Standing Back Up

I heard somewhere once that depression is anger turned inwards.  And of all I have heard and read and understood about depression, nothing has rung more true than that sentence.

There is so much to be angry about in the world.  Babies get sick.  People hurl attacks at strangers.  People kill in the name of love.  People reject those they have a God given responsibility to love.  They deny.  They destroy.  They piss in the face of their responsibilities while hiding behind a veneer of indignation themselves.  We walk around, speaking but not being heard.  Loving but not being seen.  The whole world seems to be consumed by people who want so desperately to be heard and yet have no desire to hear.

Because really and truly, how many of us do listen?  How many have conversations with the intent of understanding rather than being understood?  How often can we hear criticisms and accept them as another’s understanding without allowing ourselves to be flooded with rage and righteous indignation?

This world can be cruel.  And the overwhelming majority of cruelty isn’t caused by nature or inevitability but rather by human brokenness and the bridges between people that are torn down before they can even be built or repaired.

And I see this.  And I absorb this.  And it makes me feel so uncomfortable in my skin.  Anger just doesn’t feel right.  I guess it’s the distorted part of my brain that tells me I have no right to anger.  It tells me I err too much to feel anger in the face of another’s actions or words.

I express it.  I write it out.  I act it out.  And then the shame comes.  Who am I to feel anger?

And so I transfer it.  And this transfer happens instantaneously.  It hasn’t been until recently that I have been able to notice it happening.

But when it does it’s brutal.

Anger at the world can be hard felt.  But when it’s transferred inward, it destroys.

And I find myself speaking words inside of hatred and anger.  I’m not kind enough.  I’m not responsible enough.  I’m lazy.  I’m selfish.  I’m worthless.  I don’t deserve anyone or anything.  I am evil.  I am irreparable.

And those words don’t flit through my mind and float out into the ether never to be heard of again.  They take root.

And so I find myself this morning waking in a moment of joy because my two big girls were quietly sleeping next to me after seeing a fly in their room that was most likely a fuzz or something.

And then I remembered.  I remembered me.  And the hatred began.

The clothes need to be put away.  Maybe I didn’t help Magoo enough with her spelling words.  We had forgotten to practice math facts.  Here I was given responsibility for one of the most innately intelligent human beings I have ever encountered and I was failing her.

And TJ was supposed to get Goose’s boots ready last night, but they were nowhere to be found.  That’s my fault.  It should be my job anyway.

Now we are rushing.  This is my fault.  My children should not have rushed mornings.  Mae won’t eat her eggs.  I should have remembered that and prepared something better.

I’m failing them.  All of them.  Constantly.  Incessantly.  Egregiously.  Unforgivably.

And these words, they continue nonstop until I am able to stop them.

I read blogs written by people who struggle with mood disorders.  (It seems like a disproportionate number of us bloggers do!)

During times like these, The Bloggess reminds herself that depression lies.  She tells herself not to listen to the liar.  She fights back.

Momastery tries to do the next right thing.  She just focuses on what is right there and she just tries to do that.  One thing at a time until she is moving forward.

And I try to just do move.  I see a counter with some crumbs, so I clean it.  Or I read some books to the girls.  Or I pick up the stuffed animals in the corner.  I don’t make plans.  I don’t make to do lists.  I just try to do one thing.  And then the next.

I tell my brain to take a break.  I just do and do and do until finally my brain will clear, and the anger and the depression will pass and I can just be again.

And half the time I don’t actually do that.  That’s the problem with depression.  It tells us that the things that will help us won’t help us.  But I’ve battled this bastard long enough to know that those are lies.

And I’m not going to do this today.  I’m not going to let it win.  I’m not going to let the girls’ mother spend the day wallowing in self hatred.

I’m going to stand back up.

And I hope this goes without saying that when I write about depression and anxiety, it is most decidedly not for sympathy or pity.  It is not a cry for help.  Because this depression was my reality this morning and last night, but it’s fading, and it will continue to do so.  After writing this, I have hope and hope is the one single antidote to depression.  It’s depression’s kryptonite.

The reason I write is because it is the only way I know to take this darkness and turn it into light.  It’s the only way I know to convert my suffering into a gift for others.  It’s the only way I know to break the distance between myself and those others who are suffering.  

Because depression is lonely and brutal and a bastard, and for whatever reason, God has given me the words with which to express the experience.  And so I send this out there and pray fervently that others who need it see it and know that even if we are a world away, we are not alone in our experiences.

We live in a lonely world where the only connections we can have between two souls is through touch and words.  All I have to give are my words.  I pray they are enough.

And because I’m only me, here is someone who says it all far better than I ever could.  Please listen if you have a moment.