IT'S HARD BEING HUMAN

Everyone suffers to some extent - it's just the nature of things. There are no free rides and no do-overs in this life. We get what we get and it's up to us to do the best we can with whatever it is.

My neighbor hurt his back three years ago and can't work anymore. The family went from living a nice, comfortable life to getting food from the food bank. A friend just found out that she has breast cancer. Another neighbor recently had his larynx removed due to throat cancer and can no longer speak. I could go on and on with one sad story after another.

It's so easy to be the victim and to be angry at our situations, but I try not to feel sorry for myself. I read somewhere that true happiness is the ability to enjoy life in the face of suffering.

"The world breaks everyone, and afterward, some are strong at the broken places." Ernest Hemingway

The demons of depression are dancing in my head, it makes them very happy when I wish that I were dead.

This is not the life I would have chosen for myself, but it is the one I was given. One of my theories for getting this life is that I did something in another life that caused someone great pain and loneliness, and I'm paying for it now; another theory is that I am dead and this is really hell. I don't believe either one of these, but when I'm in the depths of depression they serve as some rational. Depressed thinking is so dark.

Out of the Frying Pan

I always thought my parents brought the wrong baby home from the hospital - I never felt like I belonged. When I was 17, I "ran away" from home - out of the frying pan into the fire. The following is a piece I wrote about my relationship with my mother:

The layers of clothing lay heavy on my back as I quickly walked out of your life. Home had become prison, mouth gagged, feet bound, even the telephone was a forbidden zone. You followed me outside like hound after rabbit, opened my mail and called me ungrateful. The picture you painted with father and brother, side by side with a glass of whisky in your hand told a tale of crime. 

But I was your daughter, came from your womb - you were supposed to protect me. And just what was this awful thing I had done? Rebelled against prejudice and attempted to grow in my own light - crimes punishable by years of solitude; diszoned, disgraced and banished into a hotter fire.

The aloneness ached like bone scraping bone. The fear took on a life of its own, portrayed each night in dreams, in a show of tangled telephone lines and broken locks, of sweat soaked sheets and screams- this frightened child fought the demons you created.

Years later when flight from this inferno brought me back to you, welcoming arms stayed closed like goatsbeard at night and peaceful sleep still eluded me.  The shadows gripped tightly through those years, like suspenders on an emicated frame, but slowly the elastic stretched.

As I sit here with you tonight on your 86th birthday, my mind forgives you and aches to love you, but the child you abandoned so long ago still recoils from your touch.

 Some wounds never heal but they can become manageable.

You Don't Bring Me Flowers

Unlike most serious illnesses, there are no tests for depression. Diabetes is monitored through testing blood sugar, cancer can be looked at through biopsies, and heart disease can be seen through injecting dye into the veins or with new scan technology.  While changes in the brain can be seen on a certain type of scan, the only measure for depression is the way a person is feeling and how they are living their life.  I believe that because this illness cannot be measured it seems less real to non-sufferers. Depression sufferers are often told to "Just get up and go for a walk." Non-sufferers can't grasp the fact that we can't get up - that we are paralyzed by this illness. And even if the non-sufferers understand, it usually leaves them feeling helpless.

Many of us have visited a loved one or friend in the hospital, bringing best wishes and flowers. Even when we are home with the flu or a cold, we often receive a gift of homemade chicken soup. But because others feel so helpless in the life of a depressed person, they tend to stay away, and while mental illness has finally been recognized as a real medical illness, stigma still exists. Depression is a cruel and isolating illness.
I am fortunate, however, to have a circle of friends, who despite not being able to comprehend what I go through, love me in spite of it and check in on me regularly. But generally speaking, no one brings flowers for depression.

A Rock and a Hard Place

I live my life between a rock and a hard place – between the disabling illness of depression and the deep desire to fully participate in all that life has to offer.

My therapist suggested that I write about my experience with depression. She suggestd that different people relate to different styles of writing, and perhaps another person who suffers from depression might relate to my thoughts and words. Writing is helpful to me, and perhaps what I say may be helpful to others. I also hope to provide some insite to people who don't understand this illness.

My life has been stolen by depression. I am intelligent and creative but have been paralyzed by this demon and unable to use my talents. It has cost me relationships and jobs. I believe depression robs us of our essential selves and causes us to live inside our heads with the demons. I have had the good fortune to meet my essential self when I go through periods of being depression-free, and in these moments I am able to live outside of my head and am reminded of the wonderful person I am, and that I can and do contribute something positive to this life.

I often tell my doctors that I don't know how I survive this hell - they tell me that I have a deep resistant core of strength. And I have hope - I try hard to remember that every new day brings possibilities that could enhance my life. My excellent doctors save my life - I put my trust in them knowing that they care about my well-being. I know it can be scary to reach out for help, and often it takes a while to find the right therapist, but without such help, I don't know of any other way I could have learned to live gracefully with this illness. The other lifeline I have is my pets - they are the best medicine. There have been times in my life when I wanted to drive off a cliff to end the pain, but I had to get home to feed my pets. They save my life every day.

This is my introductory blog - I don't know where it will take me. Of course I know that there are different levels at which people suffer from, and experience depression, and that what works for me may not work for the next person. This blog is meant only to tell my story. If it helps another, that will be a gift to me.

 

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