my body is
while my mind lives
in future worlds
will never become a
part of my past.
my body is
while my mind lives
in future worlds
will never become a
part of my past.
how can i be strong for you
when my bones have been crushed?
how can i comfort you
when i sleep in blankets of sadness?
how can i hold you
when my arms carry the weight of the world?
how can i listen to you
when the voices in my head are screaming?
how can i walk a mile in your shoes
when i can’t even get back on my feet?
how can i be part of your life
when my own life isn’t whole?
how can i be anything to you
when i’m nothing to myself?
— on being there for you
* I am writing this so that others can see one of the many faces of depression. I am not seeking pity or attention.
One thing I have always been in my writing is honest. So this is me being honest, unfiltered and raw. I am not editing this at all, so please forgive the James Joycian run-ons and stream of consciousness, it’s the most accurate representation of how my mind is working (or not working) right now.
Tonight, I feel broken. I feel like I can’t move. I can’t breathe. There is something inside of me that won’t work no matter how much I tinker with it. And, believe me, there is much tinkering going on.
I don’t like this. I don’t want this. But this is me. I have clinical depression. At any given moment it visits me. It doesn’t care if I have everything I need, everything I want. It comes without warning and stays for as long as it wants. The sun may be shining. The clouds cleared, but inside of me the storm rages despite the current forecast. I try to fight it, but it’s like fighting the undertow. It. Just. Doesn’t. Work.
But think of all the good things you have. You have so much to be thankful for. No shit. I know that. But my depression doesn’t care. Those of you who say this, I don’t fault you. I don’t hate you for thinking it’s as simple as that. In fact, I think you know it isn’t, you just don’t really know what else to say. It’s okay. I don’t know what to say either.
It’s like someone asking you how you are. They are being polite. It’s what you do. It’s not like I’m going to answer by saying, you know what, I’m not good. In fact, I feel like I’m disintegrating. You just don’t say that. It makes people uncomfortable. I get it. It makes me uncomfortable too. 24 hour kind of uncomfortable. Unless there is wine. And then it’s only mildly annoying. Until there’s a sad song. And there’s always a sad song, isn’t there?
But I’m a mom. I can’t “self-medicate” like my mind tells me I want to. I can’t keep a travel mug full of “peace” with me at all times. And, honestly, I don’t want to. It scares me that the wine helps as much as it does. I don’t want to be that person. But a part of me is that person whether I like it or not.
Then there’s the most awesome part of all. My oldest son also has anxiety and depression. And every time I look at my youngest I wonder if I have passed the curse on to him as well. Do I think I shouldn’t have had kids? Absolutely not! This world needs my kids because they are incredible. But it doesn’t stop me from feeling guilty, which fuels my depression…vicious circle.
Did I mention I’m tired, but I can’t sleep? I feel like I’m losing it most nights as I try to drift off with all of the what ifs shooting off like firecrackers in my mind. Problems that aren’t even my problems. Sadness that doesn’t even belong to me. I am too connected. So connected that I disconnect in order to survive.
I just want to rest. I just want to feel like everything will be okay. I want to trust the words I feed my children every day. It will get better. You just have to believe. There are plenty of days where I feel like I’m just setting them up for the firing squad.
I’ll find my way out. I always have. But every time I surface, I can’t help but wonder when the next wave will hit.
I am a notebook lined with intimate inkings that are not my own.
I am an untrained runner in a marathon with legs that quiver and quit on me.
I am a brittle-backed leaf on bare limbs, desperately hanging on.
I am the earthworm tirelessly trekking the sun-soaked concrete path in search of the cool dirt, my skin shrinking around me.
I am a discarded bag forced by the wind to kite dance, dipping and diving, an empty carcass of plastic skin.
I am bone-tired, and every breath breaks me.
I am all these things on any given day. But I am here, and I am trying.
*This post is honest. It is painful to write, but I feel that it needs to be said for those who can’t say it.
My son bears the weight of Obsessive Compulsive Disorder (OCD) daily, but this post is not for him. This post is for the parents and loved ones who must learn how to live with OCD as well. I do not wish to take away from the burden he carries; believe me, I have seen him crippled by this intrusive, invisible bully and I wouldn’t wish it on anyone.
But I am here to acknowledge the others who are involved in this journey alongside them. I am here to remind you that we, too, face a bully. However, our bully is easily recognizable every time we pass a mirror.
How often have you retreated behind the safety of a closed, locked door and screamed into a pillow? How many times have you been blinded by the hot tears of frustration as you drive anywhere just to get away? And how familiar is the feeling of guilt that gnaws at you for all the times that you lost it, yelling at your son out of anger? The emotional turmoil is unrelenting.
I have slammed doors and punched pillows.
I have felt so much pent up rage that I’ve resorted to hitting my thighs with fists clenched so tightly that my nails have drawn blood, just so the bruises on my legs hurt more than the ache in my heart.
I have escaped the tension with a few too many glasses of wine. And then slept through my sadness.
I have sat outside my son’s door listening to the quiet of him sleeping, pretending that he’s just like everyone else. Enjoying the silence maybe a bit too much.
I have driven to an abandoned lot, turned the music up as loud as I can and screamed until my throat was raw and I was out of breath.
And each time I’ve berated myself with ugly, angry words.
The same kind of sharp words I have heard my son use on himself on his worst days as he curls up in his chair, the chair that is off limits to the rest of the family because we aren’t clean enough, and cries until he has nothing but shadows left inside him.
The same words I save for the days when I hate myself most. You are worthless. You are a burden. You can’t even help him. Loser. I can’t do this anymore.
There are times that I think if only I had done this instead of that. Said these words instead of those. Maybe things wouldn’t be so bad for him. Maybe he would be better. Maybe I’ve made it worse.
I make myself physically ill worrying over the things that I think I did wrong. But the truth is that on any given day, I’m doing the best I can. My best may not be perfect, but I. Am. Trying.
There is a song in the Sondheim musical Sunday in the Park with George that really resonated with me one day when I was out trying to walk off the voices in my head that were telling me how wrong I was.
Stop worrying where you’re going – Move on.
If you can know where you’re going, you’ve gone.
Just keep on moving.
I chose and my world was shaken- So what?
The choice may have been mistaken,
The choosing was not.
You have to move on.
As parents and caregivers of kids with special needs, it’s easy for us to forget that the best thing we can do is to keep moving.
Some days we will move backwards, tripping over yesterday’s mistakes. Other days we will move forward full of a hope we can barely see. But the only thing that matters is that we are moving. We may not know where we are going, or how we are going to get there, but we will get there.
Yes, we are exhausted. We are overwhelmed. We are heartbroken. We are afraid. We are angry.
But we are here. We are here and we are moving.
In the midst of my own personal revelations, I’m still struggling to deal with the pain of someone very close to me. My oldest son was diagnosed with Tourette’s at age six and OCD, anxiety, and depression at the age of eight. Over the years he has faced many challenges, all of which he has overcome. But when he is in the middle of a particularly bad one it seems that there is no light, only tunnel. And that’s where he is today.
My heart breaks for him because, although I know I can encourage him, I can’t “fix” his issues, only he can. As a parent, this is the worst feeling. I’ve always been able to fix the outside hurts, or find someone who can. It’s the inside hurts that prove to be the true problems.
Lately, it’s the social anxiety that is slowly killing his spirit. Warner and I were sitting on the deck talking the other day, amidst the wisdom of the whispering Georgia pines, and something he said stuck with me.
The night before, he and Jake had done some serious talking it out. Mostly Jake listening while Warner talked. I thank God that we are a close family, that at least Jake has that. So as they talked Warner told him he needed to “be where the people are”.
Of course, there is no way we could understand Jake’s social anxiety, but what we do know as adults who have been in the world a bit longer, is that most things are temporary. So we continue to encourage him, to suggest things that seem impossible to him right now. Things that he wants so badly.
So when Warner told me what he said, “be where the people are”, all I could hear was Ariel, The Little Mermaid, singing so sadly about her desire to, yep, you guessed it “be where the people are”, and I nearly lost it.
I wanna be where the people areI wanna see, wanna see them dancin’Walking around on those – what do you call ’em?Oh – feet!Up where they walk, up where they runUp where they stay all day in the sunWanderin’ free – wish I could bePart of that worldWhen’s it my turn?Wouldn’t I love, love to explore that shore up above?Out of the seaWish I could bePart of that world
We are the ones whose hearts beat on the outside. The quiet ones who don’t like conflict because it hurts too much. We already feel enough pain.
We are the ones who apologize to every animal we see dead on the side of the road. We feel pain that was never intended for us, but affects us anyway.
We feel like a raw nerve most days. Like every thing we read or see is ladened with a sadness we can hardly bear. And yet, we must.
And this is just who we are on a good day. Who we are often leads to depression and anxiety because we have no idea how to manage ourselves.
We long to shut out the world, if only for a moment, because we feel that we might implode if we see one more homeless person, one more abused animal, one more child in need.
And we help. And we care for. We go out of our way to give…for others, more often than not forgetting ourselves in the process.
So today as I was faced with a BP reading of 161/101, I was reminded of all of this. I let myself run out of my blood pressure medicine. I’ve been so busy worrying about other things in my life, other people in my life that I placed myself in the back of the line.
I talked with my mother tonight about these things – these emotions that are too heavy to carry around day after day, pretending that I’m ok. Why can’t I just forget things, or turn my head and look the other way? Why is it that every sad story finds a home in my head?
Tonight my mother answered that question. She told me that she believes I am meant to be this way. I am meant to be this way because the hurt I feel, leads me to act. I am meant to keep that ache within me as a constant reminder that I am here to help whenever and however I can. And I will. I always will.
However, I am trying very hard to practice the art of self-preservation by being selective about what I read, what shows I watch and who I spend time with. I know I’m not very good at this. But I also know that if I don’t get a handle on it then I won’t be able to help those who need it. As cliche as it is, I’ve got to help myself first so that I’ll be able to help the others who need it.
Methinks I’ve got a lot of work to do.