The Demon Depression
Some people call it weakness… Some call it laziness… Some call it guilt, anxiety or besieged. To me depression means wrestling my demons. And that’s how I spent Memorial Day weekend. I went over every mean, hateful, unjust thing I had ever done, not to make amends but to punish myself. I alternately felt ugly, sad, jealous, lonely and unloved. I didn’t cry, but I didn’t really sleep either. It sucked.
I thought about doubling the Zoloft, but the bathroom felt too far away and I couldn’t summon the energy to screw off the Ducqueproof cap. Besides there were no kids around to open it for me. And the problem with antidepressants is they aren’t magic fixes. You have to take them regularly in order for them to help a little. So instead I wore a path between the television where I watched mindless programs and the office where I played mindless computer games.
The only reason I got out of my jammies and left the house once a day was to buy more junk food. All the commercials on the tube featured delectable tacos, burgers and fried chicken. I succumbed to the temptation of no brain easy fixings. Stunt food, that’s what it is. It tasted greasy and salty. Then my tummy was upset.
I thought some. I talked on the phone some. I told my friends, “No, I’m not depressed, just exhausted.” But mostly I vegetated. My usually half full glass of life was almost empty. Gawd, I was pathetic.
I’ve spent weekends alone before and enjoyed every moment of them. But not this one. My garden was begging to be weeded and watered. The beach was beckoning to be walked. I had closets to organize, places to explore, and new recipes to try. Had you called me in the same state of mind that I was in, I would have suggested you do something positive with your time. If you were a close friend of mine feeling this way I would have kidnapped you and dragged you out of the house. But I didn’t reach out to anyone. I chose to wallow.
Sometimes wallowing is a good stress reliever. Life can become too much for the best of us. Work, finances, relationships. Exercise and obligations. Appointments and household maintenance. The worries whirled around in my head. I couldn’t focus on one quacking quandary long enough to solve it before another pushed it aside. It felt like my head was a chaotic city bakery and I wanted to tell the public (my problems) to take a number. Forget about multi-tasking. I just wanted it all to stop. I was overwhelmed. So I took a time out. I wasted two whole days.
I call it a “wasted weekend” because I didn’t enjoy it. On other frittered away weekends I have pampered myself. On those blessed Saturdays and Sundays I have had long hot soaks in the tub, read an entire mystery, rented chick flicks or played in the dirt. On those pajama weekends I’ve emerged from a cozy cocoon on Monday morning feeling rested and ready to face the world.
By the third day of my doldrums, I was able to bust out of my self-made prison. I didn’t feel rested at all. You know how it is you’ve had a really bad headache for hours or days and finally the meds kick in and you feel mostly relief but also some bitterness that you had to go through that torment? That was me facing the aftermath of my despair.
Heck, I could write a book about dealing with depression. You drag yourself out of bed, exercise, eat right, stay busy, call a friend, make small achievable goals and reward yourself with small healthy treats. But do as I say, not as I did that 48 hours.
My motivation slowly returned. I got dressed and showered. I went out to breakfast. I did a few chores and I confessed to my closest concerned friends that yes, I really had been depressed.
At work on Tuesday I was almost my usual perky self, maybe just a little crankier and quieter, but basically still me. Until they read this column my co-workers won’t know the hell I put myself through that weekend. By the time “The Demon Depression” is posted I hope my Memorial Day weekend will be a vague nightmare.
So, what’s my point? It could have been worse; it could have lasted longer. I could have felt suicidal. It wasn’t and it probably won’t ever be that bad for me. Knock on wood. I recognize my symptoms and I understand my process. I “worked through” this episode as I have periodically in the past and will undoubtedly do again in the future (the distant future I hope.)
According to the psychiatrists’ bible I didn’t qualify for “major depression.” To meet that criterion (or is it those criteria?) I would have had to have had five of nine symptoms for at least two weeks that was a change in my normal functioning. I got over my setback. I just had “the blues” like everyone experiences to some degree from time to time.
But what about the millions of other really depressed men and women? Depending on whom you read and whether they are talking about currently depressed or depressed at some point in their lives, between 2% and 25% of Americans have clinical depression. Ouch. If they feel as bad as I did, and it lasts longer than a couple of days then there are some mighty miserable people out there.
And you probably know some of those unhappy individuals. But unless you’ve experienced it yourself you can’t imagine how yukky it feels. My brain was in over drive but the feet were made of lead. Every movement felt like I weighed a ton and was walking through a field of molasses. My problem solving skills were in the toilet. It was like paralysis, paralysis of my soul. I would hate to live my life feeling like that. In the context of a lifetime yourselfliving with the demon depression, suicide ALMOST makes sense. ALMOST is the operative word in that last sentence.
The good news is depression, like diabetes is treatable illness. Antidepressant medications, counseling and practicing self help skills can really make a difference in the life of a person with depression; just as balanced diet, medications and insulin can with the diabetic.
The bad news is depression is way more insidious than diabetes. Even with us boomers who cut our wisdom teeth on consciousness raising groups and twelve step programs, depression is easily misunderstood. It still is a stigma. For the older adults in the population and the know-it-all kids (do I sound like my own parents or what?) depression is a travesty with which strong or cool people would never be afflicted.
Wrong, no one is immune from this disease. I think it behooves us all to be a little more sensitive towards our friends and colleagues who suffer from depression. We need to encourage them to take care of themselves and to get professional help if after a few days self care and supportive friends isn’t enough. If they (or you) are suicidal they (or you) MUST call someone. A good place to start is you doctor, or the local mental health clinic. I would never wish depression on anyone, but who knows, you might wake up to self hate and painful demons one day. Take care of yourself. Get help if you need it.
Coming of Age
Two
years ago I got a telephone call that rocked my
world. My 20 year old son was thinking
about joining the Navy. He knew about my
history protesting the
I
started shivering on that summer day.
But I knew my boy was floundering. He’d been burned by a girl. He didn’t like college or the dead end jobs he’d had. He needed a purpose, structure and time to think. We discussed other alternatives, but in the end I told him, “I won’t sign the permission slip, but I’ll support whatever decision you make….I love you and I’m proud of you.” This was no longer high school and the lack of my signature couldn’t keep him off the football team any more. We laughed together.
Recently
Nate had a long leave to move from the East back to
the West Coast where he starts his first assignment.
He came to visit me right before Mother’s Day
before he reported for duty. En route he
called and said, “I have a craving for crab.
I want to go crabbing while I’m there.”
I had arranged a Golden Lame’ Crabbing Club (March 5 column)
reunion,
but his weekend arrival was delayed by a visit to an old friend. So it was just the two of us in
We reminisced over half a bottle of French wine. We toasted our first legal drink together. I told him he’d eat crab even if we had to fish at Tony’s Port-O-Call. He reminded me the point of crabbing was to hang out on the dock with friends. Oh yeah, he’s still my boy but sometimes he acts like the adult. We caught Lunch (one Dungie keeper; we named him “Lunch.”) Also ”Snack” and “Hors d'oeuvre” (red rocks.)
As I sipped wine with my adult son I thought about his childhood. His first word was “car.” Natie used to line up all his Hot Wheels in rows according to size and color. He could make anything out of Legos when I could barely figure out how to open the box. I remembered his first day of school. I put him on the bus but then I followed it all the way to make sure he got off okay. My mind fast forwarded through sports and Scouts, school papers and vacations, all his friends that used to hang out at our house. I relived the agonizing nights when he first got his driver’s license and didn’t believe curfew applied to him.
And
then out of nowhere I remembered his tenth
birthday. The morning of his party I was
going to Powell’s Bookstore to hear one of my favorite authors read. I asked him if he wanted me to buy him a book
while I was there. He told me he wanted
a book about submarines. I couldn’t find
one. Instead I bought a book of
photographs and lyrical descriptions of
Did I mention how smart my first born is? He’s learning how to be a nuclear engineer on a submarine. Somehow it clicked in place for me again that Wednesday on the dock. This is what Nathan wants to do, or needs to do, or is choosing to do. It’s not about rebelling against a hippie mom. It’s about following his own path. I’ve never cared about submarines, or any kind of machines, but that’s his thing. He was interested in submarines when he was ten years old and now he’s going to be on one for the next four years. He’s always wanted to know how things work.
It’s time for the mother to learn from the son. I plan on buying a book about real submarines this time.
PS. The original column ended there but before it was posted I got another world rocking call. Talk about synchronicity. Last weekend while I was thinking and writing about my boy Nate, the man Nathan was proposing to his high school sweetheart, the woman for whom he delayed his visit to his mom. She said, "Yes!" Congratulations Meghan and Nathan!
Road Trips
May 14 , 2004
No
matter how much you love where you live, sometimes you
just gotta get out of Dodge. If you
can’t afford
In order to successfully drive long distances it is helpful to adapt a Zen-like consciousness, aware of nothing and everything at the same time. You must remain focused enough that you don’t have an accident or miss your turn off, but open-minded enough to embrace both the whole and the detail. Experiencing the changing topography becomes a metaphor for whatever issue with which you are currently contemplating. I took off my wedding ring on I5 and decided to quit a dead-end job on I80. I wonder how many other life changing decisions have been made on the highway.
Interstates are the catchall for strong emotion. Travels to weddings and funerals, visits to out of state relatives or simple family vacations take us all out of our comfort zone. We are forced to find new radio stations, eat unfamiliar food and entertain ourselves in cramped quarters for hours on end. There is the need to fight traffic and the elements, navigate unfamiliar surroundings, and pump your own gas. Do you succumb to road rage or soar blithely above the stress full of the spirit of adventure? Do you stay in the moment and enjoy the scenery or impatiently calculate how long it will be till you get there?
One
of my pettiest remembrances occurred in a 1975 journey when
four college buddies and I caravanned from
In
1983 poor Winston drove my infant son and me from
With a companion, you might discover a soul mate or a monster you never knew was hidden inside. It’s a sure thing you will know him or her better after spending hours together in a metal box. Automobiles have been the setting for many a personal revelation and philosophical discourse. Traveling with children offers families an opportunity to share some of that quality time that humdrum existences don’t allow (or it can build character.) My pediatrician recommended Benadryl for long voyages. It helps preschoolers who haven’t mastered Zen yet sleep away the miles.
One
gift for which I am now grateful to my parents is the
bi-yearly Okie-cations they always dragged me.
This is where you go to
In recent years most of my road trips have been alone. My traveling persona has shifted from destination focused to practicing “Be here now.” I still am usually visiting relatives but I use the time alone to reflect and literally to expand my horizons. I actually like the perspective traffic jams of more than 10 cars gives me. Construction zones are not my favorite thing, but since my family tends to stay put I look forward to the next visit and seeing the changes. I’m a sucker for “points of interest.” Voracious reader that I am, I even read the tourist info that they have in rest stop kiosks. Luckily I’ve gotten forgetful enough in my old age that I am okay with it never changing.
Of course it’s not all good. It’s not that I mind pumping my own gas. It’s the damn credit machines. They’re all different and I feel like a fool trying to figure out which buttons to push. I prefer to pay as I go, but cash is a foreign concept in the rest of the world where gas station robbery doesn’t make the police notes in the local paper. Inevitably I forget to denote at least one debit card purchase on my register and my check book is out of whack for a month. Although I’m working on anger management it really riles me when they have the gall to add a 1% card charge after they’ve practically forced you to use plastic.
How you pass the time in a car probably offers great insight into your personality as well. When I’m not thinking deep thoughts and making life decisions I sing, car dance and count things. Do you realize how many different shades of green with which Oregonians are blessed? I also like Books on Tapes and making up stories about people I see.
I
tend to familiarize strangers, probably since I’m so used
to running into people I know everywhere I go.
Usually the person across the Subway shop is someone I’ve never
seen
before, but it’s always thrilling when you run into an actual
acquaintance away
from home. This happens a lot to Coos
Countians at Tomiselli’s in Elkton where everyone stops for coffee and
pastry
or a meal on the way to
Perhaps the best part of road trips is adventuring off the beaten path, both of the road and your own life. It’s good to shake things up every so often and challenge yourself to think outside your metal box. Hug a tree. Climb a mountain. Those images remain imprinted long after the credit card is paid off.
Lost Loves: Exes and Personality Development
Psychologists say that our personality is developed at an early age. We can and do change. But growth is difficult and requires a high level of maturity and personal responsibility. Sometimes it’s easier to blame our parents than it is to be accountable for our own actions. (Although most of us do a pretty good job of taking credit for our own personality strengths.)
Lately I’ve been thinking it makes as much sense to fault our ex lovers for our “damaged” personalities. My relationships with my exes certainly have impacted how I communicate, make love, share, perform household tasks and spend my spare time. I still put coffee cups away mouth side up because my former husband didn’t like the thought of his lips touching dirty shelves. I discovered mushrooming and fishing with my last boyfriend. So why not blame those two for being so good at household repair that I never learned how to fix a faucet or put up window shades? After all, they enabled me to remain a princess.
I’m noticing how bigger “baggage” from lost loves affects current relationships. As adults, those primal human fears of abandonment and/or or engulfment, the need for love and respect, and the ability to trust and forgive unfolds more in the bedroom than anywhere else. When burned in the boudoir, it is only too easy to construct obstacles for yourself that prevent you from getting close to someone new. On a recent date I had the fantasy there were several invisible people in the restaurant as we discussed our respective exes. That can get really crowded in a table for two.
Most of the time when lovers break up it’s over for good. How many people do you know whose lips curl into a sneer and voices turn bitter when they talk about the horrible things their “ex” did? It’s a wonder we don’t get trampled by all the witches and beasts (who were once beloved by our acquaintances) running amok out there. Of course there is a multitude of reasons for the need to defame. Sometimes we wait too long to call it quits, the hurt is irreparable, or the differences are so insurmountable that no contact is the best contact.
But not seeing the ex any more doesn’t make the feelings go away. And for most of us it does effect how you relate to the next guy or gal that comes along. Too often people who were dumped begin to expect to be left. Someone who has been cheated on in the past often reacts to harmless current situations with jealousy. There is a danger of these insecurities playing out again and again becoming a self fulfilling prophecy. In the other extreme, some of us idealize the lost love to the point that no real person has a chance in comparison.
I’ve also noticed that sometimes positive changes we wouldn’t make for one lover become easier for the next. My former husband used to complain about how annoying it was to balance our checkbook because my sloppy 5’s looked like 3’s. I told him he should be able to figure out from the tally what my digit was. After the divorce I consciously worked on formulating my numbers. Now that I have my own checking account my 5’s couldn’t be clearer. I realized hubby was right and I was just being stubborn.
I had a boyfriend in college who would not call when he was going to be late. I told him over and over that it didn’t matter to me that he was running behind; I just needed a heads up. I ran into him a couple of years ago when I was visiting the state of my birth. I couldn’t believe it when he sheepishly called his wife to let her know he was going to be delayed while we had a cup of coffee. He told me that he knew I was right even back when we were together, but he didn’t want to “give in.”
Once in awhile a few special people are able to maintain a positive relationship in their splitting. They mean it when they say, “Let’s just be friends.” They are willing to deal with conflict, jealousy and tension in order to move to a new level together. These are the ones whose connection is based upon communication as well as chemistry. When the sex is over, it’s not all the way over. Maybe they have friends in common or belong to the same organization. If they live in a small town they’re bound to run into each other. Maybe they still care enough for each other that they make a point of making room in their lives for one another.
In the past few weeks I have had the opportunity to spend some time with several people, including my own more recent ex boyfriend, who have maintained friendship or at least friendliness after they are no longer romantically involved. The patterns of the old relationship shine through like shattered light fragments through a prism. For better and for worse there is still a visible connection between these pairs.
Their intimacy remains. They laughingly tell embarrassing stories about each other. They finish each others sentences. They know how to get around in the kitchen together. The rhythm they once developed is easily retrieved in their work and play. They can identify and forgive one another’s foibles.
But I’ve also witnessed and experienced the reactions they still have to old buttons that originally caused the couples to fight and probably contributed to the break up. While individually you can’t find a more generous person than half of the pair, that same giving is withdrawn when the ex wants something. Their wittiness in a group sometimes strays into barbed hostility towards the other. They know so much about each other and once in awhile they use it against their “friend.”
A lot of what I know about dating and relationships I learned from situation comedies. Seinfeld’s Jerry and Elaine seem to make it work because they have lower expectations of each other as friends than they did as lovers. Ross and Rachel on Friends have demonstrated the need for time and communication to be successful in making the transition. Both of these sets have also “relapsed” into brief returns to lovers as they struggle with the sexual attraction that still lurks beneath the surface when neither is involved with someone else. Rachel told Ross in a recent episode of Friends, “Sex will always be on the table with us.”
In conclusion, my thought process about exes has confirmed my belief that we are the sum total of ALL of our experiences, good and bad. I also think that we have choice regarding how we integrate our past relationships into our current lives. With the help of a few frank friends with whom I share confidences I am slowly learning to heal myself without blaming Mom or Dad or the Exes. My heart might have been broken a few times, but I refuse to remain a broken person forever because of it.
What seems to work best for me is allowing myself to feel whatever comes without trying to second guess how I should feel or pretend I don’t feel. When the feeling is strong and I sense an overreaction, I ask myself where that came from. Am I responding to what is happening now or is it a reaction to an ex’s ghost? This process opens me up to insight if can figure it out. Humor if I can’t. I’m also discovering that where once I would have responded with anger and tears at perceived slights that sometimes now I respond with shaking my head and “oh well.” I’m not there yet, but I think the next step will be communicating this process with the potential object of my love instead of my girlfriends and readers.
Finally I am asserting that I am ultimately responsible for who I am today. It is not my parents and early childhood experiences, nor my ex lovers and past relationships, who are to blame for my quirks and flaws. Our interactions have certainly contributed to my knowledge and understanding of the human condition and my own position in it. But it is up to me to sort out what has worked for me in the past and discard what hasn’t. This gives me the freedom to try on new roles in relationships and make new mistakes.
I Had Morels but no Idee
April 12, 2004