Forcefield

So, this is one of the harder posts I've written.  Well, or I think it's going to be.  This is the first sentence so, y'know... maybe it'll be easier than I think.  A gal can hope, right?

I am an insanely fortunate human.  I have the best family anyone could want, amazing friends, and an incredible partner for the journey.  I am very healthy, even after skipping several months of regular exercise.  I'm not rolling in luxury, but I want for nothing.  I am respected as a human being, as a creative person, and as a professional.  I've had strokes of luck and unexpected gifts from the universe that have made my life nothing short of extraordinary.  I am joyful.  I am grateful.

I am also mildly depressed.

The worst thing about being depressed is that I have absolutely nothing to be depressed about.  And, despite my constant fighting against unfounded stigmas, I seem to unconsciously buy into the theory that a person must be happy all the time if nothing is wrong.

But what if all that's wrong is that your serotonin levels just decide to ebb from time to time?  It's not even that drastic of a psychological low tide or anything; it's not like I have trouble getting out of bed, being grateful for my life, or laughing until my sides hurt.  Don't worry, folks (especially you, Momma) -- I still eat, sleep (as best as a lifelong insomniac can), and take good care of myself.  Though, admittedly, a little more exercise would probably round things out and make both my body and mind feel better.  Substituting serotonin with endorphins isn't the worst "fake it till ya make it" strategy I've ever heard of.

Anyway, as I was saying (well, writing) -- this depression isn't debilitating.  I can carry on a pretty functional life and still feel a full range of emotions.  Though, even at my healthiest, anger isn't my bag.  It takes a lot to get me there.  The closest thing I can muster to anger in 99% of circumstances can be best described as haughty indignation.

I do find myself getting emotional over silly things.  I've always been an easy crier, and it typically doesn't bother me.   Passing a homeless person and not giving any money or food makes tears prickle in my eyes, and it's upsettingly common in NYC.  So when I say that I'm getting overly emotional, I mean that I have deep, guttural, all-encompassing sadness and/or guilt consuming me in some moments, and I don't know why.  I've had stupid sobbing breakdowns over things that maybe merited sombre contemplation or genuine reflection over the weekend, but not heaving sobs so bad it felt like I was choking on my own tears.

Also, I find myself having trouble fully connecting with other people.  As someone who fucking adores people, particularly her friends and family, this is probably the worst thing about mild depression.  I want to be fully present and alert and connected with people I care about, but something that I can't control seems to put a forcefield between me and my loved ones.  Sound is muted, colors are duller, and I feel entirely impotent and helpless against this invisible barrier.  I want to shatter it.  If screaming would crack it, I'd shout until my voice went raw.  If crying dissolved it, I'd let the tears flow until I needed an IV drip to replenish the fluids in my body.  If pounding against it helped, I would destroy it until my hands were ripped to shreds.  It is this lack of connection that hurts the most.  It is a very specific type of agony to feel like you can't give yourself to the people you care about, and that feeling is only compounded in not being able to understand why it's happening or what you can do about it.

And I have trouble admitting this and asking for help.  I want to be able to take care of myself, and I've made it a point to become pretty decent at it.  But, something that I think brings me closer to being able to admit this about myself, to sit down and have the strength to write this blog, is having Dan in my life.  Especially since we live together in a smallish space (it's big by Brooklyn standards but small according to the rest of the country), I can't exactly hide when I'm overwhelmed with emptiness.  And I have somebody by my side who doesn't force the issue, who simply puts his arms around me and reminds me that my neurochemicals are not my fault.  That it's okay to be sad, but that to be sad about being sad probably isn't the best course of action.

And, if you've gotten this far and you're wondering why I'm not on meds or in therapy, it's not because I think I don't need it or that the problem will go away on its own.  Believe me, once health insurance is a real thing in my life, I'll be seeing a doctor to get all this straightened out.  In unrelated news, I am also inordinately excited to visit a dentist.  I haven't gone to the dentist in years!  The idea of a cleaning sounds heavenly!

And see, it's little things like that, like thinking about the joy of getting my teeth cleaned (I might be the only person on Earth that uses that phrase without a drop of sarcasm or irony) that give me a moment of genuine joy.  Seeing my friends and feeling the forcefield weaken, or even disappear, makes me want to keep going.  In lieu of prozac, the joys of life and love are my current mode of treatment.  And what's wonderful is that they're absolutely free!  No act of Congress can compromise that.

I know that I control my own happiness.  And I think, sometimes, a big part of creating your own happiness is putting on your big girl undies, taking a deep breath, and admitting that happiness is hard.  And I don't think it's just those of us who struggle with misfiring synapses who feel that way.  Happiness is a choice, and despite the ease that comes with happiness, the choice itself is not often the easiest one.  Wallowing is comfortable.  Happiness is danger, it is vulnerability.

Happiness is saying, "I'm sad," and knowing that the sorrow isn't permanent.

I am depressed.

And I choose happiness.