Reflections on Depression

I feel pretty confident in saying I am no longer depressed. Since quarantine began, I have gone from doing good to doing fine, then to doing okay. After I stopped feeling okay I was feeling a bit off, but nothing I couldn't blame on the pandemic we were currently experiencing and as a country, pretty much failing and becoming more and more divided. So I wasn't great, but it was also understandable.

Then I fell into my "I'm not depressed, but I also wouldn't say I'm not 'not depressed". There were a few months of struggling as I tried to figure out my future, where I wanted to work, what I wanted to do, who I wanted to be when this was all over. And I struggled.

As soon as I admitted to myself that I was depressed, things got both easier and harder. There was a certain detachment I could fall back on if I kept telling myself this was just a bad day, a bad week, a bad month, a pandemic afflicted world, a confusing future-- all the very valid reasons one could feel a bit off. 

But I wasn't just a bit off. I was depressed. And now, from the other side, I'm writing to try and figure out where to go next. 

Feeling Good, Or at least getting there

I know basically nothing about music, but I remember hearing this comment about DJs somewhere (probably on a podcast). The reality of being a DJ is that no one should be able to tell if you are good. Bad DJs are noticeable. But good DJs, who make the club or the venue the best it can be, should fade into the background and be completely unobserved.

That's kind of what my depression feels like. I've gone a couple weeks now without writing a blog post, and my journey towards mental wellness and stability is trudging along. When it's bad, I KNOW it's bad. I can tell when my medication isn't working right, or I'm in another depressive episode, or the world just feels too big and too hopeless for me to engage with. It's not like that right now. Things feel okay. 

Depression as a feeling

When the depression hits bad for me, like it has been doing this past week, it can sometimes feel like I forgot how to live. As though my life only exists in this singular, painful moment, when my body is unmotivated and my mind is depressed and everything just feels like too much.

My friend Talia told me once, a long time ago, that we can treat sadness as a feeling. This was back in high school, when my depression felt so awful not only did I not know how to live, I did not want to live much anymore either. Her reminder has stayed with me, all these years, when my moods dip down to scary lows. I remind myself this is a feeling, this is an experience, this is just one day. I have had so many other days. I have had so many other feelings and moods and experiences. It doesn't make it go away, but it helps remind me that it will go away. That this feeling is not my existence, this sadness is only all encompassing at this moment. I will move through this. I will get better.

So I remind myself of that in times like these. That the beauty of life is that it must change, that change is the only constant we have. And death and taxes too, but that's besides the point. So I ride the wave of depression, I ease through the riptide of panic, I succumb to the tranquility of rest. 

Things will be different. Even if you don't believe they will get better, at least they will be different. Emotions can be painful and feel like they will last forever, but they won't. Today is a new day. Tomorrow is another chance. After lunch maybe things will shift. 

Remind yourself life is ever changing, and even the bad stuff can't stay here forever.

With love and strength, 

Rivi

Trying to Treat Depression, Again

I don't know how to approach this topic other than being frustrated. I suppose that's better than being apathetic or being constantly sad, but I want to make my feelings clear. And, I want to have others who may be suffering something similar know this is an odd struggle but it is very real.

I have written many times over the past year about my mental health journey with depression while under lockdown and quarantine. By the time the new year rolled around and my mental health was pretty much the same, I decided it was time to reach out for help, from my therapist and my psychiatrist.

I understand we are in unprecedented times. I understand everyone's mental health has been taking a hit right now, and a flare up of seemingly managed issues can quickly become unraveled. That being said, I needed, and still need, more help. Medication help. Psychiatric help.

Because I did all the right things. In the new year, I started exercising again. I started walked a couple miles a few times a week, making a routine of walking to the UC Berkeley campus and sitting in nature. I was getting sunshine (too much sometimes, and I am now been diligent about wearing sunscreen. Wear sunscreen!). I was eating healthier, eating leafy greens and reducing my processed foods and drinking pressed juices instead of coffees. I was doing everything right. And still, I was curled up motionless many afternoons, disappointed in myself and sad with my world.

Neurodivergence and Neurodiversity

As many of you know, I have lived with mental illness and what I now understand as neurodivergence for the majority of my life. I am only now identifying with the label of neurodiversity or neurodivergence, and I want to take this time and write this post to explain all of that a bit better.

In brief, neurodiversity is a term and a movement designed to redefine and re-contextualize conditions such as autism, ADHD, dyslexia, sensory processing disorders, and other experiences of people who fall somewhere in that spectrum. I started looking into this movement in college, after being diagnosed with ADHD at age 19.

Depression as an Illness

Content Warning: I will be discussing heavy themes around suicide and depression. Keep that in mind and please click away if you need to and take care of your mental well-being. 

Photo from the What I Be Project (Claremont Colleges) by Steve Rosenfield

On New Year's Eve, Rep. Jamie Raskin (D-Md.) shared a brief statement regarding the death of his son, Thomas. The statement was brief and vague, not mentioning how his son died or the circumstances around his death, leading me and I'm sure many others to believe the death was not an accident, and likely self inflicted (drug overdose or suicide). The few people in the twitter mentions who asked about cause of death were quickly criticized, stating that if the representative wanted that information out he would have said.

The Raskin family chose to release that information, and I was deeply moved and heartbroken. And I want to share my own personal thoughts on it here. 

In a loving but heartbreaking tribute, Rep. Raskin and his wife shared their son's journey with what they noted was a lifelong illness of depression, including his final note which confessed to his parents he had lost that battle. 

I won't lie, reading the article and the tribute was difficult for me. Especially considering I am in my own ins and outs with bouts of depression, I didn't want to hear about someone who had lost his battle. While I  in no way want to criticize his grieving parents for writing about the son they loved and lost, I did want to write something in response, from someone in a similar age who is still fighting, and still living.

Election and Mental Health

If you've been reading my blog for a while, you may know that I am currently experiencing different levels of depression, and have been for quite some time. There's a lot of factors that go into this, including my history of clinical depression, but it would be silly to ignore the elephant in the room (and I'm not talking about Trump! As repulsive and unseemly as he may be...) 

COVID restrictions and quarantine continues trudging along in America, along with the apprehension that was election season. Luckily, we did get a Biden-Harris administration, which I am excited about, but the state of our country and our world is very much still in flux.

Here's the reality of my situation: much like our country, I'm on the right path but there's a long way to go. 

Untitled

 

I'm not so ironically titling this post "untitled", because I don't have the energy to think right now. I don't have the energy to come up with a theme, or a plan, or a post. All I can do, in this moment, is listen to the click clack of my laptop keys as I sputter out another post, typing, writing, and trying.

I've written about my depression and my depressive episode in many of my previous posts. It has been taking over me and swallowing me whole. And I am trying, so hard, to be hopeful.

I had a few days of good. A few good days. Joe Biden FINALLY won the election, alleviating my anxiety if only for a bit. I got to be with my parents when the news came in. I got to call my grandma and deliver the news. And for a few days, things were good.

But that's the tricky thing about mental illness. I guess part of me knew the darkness would seep back. The nightmares are still here, my anxieties playing out folktales in my unconsciousness. 

I can still smile, even if it feels forced. I still know, deep down, that my writing is meaningful not only for me but for others. I know I am not alone in this, that none of us are. As lonely and empty as depression can feel, I am overflowing with love and support.

I am managing. I am getting out of bed. I am asking for help-- from my parents, from my sister, from my friend. I am reminding myself of the truths I know but cannot feel. The truth that I am loved, supported, beautiful, and powerful.

And with this, I settle back into what I know: I write. I type and I listen to the click clack of the keys. I drink water. I tell myself I will be okay, because I will be. That's all I can do right now.

And that's plenty.

With love,

Rivi

Small Talk

Am I okay? That’s the question I ask myself daily. It’s always been a complicated question for me, even before Covid. I try to answer honestly, without being too honest. American society has gone from “pretty good, you?” To “ hanging in there” and now to “all things considered? I don’t know. ” It’s no longer a small talk question and a recited answer, and that is actually pretty nice for me. 

I always take things too literally, give more information than anyone asked for, and lack the general social awareness that comes with small talk and friendly banter. I never understood the formality of asking a question with a predetermined answer, or why a full rundown of my mental health status and hormonal levels was not an adequate response to “how’s your day?”

There is a social game we all play, and I long ago decided I would not read the rules. I understand things the way my neurodivergent brain comprehends them, and as much as I try to fake it, I see the world differently. 

I see the world differently because of what I have been through, with misdiagnosis and doctors and years of quiet struggles. For once I wanted someone other than a doctor to ask me how my mental health was, someone who wasn’t listening for trigger words or symptom analysis. I wanted to give a full description of the bright points and the struggles of my summer, because summer time I could travel and live outside my own head for a few weeks. But I also wanted to say that sometimes hiking in macchu picchu is exhausting and I cried in the middle of the walk, because that has a bigger meaning to me. (Read my post here about that meaning) I couldn’t understand why I had to hold all these feelings inside, will never fully comprehend the complexities of the social game we call life.

So how am I doing today? In short, I am okay. I am writing, and I am loving that ability. I like creating this blog and creating some kind of meaning out of the absurdity that is this year and all my many years of mental health struggles and general life experience. 

I may not be the most socially experienced or adept at making small talk, but I try to make meanings through my writing. That is good enough for me. 

With love and strength,

Rivi

Tired of Fighting

 Maybe the pharmacy changed the manufacturer for my anti-depressant. Maybe I need to spend more time outside. Maybe I'm not eating right. Maybe I need to exercise. Maybe I can fix this.

These are all the thoughts that are burning through my mind tonight, at 10 pm, as I try to decide what to do next. I am crying, for no reason, because that's what depression is. I am fretting about how my friend won't respond to my small talk texts because maybe she doesn't like me anymore, or so my anxiety says. So I do what I have been doing for years, the only surefire way I have to combat these feelings: I write.

I am so very tired of fighting depression, but I will not surrender to the despair. I take out my battle weapons: my writing, my water, my family support. I sit up and roll my shoulders back and I type. And in this way, I am fighting my war. 

The tears have stopped flowing now. This one thing, writing my truths-- this, I can do. This has held me up for years. This has given others insight and opened my online community up to hold me up and keep me fighting. I need that support now. 

What else is there to say? I tell myself to keep writing, keep spilling ink because at 10 pm at night that is what I need so I may sleep peacefully. I need the familiarity of thoughts on screens and the familiar click clack of keys as my words take form. 

Some people turn to substances, and I thank my lucky stars (or, more accurately, my parents and community) that I have found this productive way to express my pain, my stress, my battles. I don't know how far my words will reach tonight, but they are giving me peace. 

I started typing this post in tears and I am ending it with calm. The storm has passed, flowing through my thoughts into this post that maybe no one will care about but still it has given me something. It has given me freedom from the clutch that is depression. 

Depression, anxiety, and mental illness take over every part of life. I worry about my depression as I sit numbly, staring at videos and trying to escape into another headspace. I think about my ADHD when I walk, convinced that exercise will help; the doctor said so. Even the things I do not do because of my mental illness, my battles creep amongst everything I do. They scurry out at random times, taking hold of my mind and sending me spiraling.

But not writing. Writing is my sword and I am fighting back. When I am in my writing headspace, my mental illness is my audience instead of my conductor. It sits quietly before me, waiting to hear how I will transform my pain into truth. Into stories. Into love.

I am here. I am transforming and I am understanding. I am living. I am writing. And I will keep writing, because writing is my best friend and my battle partner, carrying me into peace.