The Viking has the memory of an elephant. I have the memory of a heavily drugged lemur. (I don’t know if lemurs actually suffer from memory loss, but it’s the first animal that came to mind since I just watched this video). My memory is emotional, his is actual. What I mean by this is that he remembers facts and details very well, whereas I am highly attuned to my (and others’) emotional responses to whatever was happening. This is a common human phenomenon, but we seem to take it to the extreme. I am regularly astounded by the things he remembers. I’d give you examples, but I have forgotten.
Last night, the roles were reversed. I remembered something that he did not. Which in my mind meant one of two things: either I had gone crazy and I made it up or he had gone crazy, which was far worse. I was not terribly pleased with either possible outcome. Full disclosure: I’m medicated now, and discovering the effects of the medication has been So Much Fun. For instance, (sidenote alert!) did you know that a side effect of Prozac is that it may cause suicidal thoughts? And by “may” I mean, “will cause one to lock oneself in a dark bathroom sobbing hysterically while plotting own demise”. Thankfully I was with the Viking when this happened and he coaxed me out of the darkness. Crisis averted. I frequently tell him that he’s better than Jesus. Mostly because (TMI!!!) Jesus never gave me an orgasm. (It’s okay to say stuff like that if I put “TMI” before it, right? Right).
Anyway, meds. After the trauma of the aforementioned episode, I was pleasantly surprised that I woke up yesterday feeling well-rested and calm for the first time in months and months. I had a weird, slightly out-of-body experience of looking in the mirror yesterday and thinking, that person looks happy then, I look happy. Amazing what drugs can do! In the future, I’ll be saying Yes! Adamantly. In the evening, I was feeling calm and cheerful and weirdly normal (yes, that is possible), the Viking and I were watching random, funny videos online and all was well, that is until I showed him one particular video. A few days ago, he told me about a comedian who told a joke about how grenades were better than guns for home defense. He couldn’t remember the comedian, so I was excited when I came across this clip:
All well and good, right? Except, he didn’t remember telling me that joke. At all. This is a man who remembers random facts about squids because he once watched a Discovery Channel special on them (see, I did come up with an example!). But the grenade joke? Not a clue. At first I thought he was teasing me, but it soon became obvious that he really did not remember. I became distressed. I recounted in great detail how we had been sitting on the couch when he told me this joke. We were watching Jon Stewart, I said, but it was a commercial break. We were sitting on the couch. You told me the grenade joke. WHY DO YOU NOT REMEMBER THE GRENADE JOKE?! We were sitting RIGHT THERE. Pointing. Hysterics. Tearing of hair. The Boy still did not remember.
Why? Because I made it up. Utter fabrication.
Not the joke. My good friend Ryan told me the joke sometime last week, and my delusional brain misattributed it to the Boy and made up a whole scenario where this imaginary conversation took place. I texted Ryan this morning and he confirmed that yes, he did in fact tell me the grenade joke. Part of me is concerned by this, but mostly I’m relieved. The Boy remains non-delusional and if I’m ever in a situation where I need to plead Not Guilty By Reason of Insanity, I now have documentation to back up my claim. Besides, I’ll take “Making Shit Up” Crazy over “Sobbing in the Bathroom” Crazy any day. Hooray for Prozac.
Four years ago yesterday I attempted to take my own life. I’m not going to re-tell the experience, because I’ve already told that story here. The memory hurts me more deeply than any pain I have ever experienced, perhaps because in that frantic moment of dumping pills down my throat I felt the culmination of every single hurt I have ever known. I wasn’t going to write about this at all because I feel like a broken record. I feel like I should magically have put my life back together by now. I feel like I shouldn’t struggle. I feel like my emotions aren’t valid. I feel like the people in my life deserve to see only the good in me, not the pain. I’m writing about this because, as R.E.M. so candidly reminds us, “everybody hurts sometimes”. I read this eloquent and honest recounting of Rob Delaney’s struggle with depression and it reminded me that I am not alone. I want to echo Mr. Delaney’s sentiments to anyone reading this who also struggles with serious depression: Reach out to someone. Get help.
After months of trying so very hard to Keep Shit My Together, I finally broke down last week and told the Viking just how much I’m struggling. I managed to choke out, through convulsive sobs, “I want to die. Every. Single. Day.” It is hard for me to even write those words without crying. It hurts me to think that it hurts other people, but one of the most important things a loved one of someone dealing with depression needs to understand is that it is Not Your Fault that your partner, or sibling, or friend feels this way. And it’s not his or her fault either. Depression is deadly because it is isolating. Depression tells me that no one wants to hear about my struggles. That no one cares about my pain. Depression tells me that I’m not worth fighting for. But I don’t buy it. I’m better than this, and so are you. It sounds so stupid and cliché, but it’s fucking true. When I finally told someone how I was feeling, it didn’t magically make my feelings go away, but it gave me a partner. Someone who helped me find the strength to go see a doctor after months of fighting on my own.
As I said, I wasn’t going to write about this because I didn’t want to acknowledge that four years later, I’m still in the same place, but I’m NOT in the same place. Four years ago, I would not have gone to a doctor of my own volition. Four years ago, I would not have told someone how I honestly feel. Four years ago, I did not have the wisdom to separate the manifestation of a disease from reality. I don’t have anything profound to say, except that I am holding on, and to anyone else struggling, please take heart, don’t give up, and get help.
The struggle itself towards the heights is enough to fill a man’s heart.
~Albert Camus
I haven’t posted anything recently, the reason being that I dislike writing about Being Depressed, present tense, and when I Am Depressed, I’m not particularly creative, because all my energy goes into Trying Not to Be Depressed and Feeling Like a Failure For Being Depressed. Vicious cycle. So here I am, Depressed, in the present tense, trying to figure out how to make my life better, yes, but mostly trying to figure out how to function on a daily basis as a human faucet. It’s not easy being leaky.
A few weeks ago I went to a counselor who suggested that instead of obsessing over my fears and failures when I’m in the midst of a breakdown, I should take a moment to write five good things in my life. This should not be difficult. There are hundreds, probably thousands, of good things in my life, things which, when my reptilian brain is not overwrought with panic and grief, come easily to mind, but evade capture when in the middle of an episode: good friends, a loving family, food to eat, a home, much love to be had and given, to list a few.
Yesterday, during one of those overwrought crying spells, I took a few deep breaths and tried to make the list. My mind went blank and for a moment I panicked further.
And then it occurred to me, one incontrovertible Good Thing in My Life:
Miley Cyrus hasn’t been in the media for months.
Not a peep have I heard (and don’t you dare spoil this for me).
Sometimes it really is the little things that make a difference.