It’s been a weird couple of weeks for me. School started up again at the end of August and it was like all of the progress I’ve been made all summer is gone. I went from reading an average of eight books a month to struggling to finish three, and all the blog posts I had great ideas for two months ago now have either run away or just won’t come out. Writing is like putting my brain into a blender.
At the end of last summer, I was officially diagnosed with chronic anxiety and depression with an extra dollop of seasonal depression, because why not just pile it on? Being “officially” diagnosed finally at 27 is a-whole-nother post I could write. Suffice it to say, chronic depression is something I’ve been struggling with my whole life. But recently I’ve been working with my therapist and my doctor to improve my quality of life (not to “get better” I’m never going to “get better.” That’s the definition of chronic). I thought I was in a good place. But of course with the coming of fall and the impending cold, the universe decided to smack me back down.
All of that is to say, this is the reason I haven’t been keeping up on blogging like I wanted to (though it is a mark of progress that I’m being gentle with myself and not giving up on it). But since nothing else seems to want to cooperate with me recently, I thought I might record what it’s like trying to read and write while having a symptom flare-up.
Having depression is like living is as if there’s a slight haze over the universe that makes everything just a little bit duller and a little bit harder. It’s a little uncanny valley because everything “seems” the same as it was when you weren’t symptomatic, and yet you barely get through mandatory tasks, you’re perpetually exhausted, and even the things you know you love don’t bring you the same joy. That, honestly, is probably the worst part. Talking with a friend, we both agreed that, not quite like missing a limb, but more like losing access to a part of yourself. You know its there, but you can't get to it. When I’m symptomatic, logically I know I love reading. I know I love to write. And yet nothing in the world can motivate me to pick up a novel, even a brand-new one I’ve just bought and was dying to read two days ago. And writing is as appealing as watching paint dry— which in all likelyhood is about how much will get done during any attempted writing session.
What I find the most frustrating is objectively knowing that all of this would be a piece of cake if I weren’t symptomatic because I’ve done it before. It’s comparatively easy when I’m not symptomatic, and in fact enjoyable. And now, with medication and regular therapy, most days I’m not symptomatic. So I make goals, like any reasonably-organized and responsible adult. And it’s fine for a few weeks. And then suddenly, inevitably, I’m symptomatic again and the goals that were easy just the day before are suddenly rolling a boulder up a hill hard. And yet it everything feels the same. I’m doing nothing different, and yet I can’t accomplish even a fraction of what I could before. Frustrating isn’t nearly a strong enough word.
I’ve been working on it though. I’ve been trying to be more gentle with myself. I’ve been trying to do just a little. I’ve been making decisions about what is absolutely necessary to get done and what can wait until I have enough spoons. That is one strangely positive side effect of depression and anxiety, which from what I’ve heard is generally applicable across disabilities: You get really good at finding creative solutions to do things you wouldn't normally be able to do with your disability. You become adaptable to the inflexible world around you.
It’s a process. I’m working on it, it’s just slower than I would like.
x
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