Depression

Today was weird. I had a lot to get done and the animus to do it.

Then, I guess, I just didn’t anymore. And the day wasted away in between semi-productiveness and things I like to do. Things I like to do: cuddle baby, make a food, get high.

Anyway, I also talked to my son about my recent depressive sprig, a thing blooming but not hopeful and spirited, instead sad, tired, and crying.

He seemed worried. More important than addressing, “I’m worried my mom is sad,” is helping him understand no one is immune to emotion, that it is necessary and good to feel, and that some days are more difficult than others, some days seemingly throwaway, some weeks seemingly wasted. The intensity of life is exhausting, especially when you feel deeply, feel expansively. Tangentially, in that intensely overwhelmed state, make an effort to talk about it, point at it, identify it, describe it, take it out of that inward subjective place and make it outside and objective. Do this to ground yourself, to understand that how you are feeling is transient; it is not who you are all the time.

Because he asked what might be causing my depression, I told him about my struggles with feeling like my work-work—my make money work, my career—is meaningless, that it held no important bearing in our real world and in the context of all the terrible things happening. What I do isn’t important at all. What I do is selfish—not even affected by the larger issues at work.

The point is: I got very sad and was very unproductive, and I cried a lot, and from inside my layers of blankets and pillows, I tried to figure out what caffeine, cheese, liquor was the culprit for my tears—knowing full well: it is the crushing pressure.

I swear it makes me itch.

I can’t figure myself out when I feel like that—zero control over the pressure, quickly losing tenuous grasp on everything else. In normal life, I see myself as so prepared to stand in the face of the storm, the first break of water spritzing my face, and I keep my eyes wide and open.

But I’m definitely not always like that.

I try to be so steadfast and resolute about my emotional strength. I am confused when I don’t have a focused and strong mind to draw on—when I’m sad and tired. Are you telling me I’ve reached my breaking point? Is this the epitome of what I can handle? I really doubt it because every time I’ve told myself, “I can’t handle anymore,”—I do; “I can’t make more money,”—I do; “I can’t have another child,”—I do; “I can’t get married again,”—I do. I don’t understand how I still believe that life works out, how I can keep trying and trying and trying.

How can someone walk around with the biggest, saddest heart and still believe in hope and trying again? How can someone incessantly question their ability to be who they think they should be and still believe they matter? How dare I believe I can be that person; how dare I ever stop trying? All those failures—and yet.

I hope my son understands the important of vulnerability and resilience. I hope he is brave. I hope he got it from me.