Depression is Work

I don’t choose to be depressed. I list out all of the things I’m thankful for. I’ve had a rough life, but I always remind myself it could be a lot worse. Anytime someone asks me “Why are you depressed?” I feel like slapping them. You don’t need a reason to be depressed. Do you ask people “Why do you have diabetes?” No, you don’t! You don’t ask, because it’s not something they could control. They didn’t ask to be sick. I didn’t ask to be depressed. It just happens.

Weekends are a time where I can act like my true self. I don’t have to get dressed, put on make up, and pretend I’m happy. I can stay in bed all day. It’s exhausting to get yourself through the day when you’re so down. Depression is more work. First, I have to talk myself into getting out of bed. Then I have to talk myself into getting ready. When I get to work, I have to convince myself to do work, and “act” happy. No one can know how miserable I am. Even if they did, it would not change how I felt. So, the weekends are a time when I can just be, depressed. I don’t have to fight it.

Now Depression

I’ve always thought I was just lazy. I start things and don’t finish them. I hate any sort of exercise. I take the elevator and escalator whenever possible. I know I’ve dealt with depression before but lately this is on a whole new level.

It’s beautiful outside, I should go for a walk, or ride my bike, but I can’t move. I just want to stay in my pajamas and read or watch TV. This happens often, and it’s getting worse. I have an excuse for everything, even for avoiding showers. I put tasks off until the very last minute. The once hypochondria I suffered has completely turned itself around. I avoid doctors. EVERY task seems arduous and exhausting. I just want to be in bed or on my couch.

I’m amazed at how depressed I’ve become. Once I do get outside, I say to myself “remember this feeling, remember how wonderful it feels to be outdoors.” I say this so that maybe next time it won’t be so difficult for me to get going. But it doesn’t matter. Every time, I have to talk myself into getting up, getting ready, and getting out the door. It’s a chore. Living has become a chore. Sometimes, to motivate myself, I’ll seek out a documentary for motivation. People who’ve had it worse than I have. If they can get through their trauma so can I. It’s invigorating, and it makes my feel thankful. Eventually, like everything, it wears off. Then there’s the guilt.

Why now? Maybe it’s because my life isn’t exciting? Maybe I’ve finally let all of the stress, sadness, anger-take over.

Anxiety

My first anxiety attach occurred when I was 8 years old. I think. I was at a restaurant, and I remember feeling strange. My heart raced, I couldn’t breathe. I told my mother about it, and she insisted it was an anxiety attack. I had already been in therapy, so it was just something else to discuss with the therapist. Why do children get anxiety?

I remember my father blaming my mother. She had been anxious in front of me, so some how I caught it. HA! Yes, there is some truth in that, based off of my Google research. Children are taught these behaviors, but there has to be a pre-existing genetic link as well.

My anxiety is rough. My psychosomatic symptoms should win Academy awards. I have felt physically ill, on so many levels. Besides hyperventilating, I have had feelings of dizziness and sensations that I am on a roller coaster or falling. I’ve had phantom pain, practically everywhere. When I was in 5th grade, my father told us he was moving far away for a while. Rather than sharing my sadness, I had intense headaches for weeks and blurry vision. For a time in high school, I had a fear of urinating on myself. So, I had bladder pain. I can go on and on. My psychosomatic symptoms have tricked me into visiting the doctor many times. It wasn’t until recently that I’ve become tired of them, and actually started to avoid the doctor.

My anxiety turned to panic when I was 15. I had just started my 2nd year of high school. Maybe it was hormonal, but I could not sit through one class. I would start to panic, my hands would tingle, my vision would be blurry. I had an urge to run. I had to leave. I would ask to go to the nurse. I had to get out of the situation. I would later learn that my fight or flight response was broken. My panic button was pushed on-always. I started missing school. I lied to my friends and told them I had mono. I would try to go to class, and end up in the nurse’s office. She grew tired of me, fast. She got nasty too. My mother would end up picking me up from school, everyday. I was missing class, tests, assignments. My life was falling apart.

At the time, I did not think it was anxiety or panic. I was convinced I was dying. I stopped eating. We began going to doctors. My bladder pain was so intense, my mother took me to a urologist. We went to 4 different specialists, I had sonograms, bloodwork-of course everything was normal. It took about a month of this charade at school for my mother to realize, this wasn’t physical. This was completely mental.