Reluctance

The thing with Depression is the frightening familiarity of it all. It returns; wades; treads; impedes my movement. Quietly. Only until I come up for air, to regain clarity, do I realize I've been submerged, and holy fuck look at how much time has passed, I need to stop this and move on and wait, maybe I'm just lazy or tired and I should get up, get up, get out, come on, get up. Rinse. Repeat.

For the first time in fourteen years I finally went to speak to someone. Not particularly because I was in a rough head-space (but I was), but because economically it was feasible. By the time I met Margo I was already in the process of moving forward from an unfortunate trauma. With the annual winter sadness, late-20-something-year-old fears, typical graduate school stress, I unwillingly tacked on the task of recovering from an assault that occurred during my travels last January. It was already a trip masked in sadness and nostalgia; I found myself questioning characteristics about myself that I thought I had already answered. It occurred during a time where I was determined to override all of my anxieties. When it happened I quickly realized I was unable to cope with such an event, despite the experience I had with dealing with past/familiar trauma; the aftermath proved that coping was not happening any time soon. This wasn't my first attack. Not by a long shot. But it was the first of something, but what or how is still difficult to express. These things are unnameable.

Now there was something foreign about me. Something off. I felt it. Others saw it. I wasn't the same.

Spring had arrived by the time I met Margo and I was on my way to breathing real air again. I had spent the winter physically ill from my incapability of coping emotionally. I had known Depression for so long in many different manifestations, but this was a new breed. This was silent. It wasn't sadness. It was absolute nothing. It was giving up. My immune system began attacking itself. I was covered in stress-hives for three months. I gained an incredible amount of weight. I couldn't write at all. For the first time I was late and unresponsive to deadlines. I had my employer even ask if I was suicidal because of how unlike myself I had become. Textbook Depression. Textbook Trauma Aftermath. And with all of that I still didn't care. But because I felt myself not caring I started to care about not caring. At the end of the day my obsession with my neurosis will always somehow help dig me out.

Then came more sunlight, more reflection, more time to accept myself and what had happened.

When I told Margo my story she asked, "How did you cope afterwards? Who did you speak to?" and I surprised myself when I admitted, "nobody." That wasn't totally true. Where I was I had limited access to people I would have spoken to, so I wrote about it briefly in a message to the Boy, but being halfway around the world from one another there's only so much support one can receive. It took over a month for me to talk to anyone face-to-face about it. I didn't realize that's how long I had waited to finally start the process of asking for help. When one hits the final stage of giving up, asking for help no longer feels necessary.

Margo looked surprised. She said that was a long time to go without reaching out to a friend.

That was the beginning of realizing that being honest isn't necessarily the same as being open. I have really grown into myself these last few years. I'm constantly surprising myself with my own audacity. It's bold and exciting. Sometimes it's only afterwards when I realize "Oh! Wow, I didn't know that was how I felt." Usually it involves me not caring about certain conventions or rules. I'm an open book. I don't have anything to hide; if my self-deprecation is any hint, I don't have much pride or ego to protect either. I'm proud of my honesty. I don't shy away from difficult discussions.

I assumed being loud, honest, and unforgiving about my life also meant I was a complete open book. Lately I'm discovering I'm more of a private person than I ever realized. Rarely do I openly discuss my relationship with the Boy (but won't shy away from discussing him when asked) or ask someone to talk about something that is bothering me. I let it fester until somehow it comes up organically in a conversation with someone. It's been an interesting thing to discover about myself. I keep everything inside until the levee breaks.

 Margo also asked, "When would you say you first felt depressed?" and before I answered I actually laughed. "It's always been there. Beneath the surface. Some days are good, but it's always there. I don't know who I am without it. I thought that was natural?"

She didn't confirm whether or not that feeling was a typical human feeling like I had assumed. Given her reaction I reckoned it was a no. My frame of reference has always been a bit skewed.

So, here we are. Again. I now understand the question "Do you feel a loss of interest in the things you used to enjoy?" I used to feel determined that it was never that bad because, at least, I had interest. It's been difficult to muster up motivation after experiencing the opposite of that. I'm trying to wake up again. It's a slow process. Slower than I remember.

I hoard my feelings, my time, my words. And only now, seven months later, do I feel up to the challenge of wanting to breathe again. Though, I'm still reluctant. I'm still missing deadlines. I'm still hesitant. I'm still in bed, wherever I find my head these days, unmovable.

Rinse. Repeat.
Wade. Tread.
Wake up.
Get up.
Move.
Please.