You may know that I had a psych hospitalization last week for a very bad depressive episode. I’m not gonna go too in-depth about it, because I have a few pieces to-be-published that will describe it, but suffice it to say: things got really, really bad. Worse than they have been, and it reached the point where the only option was to go to a hospital.
That would have been the only option no matter where I was; that’s how bad things were. No amount of family or friends hovering over me was able to change my mental state.
And hospitals are really great, if you can get a good one. My first time in a psych ward was bad. The second time was better, but I still swore to myself and others that I wouldn’t go back. I didn’t want it to be a crutch, you see.
More on that in another post, because this isn’t the time or place.
This time, and this place, is to talk about what happened after I left the hospital. Obviously, I was initially overjoyed. As soon as I was out of the psych ward, I stripped the tape off my phone camera and took a selfie.
As you do.
Then my friends came to pick me up and we took the cutest Boomerang I’ve participated in and then got pancakes at iHop.
All in all, a great day.
That was Friday. By Monday, I was once again feeling like I was pouring out the dregs of my energy. You know when you brew looseleaf tea, and there’s some left at the bottom, and you think you’ll ration and make another cup with it, but then the leaves are sad and strangled and can’t provide much strength?
That’s how I felt.
Well, I guess it’s more accurate to say that’s how I feel. Because the dreg-feeling, that knowledge that I am functioning at less than half my capacity, it hasn’t gone away, not completely.
I’ve had some good days in the past week; well, more like good moments. The nature of my diagnosis is that my moods shift radically and quickly, each feeling lasting for a few days to a few hours.
So no matter how good things get, they always get bad again.
I guess the upside to that, the positive way to speak of it, would have been that no matter how bad things get, they always get good again.
I’ve written about the cyclical nature of depression. I think it was a pretty darn good article, so I’m not going to replicate it here, but I would appreciate it if you clicked that link and read it.
Because I think a lot of people still don’t “get” it. That depression, my mental illness, isn’t going to go away once and for all at some point. It’s not going to vanish if I live in the right place or have the right friends or eat the right foods. It might be diminished, yeah, if I take certain steps — and I’m trying to. I take literal thousands of steps a day as I walk to and from work in an effort to get some exercise in, and I’m taking up coloring as a de-stressing exercise when I feel overwhelmed.
But I do this knowing that it won’t “cure” me. My depression is not a disease that can be cured by meds and right living.
Even if, even when, I do everything right, it still comes and smacks me in the face and sends me spiraling.
So yeah. I’ve been really depressed this week. That’s not because I’m doing anything wrong, though. It’s not my fault. It’s my disease.
I can’t fix it. You can’t fix it. The only person (er, being) who could fix it is God, and while I’m 100% positive that He has the power to do so, I’m 95% positive that He won’t. (That’s a story for another blog post, though). Suffice it to say that I’ve come to terms with the fact that this is something I’ll live with for years to come.
And again — that’s not a depressing fact! It’s freeing! It allows me, at times, to take the waves as they come and ride them out, knowing they’ll fade, return, fade again, the same way the tides in the ocean do.
It can be hard to deal with at times when I’m in the thick of depression. But even then, I remember — this will pass and I will be clearheaded again.
Oh, man. 750 words in and I’m not sure what the point of this blog post is, except to reinforce that this is a disease I live with; and this is a disease I’m determined to be honest about.
So I’m going to post about it on social media. I’m going to tell my friends what’s going on. I’m going to be painfully, brutally honest about it, because it’s good for me and because I believe — I pray — I hope — that it will help someone else to see that yes, you can be chronically depressed; but yes, you can live and love and be successful and find joy through it all.
And when I do post these things, it’s not because I want platitudes or solutions or recriminations. I just want to be honest. I want to live life in the open. To know and be known, intimately, honestly, truly. I want you to know and understand what mental illness truly is, and I want to bring hope to others in my situation.
That’s my promise. Maybe it’s my threat. I’m not really sure — which do you think of it as?