Tag: depression

The Forest of Curious Creatures

Beneath the luscious canopy of beautiful trees,
in the very dark wood.

There lived a goblin,
who was up to no good.

While the greenery gasped and smiled at the sun,
the goblin liked to play tricks and none of them were fun.

***

This is what it’s like to live in the forest of my head. Your life tree can be healthy and growing, joyful and jubilant. But, underneath it all, there lives a sneaky goblin who occasionally prompts you to think of the worst things, or to make imaginary, emergency backup plans in case all the trees come tumbling down.

You see, this is where I am right now. There’s a level of weariness to me that I’ve been ignoring or submerging into a sea of “Other Stuff To Do”, like you pretend not to look at the spilt juice on the counter top, or you try to ignore the sink of dirty dishes until you just cannot put another plate in.

This morning, for whatever reason it may be, I tried to jam another dish into the sink. And, just like that, my sneaky goblin came out to play.

He’s been sending letters and notification alerts to my brain that he’s bored and wants to run around a bit, but I’ve ignored him. Instead, I’ve re-channelled his chirps into “Finding Other Things Important” or “Over Investing Energy Into Things That Don’t Matter”. And now, because I’ve let him fester so long, he’s pissed off and taking over the forest.

A revolt, so to speak. One that stalls all progress, takes everything too seriously and, if I’m not careful, he’ll probably set a tree or two on fire and start ruining stuff. He makes so much noise, drowning out the birds’ chirping and obliterating every single bit of gentle conversation that’s going on between the woodland creatures. He’ll bash on the bark, poke squirrels in their tummies and finally, he’ll attempt to set stuff on fire. He always does this and, before, I would let him.

The thing is though – I’m not like I was years ago. I know that if I let him run around for a while, play him all his favourite music and let him dance around the woods, he will, eventually, get tired and I can whisk him back to his place, to admire his little treasures of pebbles or whatever it is that he keeps in his satchel. I know that if I just pummel through, tolerate his playtime and let my true self respond to him for a bit, he’ll feel satiated and leave my real life alone again. The one I like – the one with the gorgeous canopy of leaves that lets through the most beautiful sunlight, dappling the life I have built below it.

Today, for whatever reason, I will let him run around. He’ll leave me alone eventually.

 

Not just a black dog.

People call it The Black Dog, but I don’t see it that way. Well, not anymore. I see it more as a day that didn’t go so well. A groundhog day I relive now and then.

I was diagnosed with severe depression in 2007, and ended up incapable of working, breathing even, at one point.

If you (were ever allowed to – you’re not, sorry) look at my files, three terms will stick out for you: 1) Post-natal depression; 2) Aggressive episodes and 3) Repressed grief.

Now, 8 years later on, I can look at those terms and not feel guilt over them. They were hallmarks of the things I was going through, and still deal with every day. But being able to name and treat them was the start of being able to deal with them.

For an inordinately long time, I actually believed I was crazy. Like, full on mental. That I had an actual disorder and that I would be institutionalised if I ever actually told someone the things that went on within me. Instead, I would deal with it by getting furiously angry, to the point where I would alienate everyone, throw away people (yes, really) and blame anything or everyone else for what was actually a chemical imbalance.

When my (beloved and adored) GP suggested to me that, perhaps, my feelings of not being able to cope were, in fact, depression, I shouted at her. I told her I was perfectly capable of dealing with my life and that I didn’t need her medication, therapy or anything. I was totally okay. How I ended up in her consulting rooms is another story altogether, that perhaps I’ll share one day.

Which is when (heaven and stars, I love this woman), she opened up her file and showed me my medical history, which highlighted how, in 2002, I had actually had a breakdown, but had dealt with it under the care of my parents’ GP. I had forgotten that I had told her that. Then she gave me a choice: Try my recommendation of therapy and anti-depressants for three months. If you hate it and think I’m silly, we’ll taper you off and stop it. But, if after three months, you feel differently, we’ll keep going.

So I did. I started seeing a therapist weekly (at first, I saw her every day for a few weeks), and started taking medication for depression. I felt dirty, ashamed and like a drama queen. I was booked off work for the first three weeks, and felt like a failure all round.

Except then, a funny thing happened. In the midsts of therapy, I began to unravel my life story – something I had never really done before, or encapsulated with intent. And it was there that I began to notice two things: (1) I had, for a lot of my life, even as a child, felt like a visitor and saddened by it and (2) I had internally accepted a feeling of incapability as my own trademark move. I actively used number (2) as an excuse, for anything and everything. In some respects of my life, I still do, but I’m working on those – I am aware of them. I also confronted a lot of guilt that I felt over things I should never have felt that about. Ever. Not even for a second. I learnt to process guilt (which is an instant response mechanism for me) and move on from it.

Fast forward eight years, where I am now. I remained in therapy for two years, and on anti-depressants for about five years. They were good for me in a way I did not expect. When I reached a point in my life where I wanted to be free of medication, and felt more capable of being able to recognise the ‘signs’ of an episode, or able to communicate my needs when a fix of ‘the sads’ hit. I learnt to write the things I needed to, and to talk even when I did not want to. I had learnt how to name my feelings, even when I did not want to. I still sometimes fail at this, but I try my best to do it. I have also, always committed to being open to returning to medication and therapy whenever I feel I may require it, and I have the full support of my doctor in doing so.

The biggest thing I learnt? Was not that I was depressed or that there was ‘something wrong’ with me. I learnt that the way to live life is not to be unaffected (which was something I wanted to be, it seemed easier) but to live affected, and to choose when to be affected by it. This is a tough one, because I don’t think you can choose circumstances, but you can learn to master your reactions. For me, the most powerful thing I learnt, for myself, was that my anger and aggression were actually just extensions of sadness. And that’s why, when I get angry, I automatically try to figure out what I feel hurt by. In 2007, I felt alone, abandoned, useless and absolutely incapable, but was far too afraid to admit it. In 2015, I feel very differently about myself, and know that if I had not been able to face up and deal with all of that stuff back then, I’d probably still be stuck feeling like I want to set the world on fire, every day.

I will always – ALWAYS – be grateful for that journey and I have zero shame attached to it. Why? Because I have survived, and I continue to survive. Nope, I thrive. And I thrive on my own terms.