I suffer from depression.
It took me a long time to self-diagnose that fact, but a lot of what I've read about what other people suffer is there, sitting inside of me. Hamlet's speech "...I have of late, but wherefore I know not..." is one of the greatest descriptions of what it's like to deal with depression that I've ever seen, and is likely one of the reasons that I have long held Hamlet in my heart.
When considering the possibility of treatment--whether it be therapy or medication--I've always been reluctant to commit to anything. Part of it is pride: I want to be able to deal with my difficulties myself. Part of it is ignorance: I don't know what it entails, I don't know if my insurance covers anything (probably not), I don't know how I'll fit fixing me into my schedule. Part of it is fear: I don't know if I can call myself me if I change a piece of me that I dislike.
But isn't that the whole point of personal improvement? To change things you don't like? I didn't like feeling as though I didn't help out enough around the house, so I've taken to doing the dishes. I've started cooking lessons so that I'm not an incompetent boob when it comes to preparing food. I shave and brush my teeth because I look and feel better (I think) when I do that. I extract what I dislike in an attempt to improve.
So why don't I want to do that with my mental illness?
Fear is a bigger factor than I may have let on: I am a writer (though I feel audacious and impostor-syndrome when I say that), but I don't know whence my writing comes. Sure, as a card-carrying Mormon I can say God and even believe that, but saying a source outside of me is not what I'm asking in the first place, so that answer satisfies nothing.
Somewhere inside my broken head--whether it be because of cosmic randomness and the perpetuity of life or because of Divine placement--I have an ability to write. My great fear is that I suffer from a stereotype of artistic curse: Talent for art, but an imbalance that empowers it. While I am confident in that I'm no writing genius, I am not confident that what middling talent I have comes from a place that isn't wrapped in the dark places of my mind.
I know that getting sleep helps me to avoid major depressive episodes, but it's by no means a guarantee. This summer has been filled with sleep--I have the records from my smartwatch to show that much--but the additional stresses of the season and the move have weighed down on me. In fact, I almost broke down into tears the other day when I listened to "Wait For It" from the Hamilton soundtrack.
This is a strange thing for me. First of all, I get mopey, angry (always angry), and frustrated, but I don't become weepy. That's not how my depression manifests. Secondly, I am not a Broadway person. I can count on one hand the number of musicals that I like enough to want to see them, so the fact that a hip-hopperetta about a Founding Father comes through as a powerful influence on my life is unusual.
So why did the song almost have me in tears? I don't know. I was sad. The song, which speaks about ambition, frustration, and fundamental issues of the human condition ("Life doesn't discriminate/Between the sinners and the saints/It takes, and it takes, and it takes, and it takes/And we keep living anyway"), and those things feel more open, more real when I'm in the dark days. But that's all autopsychoanalysis. I don't know anything.
But I wonder if the idea of "good" grief is what I'm most worried about losing. If my brain is missing a little chemical, but as a result I can create something (someday) powerful that touches people and gives a lasting impact on them, then maybe, in that sense, my grief is good.
It took me a long time to self-diagnose that fact, but a lot of what I've read about what other people suffer is there, sitting inside of me. Hamlet's speech "...I have of late, but wherefore I know not..." is one of the greatest descriptions of what it's like to deal with depression that I've ever seen, and is likely one of the reasons that I have long held Hamlet in my heart.
When considering the possibility of treatment--whether it be therapy or medication--I've always been reluctant to commit to anything. Part of it is pride: I want to be able to deal with my difficulties myself. Part of it is ignorance: I don't know what it entails, I don't know if my insurance covers anything (probably not), I don't know how I'll fit fixing me into my schedule. Part of it is fear: I don't know if I can call myself me if I change a piece of me that I dislike.
But isn't that the whole point of personal improvement? To change things you don't like? I didn't like feeling as though I didn't help out enough around the house, so I've taken to doing the dishes. I've started cooking lessons so that I'm not an incompetent boob when it comes to preparing food. I shave and brush my teeth because I look and feel better (I think) when I do that. I extract what I dislike in an attempt to improve.
So why don't I want to do that with my mental illness?
Fear is a bigger factor than I may have let on: I am a writer (though I feel audacious and impostor-syndrome when I say that), but I don't know whence my writing comes. Sure, as a card-carrying Mormon I can say God and even believe that, but saying a source outside of me is not what I'm asking in the first place, so that answer satisfies nothing.
Somewhere inside my broken head--whether it be because of cosmic randomness and the perpetuity of life or because of Divine placement--I have an ability to write. My great fear is that I suffer from a stereotype of artistic curse: Talent for art, but an imbalance that empowers it. While I am confident in that I'm no writing genius, I am not confident that what middling talent I have comes from a place that isn't wrapped in the dark places of my mind.
I know that getting sleep helps me to avoid major depressive episodes, but it's by no means a guarantee. This summer has been filled with sleep--I have the records from my smartwatch to show that much--but the additional stresses of the season and the move have weighed down on me. In fact, I almost broke down into tears the other day when I listened to "Wait For It" from the Hamilton soundtrack.
This is a strange thing for me. First of all, I get mopey, angry (always angry), and frustrated, but I don't become weepy. That's not how my depression manifests. Secondly, I am not a Broadway person. I can count on one hand the number of musicals that I like enough to want to see them, so the fact that a hip-hopperetta about a Founding Father comes through as a powerful influence on my life is unusual.
So why did the song almost have me in tears? I don't know. I was sad. The song, which speaks about ambition, frustration, and fundamental issues of the human condition ("Life doesn't discriminate/Between the sinners and the saints/It takes, and it takes, and it takes, and it takes/And we keep living anyway"), and those things feel more open, more real when I'm in the dark days. But that's all autopsychoanalysis. I don't know anything.
But I wonder if the idea of "good" grief is what I'm most worried about losing. If my brain is missing a little chemical, but as a result I can create something (someday) powerful that touches people and gives a lasting impact on them, then maybe, in that sense, my grief is good.
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