It’s hard to write when I’m depressed. I don’t feel like doing anything, especially examining my past and explaining myself. My new roommate recently told me that he doesn’t understand depression because he’s never been depressed. “I’m in a pretty good mood most of the time,” he says. I don’t understand that. I’ve been depressed for as long as I can remember. I have been happy also, I do remember that, but I’ve had these black periods all my life. Everything seems hopeless. Nothing seems like a good idea. I don’t get excited about anything. Today I asked myself, “What would I be doing right now if I were happy?” Projects, I thought to myself, so I sorted through some fabrics to pick out something to work on. But none of them seemed like a good idea, and I have some beautiful fabrics.
It affects me physically as well. When we are stressed, our bodies produce more of the hormones that are deleterious to our health. We get sick more easily when stressed. For me specifically, I have always “stored” stress in my neck, the thing I had surgery for. The surgery fixed the crushed vertebrae that was pinching my nerve. But I didn’t fix however it is that stress hurts my neck, and I’m afraid the problem has just moved down one vertebrae and switched sides. So now it’s my right arm that’s affected. I also have lower back problems that affect my walking and standing. I can’t walk across a grocery store, so going hiking is out of the question, and I love hiking. We all need to be connected to nature. I have been going to the river with my friend Michael, sitting and watching the water and the ducks, which does help. I get sick in direct sunlight, though, so it’s hard in the summer to spend time outside, since it is relentlessly sunny here all summer long. I don’t know why that happens. It’s just been the last three years or so. I’d think it was Oregon but it started happening back in SC.
When I tell people about these physical limitations, it feels to me like I am complaining. I hate to complain. I’m just explaining my limitations, the circumstances under which I operate. It sounds to me like I am whining, though. I guess I am not used to being dis-abled. I think aging sucks, I planned on it not happening somehow. Of course nothing has turned out like I had planned. I’m a stranger in my own life.
I used to put myself to sleep with a wish that I would wake up the next day in my “real” life, in a different time stream. I would turn to my husband and say, “I had the most horrible dream. You didn’t exist.” He would tell me that’s ridiculous. And then I would get my kids up and pack their lunches while Hubby cooked breakfast, then drive to my community counseling job. I hoped maybe if I thought about it hard enough, I could slip sideways into a parallel universe where I wasn’t so alone, so depressed, where my life wasn’t so meaningless. Where my life circumstances had been just a little less debilitating, or I’d been luckier, or made better choices.
Sometimes I think that I am just a bad person. I know everyone thinks that sometimes, but I can point to my lack of lasting relationships as proof positive. I try to make up for it by being the best person that I can possibly be. I try to be kind and gentle to everyone I encounter. But sometimes I am in so much pain that I can’t do that. So I withdraw. When I’m depressed I spend even more time alone. I don’t like people looking at me at the best of times. It’s unbearable when I’m depressed. I’m trying to get over this feeling. But it’s pretty deeply ingrained.
I’m also at odds with my friend. She treated me badly because she was in pain. When I have conflict with another person, I tend to withdraw. I might really psych myself up and reach out once or twice, but if I’m rebuffed, I give up. Especially if the person has hurt me in the past, I don’t want to risk being hurt again. It’s easier to be by myself. Over time this leads to no relationships, certainly no older, strong ties with anyone. Grandmother was the strong twine that held my life together, her love propping me up, but since she died there’s been no one who really knows me.
My best friend Deidra, back in South Carolina, is my longest relationship, and we met not even ten years ago. I’m hard to be friends with. I don’t like to talk on the phone. I don’t need to spend a lot of time with people to consider the relationship close. I get caught up in my own issues or projects and I guess it can be hard to get my attention. I’m good at texting, though. I send cards and little gifts, but usually forget birthdays. I’m really good at presents though. I think I’m a good friend once you get to know me. I’m loyal. But the feedback I have gotten over the years is that I’m difficult to get to know. And I stay by myself so much that I rarely encounter new potential friends.
Another source of stress is not having enough money. I am out of money right now. Payday is coming up, but I don’t make enough to cover my expenses, so I’m constantly running short. I wondered what amount of money I need to feel OK, and I think that it’s $40. If I have $40 in my wallet, I don’t stress about money. I know that the USA operates at a loss, and I know that big corporations maintain huge debts, and get bailed out when they go too far into the red, and I wonder why I have to suffer like this, me and all of the American working poor. It’s not necessary; society could be arranged so that everyone is free from want. Our wealthy society chooses not to do that. This is the basic Democratic/Republican divide as I see it: shall we take care of the poor? Democrats say hell yes; Republicans say hell no. Being in poverty has an extremely deleterious effect on one’s health, mental and physical. At least now I have health care, due to living in Oregon, where they care for the poor. But being poor is still stressful.
That’s why I haven’t been writing. It isn’t that I don’t want to. It’s that I’m dealing with this black wave, sticky like molasses, that slows me down and makes everything seem so hard. It will pass, and I will get better. But for now I just have to move forward as best I can. Once I’m better, I will return to my writing project. I haven’t forgotten, and I haven’t given up.