alwrite so I’m gonna right.

I’m not in the mood to write, but I know it helps me.  So I’m going to choose to do the healthy thing even though it is the thing I least want to do.

In fact, the thing I would most like to do is completely give up.  Only I can’t.  Because of alot of things.  Because other people depend on me.  Because I have kids.  Because it would be the easy way out.  Because it wouldn’t fix anything.  Because I have to keep keeping on.

I’m not in the best place right now.  I know those of you who know depression understand.  So I know that I have to focus on the positive right now.  I have to force myself to get through each minute of each day and just focus on what is right in front of me.

I need to take a walk.
I need to focus on breathing.
I need to write to make it alright.

I remember when I was in the psychiatric hospital, we used to get together every morning and state our goal for the day.  Over and over my goal was simply “breathe.”  Maybe people thought I wasn’t being serious (or maybe that was my paranoid thoughts about what others were thinking of me) but it was literally all I could do to just focus on breathing and being alive.  Like, accepting that I’m here and this is it and this is what I had to deal with.  Cause I fought it so hard, fought the fact that I was in the hospital, fought the fact that I had to take care of myself before I could take care of anything else.  Accept that I was sick.

We had art class in the hospital, and it was life-changing for me.  It still is so hard for me to draw or create something art-ful.  Because I feel like I don’t do it well enough or that it won’t look good and so why should I even try?  I need to get back to that therapeutic aspect cause once I started doing it, I realized that it was helpful.  Like helpful-alot.

Right now, today, I have to go to work.  I have to put on a stupid red apron with all this Christmas crap on it and I have to smile and I have to make stupid jokes with the customers.  And I’m doing it for my kids.  To support us because I’m the only one that can.  I have to miss out on them getting off the bus.  I have to work until night and then I get to see them for a while before they go to bed.

Vent/rant:  I’m so sick of everything.  I’m so sick of trying so hard for just simple things.  Like getting dressed, getting ready, driving to work.  Working.  Coming home and trying to be there for my family.  All I really want to do is be alone.  I imagine myself going to a soft cabin in the woods somewhere, being completely alone with myself and no one else.  Just feeding myself and sleeping and maybe writing a little and maybe, if I get the confidence to do it, drawing.  Or creating something.  Anything.

This summer I spent time with my sister and her niece and my kids and my sister’s husband.  And we were at a beach and we had just ate pizza at the beach and we had to leave so we decided, let’s take one more jump in the water, and then we’ll pack everything up and go.

So I dove out into the water and I forgot about my kids and my sister and I left my life on the shore and I swam out and out and out and just kept crashing my body into the water over and over, diving farther and farther out, away from everything.  I would jump up, throw myself into the water, crash through the surface, immerse my whole body deep under the water, then rise back up and do it again.  It was the single best experience of my entire year.

Peace.

 

 

Mommy – why are you crying?

Last night I just sat on the floor and cried.  In front of my kids.

I have a memory burned into my brain.  I was very young, and I came upon my mom sitting in the bathroom in the dark.  I wandered in and asked, “Are you crying?”  Of course, my mom being the mom that she was, denied that she was crying, quickly swept away her tears with the back of her hands, wiped her hands on her pants and stood up all in one swift movement.

I can remember each moment of that memory, and I can even slow it down to recall the sounds of her sobbing, the isolated feeling of being in the bathroom in the dark, and the curiosity I felt of why she was crying.

I didn’t feel disappointed or frightened or sad.  Just curious.

 

I try hard not to cry in front of my kids.  Because I am afraid it will disturb them or make them worry or feel pressure to “take care of” me, instead of just being themselves, carefree and oblivious.  But I’m not very good at turning off my tears once they start to fall.  In fact, it’s near impossible for me.

So when it hit me last night, I just crawled into the baby’s dark room and hid in the corner and cried.  Inevitably, the kids came in.  My oldest asked me why I was crying, and I couldn’t even stop sobbing long enough to tell him.  All I could say was “I’m sorry” over and over.  I was so afraid that this moment would become etched in his own memory just like mine had with my mother.

My son just kept telling me there was no reason to cry.  He gave me a hug and cuddled me till I was able to calm myself down.  After I stopped, I told him that sometimes it feels good to cry.  That it is a gift Allah has given us in order to help us release our emotions.

I didn’t want to hide the truth from him.  I wanted him to know I was crying and know that it was okay to cry, that it is not a sign of weakness and we should not be ashamed of it.