Tag Archives: depression

During Therapy

“I know of people who are bedridden. I’m not saying I’m not grateful.” I smirk at her. “You know I’m a lot more grateful now, than I ever was. I see the greatness in my life, the potential, options, beauty, goodness.”

I look down, play with the black tassel of the zipper on my bag. “I fight it. I don’t think I’ve accepted it, how it affects me, controls me, every day.”

My therapist smiles softly. “How do you fight against it?”

“Struggle to be awake, to focus, to get rid of a chronic illness, one of many. It’s like I’m filled with lead in a world of people filled with helium. And I’m sitting here berating myself as if I’m only being lazy.”

“And how would you be if it didn’t affect you?”

I shrug. “Without ME? I’d have energy. Suddenly not be affected by it at all. Be able to focus and be part of my life. I actually like life now. I want to be here for it. Instead I’m sleeping it away.”

“What do you think you’d have to do in order to stop allowing ME to affect you?”, my therapist asks.

My laugh is short and without humor. “Be God.”

 

She laughs and smiles. “You’ve got it.”

“There are only two things you need to know about God.” She holds up a finger. “One, there is a God.” A second finger. “Two, you aren’t God.”

 

“You’re experiencing a lull, yes. But it’s normal.” She responds to my concern. “Life does this. Humans do this. It’s like going to college. At first, you’re excited, you’ve got your eye on the prize – your degree, your desired job. Freshman year is a breeze. But then it gets hard. The homework. The papers get harder. The professors, the lack of sleep.” She looks at me, kind, clever, and all-knowing as ever. “You’re somewhere in your sophomore/junior year. Keeping going.”

“Right,” I agree, nodding my head as I think it through, “life is always going to be hard.”

I brighten a bit, a troubling issue illuminated. “You’re right. I’m doing everything I need to be. I’m taking care of my responsibilities and striving to do better at being kind to myself, accepting myself for who I am. I’m finding ways to enjoy my life. I eat some froyo and deal with the minor migraine later that night. Then the next day I go back to eating the way my SIBO having self can deal with, without regretting or getting down on myself for indulging. I’m still trying and in many ways succeeding.”

I smile to myself. Take a deep breath in, let it out.

“My depression and anxiety are just taking me through a detour. I’m still on the right path.”

 

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Before Therapy

I’m about to go to my therapy appointment.

Feeling a bit… shall we say… internal, today.

Self-analyzing, philosophical. Quiet.

I’m also truly there again.

Not completely, it’s only a minor slope. But it’s a definite downward lull.

 

Dead.

Void.

Don’t care.

But then again, I do.

Why else would I feel on edge?

 

Depression and anxiety feed off of one another, trapping me between a rock and a hard place. An immovable object against an unstoppable force.

 

I’m find joy in multiple things today.

I do.

I feel joy in the lesson I’m about to prepare.

Joy in the donut I’m going to eat after I get back from therapy.

Joy in the book I have to read.

The dog staring up at me with big brown, curious, loving eyes.

My family.

Joy itself.

Life itself.

The options, choices to be made.

The possibility that I could work on my writing today.

 

Even though I probably won’t.

I don’t have any energy. It’s not just physical. Emotional energy. I’m out of it. I’m not certain if its depression, anxiety, or ME/CFS. Perhaps all of them at once. But I’m drained of the ability to move, motivation, energy in general. The strength to lift my limbs. The world is a murky pool of molasses, my body a thick, awkward figure of solid iron and cotton balls.

Not of desire. I’m not robbed of that. I want to create. To work on my writing. To piece together my lesson. I feel inspired.

 

What’s the point of all this blogging stuff going on here?

Is this post relevant?

Is it pointless?

Am I complaining, yammering, going on and on about myself?

Or am I connecting?

I’m not entirely certain.

 

I have these moments.

Where I’m outside of myself.

Wondering, what am I doing?

 

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Weird Dream

I had the strangest dream the other morning.

 

I was asleep in a house with my entire family. They were in the living room together. I was down the hall in my room, half asleep. This was our home, had all our stuff in it, and only our family lived there.

Lebron James walks out of the room next to mine and goes into the living room, dripping annoyance as he says, “If Daphne doesn’t wake up soon, we’re not going to be able to watch the movies.”

 

Weirdest dream ever.

Seriously.

I dream about people eviscerating other people; creatures chasing vulnerable people and attacking with sledge hammers and foot long, thick fangs; falling in love with (very attractive, human looking) aliens; the world ending with just me and my dog left; falling, hitting the ground, and flying.

I wake up and think woohoo! Great story ideas, hurry up and write this down.

But that?

Definitely my oddest dream thus far.

I don’t even watch basketball.

I don’t know anything about Lebron James except that he plays the game!

 

Since I started taking medication for depression and anxiety I’ve been dreaming. A lot. I didn’t used to dream except now and again. They started out really uncomfortable bad dreams, but now they’re great for my creative writing self!

 

Had any strange dreams lately?

 

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Long Time Coming

This is going to be my 7th Rara #Somethingist post. (to understand what this challenge is, check this post out and join in!)

Something Displaced.

To displace can mean to move something from its usual place. To shift or to re-position.

Today, I cut my hair!

 

The last time I did anything with my hair was 8 years ago. That? Me keeping bangs for about a year before growing them out. Before that? I haven’t done anything with my hair since I was 9 years old.

So I cut it all off today.

 

It feels immensely symbolic.

I’ve cut off the unhealthy parts of me. I’m changing.

I have changed!

The all amazing gal who cut my hair said that typically when a woman drastically changes her hair, there’s a motivating change in her life that’s behind it.

No different for me.

She also said that women’s hair is important. It’s an important part of us, our identity. Attached to how we feel about ourselves.

She proves my point exactly.

I haven’t cared about myself or so much as given myself a first thought (throw the second thought out the window) in I can’t even remember how long.

 

No more of that.

I feel great!

I feel like I’ve chopped off all that I’ve allowed to hold me down, hold me back.

I can do something for me and enjoy it. I’m allowed to care about me.

Cutting my hair off equates to freeing myself.

 

My hair was so unhealthy!

Its so thin because of how stressed out I am. Anxiety. Depression. Gut disease. Sleep problems. Pain that I’ve hidden or run from, pretended wasn’t there. Smiled to cater to others.

No more.

I’ve worked on this for a year now and I feel I’ve dug a good staircase out of this pit.

So, I’m breathing.

I’m going to act like I exist.

Taking vitamins (biotin in particular, as the hair goddess who styled my hair suggested) and paying attention to my needs.

 

I believe we look at change as a bad thing, always.

Sometimes, I think a little displacement is exactly what we need.

What do you think?

Daphne Shadows

Daphne Shadows

Daphne Shadows

Daphne Shadows

Daphne Shadows

Daphne Shadows

Daphne Shadows

Daphne Shadows

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Why Depression is Startling

When you’re feeling it – it isn’t startling.

Nothing is startling.

 

Ha! I finally know and understand the definition of apathy.

Unrelated to apathy –

 

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I feel like some invisible disease has punctured my skin, slithered in, and has found a way to live inside me, parasitically changing me, holding me in a strange in-between, a madness, a muted, a roaring duality of pain and nothingness.

Trapping me from within, trying to squeeze the breath out of me.

It’s like a living entity is sitting on my chest; squeezing my heart in a fist of silver and hardness, harshness, imbuing it with sharpened flecks of poison; languishing in my gut, knotting me into coils and pressured twists; cracks breaking through the veneer.

And how am I still alive?

Am I?

If I barely swim to the surface of myself.

Sometimes this is all I have to give.

 

The madness has to come out sometime.

And how blessed am I? Writing gives me a way to breathe.

If only I’ll stop trying to control it. It isn’t always going to be pretty; it’s coming from within me. Sometimes giving the disease swarming inside me, leaching to my bones, and scratching at my soul with metallic nails – words, a voice, helps me.

Instead of leaching inwards, only swirling inside my rib cage, I can spill it onto the page and let it live there.

It may be a little worrisome to those who have never dealt with depression (depression and feeling sad are not the same thing, by the way). Perhaps it’s a little depressing to read for some.

But for me, it’s like expelling poison.

A saving grace.

That, is why I write.

How maddeningly beautiful, how simply poised I find it that both poison and the cure live inside me.

 

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Life is Weird…and Contradictory

So are people.

I know I am.

 

I don’t really understand how I can be really low, totally depressed or suffering AND really optimistic and hopeful, feeling kinda pretty good.

But I can. Doesn’t make a lick of sense.

Humans are a lot more complicated than I think we give ourselves credit for.

If we feel more than one thing – we *must* be crazy, with multiple personality disorder or something. Did you know they changed the name of that disorder quite a while ago, to “dissociative identity disorder” or DID? I wonder why they change the names of things so freaking often and no one seems to know.

Anywho, we can feel a huge range of emotions at once. We can be more than one thing at a time. I don’t know about anyone else, but that’s been a foreign ideal to me before now.

 

I get so tired of people telling me that if I were emotionally unstable, I wouldn’t be able to hide it.

Don’t tell me that.

I am a walking act.

All my painful secrets stay inside.

I haven’t known how I could be anything but ‘happy’ and still feel what I feel, hiding it all the while.

I’m optimistic, I’m hopeful.

But that is not all that I am.

Don’t tell me that if I’m bubbly, smiling, or kind, that I can’t possibly be in pain, physically and emotionally. Don’t tell me, when I open up to you, that this isn’t possible.

Why are people so willing to take everyone at face value and so unwilling to believe that there’s ANYTHING, something, beneath the surface???

I thought I was working on all of this stuff but I found I haven’t even made a dent. I guess getting really sick is good. Health failing obviously equals that something is wrong. It just takes a lot of pain to wake me up.

Then again, I am human. I guess human beings have to realize something over and over again until something pings in just the right way that we’ll believe, too.

 

The holidays ran me over and have been dragging me down lollipop infested roads. So perhaps I’ll have something more to say next month. 😉

On that note, HAPPY HOLIDAYS! Try not to eat yourself to death. Or children. Don’t eat children either.

 

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Why a Writer? Daphne through the Shadows

 

My friend recently asked me how I decided to become a writer.

I’ve had different answers for that at different times. All of which are true, still.

 

The first thing I thought of was this post, which I wrote two years ago:

Why I Write

 

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It amazes me how much I’ve changed. That post was messy in so many ways. But the basis of the post – those three reasons – hold true. So if you want the answer (or for this post to make sense), go read it. Don’t worry, its short. And if you want to scroll down and just read the three reasons, that’s all you need.

But there’s more to it than that. It’s deeper. Even messier – just, in a different way. More complicated.

If there’s one thing therapy is showing me, it’s how I’ve hidden myself… from myself. It’s kind of like waking up. I’m finding out more about myself moment to moment.

One of the things I’ve learned is how I belittle and cheapen myself to keep truth from feeling so real. I laughed and used humor and made sure nothing really reached my heart – or anyone else’s.

Causes me to come off as air-headed and clueless. Basically, superficial and naive.

It’s a misrepresentation of who I am. For one, I’m a lot darker than I let on. Yes, I’m also the opposite – I watch Scooby-Doo reruns and get giddy over donuts. 😉

I’m happy but I struggle with depression. No one exists in singularity.

My tendency to gloss things over is fake. Happiness and strangeness is not. So that part’s not been fake, I assure you. I just don’t show the darkness or ugliness.

And let’s get something straight. Darkness and depression are two different things. I suppose I’ve been hiding both.

Darkness is balanced by light, and when I stop trying to suppress a certain part of myself, I remember that.

It’s strange to be around so many people and to feel unknown. Stranger yet to feel unknown by myself.

But I’m working on it. I’m finding the more I find, the more joy creeps into my life. Being whole tends to do that.

Any who – back to the question.

 

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How did I decide to be a writer?

I don’t really have a precise answer. I remember being upset and watching the roof of the car, the stars of the early morning sky, and curling up on my side, wishing I was somewhere else. I’d detach and *poof* I’d imagine the most ridiculously amazing things. I was always in my head, somewhere existing beyond reason and rules.

I painted reality with my own overlay of life and vibrancy, beauty and thrills.

I grew up this way. I got upset, felt uncomfortable, got bored, wanted more – I went somewhere else in my head. As a result, I don’t ever remember actually being bored.

I think it simply grew within me as I grew. I remember wanting to be a writer in kindergarten. I don’t really remember much before then at all, except for times I’d imagine myself away.

So it makes the most sense to me, for me to say, I decided to become a writer before I even knew I’d decided. I was really young. That’s all I know. There wasn’t a precise day where I said, “I want to be a writer” and the decision was made and my life was forever changed. No one person or situation inspired me. Nothing suddenly triggered it.

Instead, it just always was. I don’t think I ever really stopped and went, ‘huh, I want to be a writer’.

I just knew I did and I wrote.

 

 

When did you become aware of who you were and what you wanted to become?

Do you hide parts of who you are from yourself or others?

 

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