Depression: Survivors, and collateral damage

So, there have been several times in which I have found myself being pulled under by the quicksand of depression, and I think I will probably always struggle with anxiety and self-doubt. At times, these issues have taken over every aspect of my life—almost like a vine, opportunistically taking over an old building.

Sometimes I have been strong enough to ask for help. Sometimes I have been strong enough to pull myself out of the mire. And at other times, I have been so lost that the only solution has been time.

During the worst times, just about every relationship in my life has been damaged or impacted. Even when people love you, they sometimes grow impatient, because it’s hard to be a good friend when you can barely find the strength and courage just to get out of bed each day. And in the middle of these black holes, everything is so awful that you don’t believe you have anything of value to offer anyone else. If you feel so worthless, why would it occur to you that anyone else could need you.

I know I made that assumption the last time I found myself circling the drain.

After my miscarriage, my depression and hopelessness was exacerbated by hormonal shifts about which I was clueless, and helpless against. And at the time, it seemed like everyone around me was either in the middle of healthy pregnancies or becoming pregnant.

A good friend experienced a scare during her pregnancy. She wanted to go to lunch with another friend and me—both of us had experienced pregnancy loss. In the moment, it didn’t occur to me that she really wanted to be around me. I was feeling so useless that I thought she had only asked me along to be polite. She needed me, but I couldn’t be there. I know it seemed selfish to her and to my other friend, but I really believed I was “saving” them from me.

Depression and anxiety are a perfectly toxic cocktail. They are like the mean girls in your middle school. They take everything that’s happening to and around you, and twist it until all you are left with is a rope, and you don’t know if you will use it to hang on, or to let go.

You become so isolated that the only things you believe are the things in your toxic inner monologue. Your need to be alone is the only thing you trust, because you don’t want your darkness to spread.

Depression and anxiety are the worst kind of prison, because you just don’t believe you are worthy of help, and without help, you may not survive. So, you have a really have a hard time breaking free. And just like a prison, the world around you keeps turning—without you. If you do finally escape, you often find that almost everyone has moved on—without you. You have been left behind.

During my last major battle with these demons, I lost almost everything—my job, my friends, my physical health, and if it hadn’t been for my belief that my husband and my dog needed me more than I needed “to leave”, I would have lost my life, too.

In the years that have come and gone since this period in my life, I have experienced occasional, but transient periods of sadness or the blues. I knew that I would be more susceptible to postpartum depression after my daughter was born, and I was able to ask for help when it hit. After having lost so much before, I refused to allow myself to spiral again.

For a long time, I looked at everything I lost before as penance. The friends who no longer wanted to be around me were the price I owed the universe for being such a toxic wasteland of sadness, and such a terrible friend.

Even in the process of moving away from the “battlefield”, I believed the whispers of the demons that had inflicted so much damage. I believed it was all my fault, and that the reason I had lost so much was because I failed—I failed to keep my shit together. Somehow, I was supposed to be some pillar of strength, and I was supposed to look at what felt like death, and deflect it like bullets bouncing off of Wonder Woman’s bracelets.

It doesn’t matter how irrational that belief sounds as I write it. And sometimes our beliefs become our truths. I still struggle. My friends have always been my life’s blood—even when I have had very few. For the most part, biological connections have failed me. As an adult, I have built a “family” out of my friends. When I lost almost every single one, I didn’t lose friends, I lost sisters.

In the years since my personal “war” I have tried to repair what I can. When I think of damaged friendships, I see chipped or broken pieces china. I try to gather every piece I can, and piece them back together as closely as possible to how they were before. When pieces are missing, I do the best I can.

I find it humbling and overwhelming when people I loved, but loved poorly occasional support or comfort for more simple struggles—mostly “mom” struggles. Because of how awful that period of loss and sadness was, I easily find myself so embarrassed that I don’t know how to express my gratitude when friends return.

Some people may kindly point out that taking on all the responsibility for how depression and anxiety damaged or destroyed relationships is a symptom of the disease. That’s true. At the same time, I understand how the people I loved—and still love—felt. They may not always have thrown me the floatation devices I needed as I struggled, and they may not have realized the depth of my depression, but there were times that they needed me, too.

One of the hardest parts of depression is the feeling that you don’t matter to anyone else. When you feel that way, you aren’t able to realize that you are affecting anyone else. How could you be affecting anyone when you don’t matter?

And that’s why I work to repair what I can. When you get better, you also develop some clarity. You understand that while feelings are uncontrollable, and they are deeply hurting you, they are also hurting others.

In the instances where I have been able to repair or make new friendships, I find myself feeling and behaving hyper vigilantly. If I am thinking of someone, I try to let them know. If something feels off, I try to address it. I’m not always successful. It’s a work in progress.

And I still struggle with bad moments. The pain and loss from before are always just under the surface. When plans with a friend fall through, I am quick to believe it’s because I don’t matter as much to that person as they do to me. And I often have at least a passing belief that they are right. When I reach out to someone, and they don’t reach back, I usually feel that it’s because I have done something to push them away, hurt them, or that I am just not valuable to them.

These are the demons—the mental pot stirrers. These are the thoughts that can start to pull you back under. If you’ve never felt it, it sounds crazy. But that’s kind of the point—feelings don’t pay attention to reality. And just because you can’t see a physical wound, or a person doesn’t have a cough doesn’t mean they are well.

Living with depression and anxiety isn’t living. It’s life being put on hold, paused, and sometimes even stopped. It’s like being trapped in the trunk of a car, and not being able to pop it open. The driver would save you, but they cannot hear you.

Even if we aren’t dealing with depression, it’s easy and only natural to get caught up in our own struggles. It’s hard to find balance and give people grace when we are trying to manage our own problems. But it’s worth remembering that sometimes people need us most when they aren’t able to say so.

As the Scotsman Ian MacLaren wrote, “Be kind, for everyone you meet is fighting a hard battle.”

Protest is Patriotic: This land is my land, this land is your land

So, tomorrow many students across the United States are planning to walk out of their classrooms for seventeen minutes. That’s one minute for every person who was shot and killed in a high school in Parkland, Florida last month. In the school district we live in, the local school board voted to discipline those who choose to walk out with detention, because it’s an “absence”.

All of us social media jockeys have been stating our cases, and declaring our outrage about either the disciplinary action or the walkout itself—all depending on which side of the aisle we sit on.

As I have been reading all of the commentary, a few things strike me. One—many people are piping up with the idea that instead of a walkout, we would be encouraging our kids to befriend someone new—make seventeen new friends. Two—those of us who think this was a bad call by the school board are seething that our kids’ First Amendment Rights are being trampled. Three—many who so frequently preach about the Second Amendment and what our founding fathers intended, appear to be a little uninformed about how our nation became independent in the first place.

Number one: When it comes to major issues, there’s hardly ever just one solution—one option for addressing a problem. There’s an old saying—‘there’s more than one way to skin a cat’. That saying exists, because as awful as it might be to think about, there is more than one way to skin a cat, and most problems we face in life actually require more than one solution.

When my husband and I were expecting our daughter, we talked about the things we most wanted to teach her. One of those things was empathy. So, when I read the suggestion that instead of walking out of class to make a stand for better gun laws, and to honor victims of last month’s shooting, we should be encouraging our kids to make seventeen new friends, I totally get it. And I absolutely support that every one of us should be doing anything we can to help our kids become kind, loving and empathetic beings, who see someone alone at the lunch table, and sit down with them.

I do have a problem with part of this suggestion. It’s the “instead of” part. I’ve acknowledged before that I remember the loners, and the kids on the fringes at school. Those are the kids my parents would have told me to “steer clear of”, and thirty years ago, we were only on the cusp of the decades long
issue of mass shootings. I was on the fringes myself a good part of the time. Very few people went out of their way to leave their cliques and befriend me. And I can’t say that I was any better. The issues of social cliques and lack of empathy aren’t new. They have existed as long as humans have been living in groups. So, I don’t believe that trying to change this foible of human behavior is going to be effective against mass shootings in and of itself.

Mental health care without stigma is also necessary, but statistically speaking, those who suffer from verifiable mental illness are actually not the ones committing these shootings the majority of the time.

Gun restrictions will not prevent those who have criminal intent from committing crimes. That’s a fact. Someone with no history of mental illness or criminal activity will still be able to get through a background check, and purchase a gun. That’s a fact.

The problem of mass shootings, like so many problems we face in our country, and in the wider world is multi-faceted. Doing one thing instead of another will not solve most problems that have any level of complexity.

Number two: I went to my first march last year. I initially went for some selfish reasons. I am an imperfect person, and an even less perfect activist.

Before that march, the only kinds of activism I had performed were canvassing for John Kerry, standing on a street corner with a sign on Election Day, and voting. None of those things put me in harm’s way. And since the weather was warm that fall, those actions didn’t even cause me mild discomfort.

At the Woman’s March on Washington, I stood among throngs of people—all of us ready to march for a cause, or causes. When we got to the rallying site, there were at least a dozen speakers, all of them there to talk about their stories, and why they were marching. After an hour or so, people around me began to get restless. We were tired of standing in one place. It was crowded, and  uncomfortable. It was cold. Our legs, knees, backs and feet hurt.

I am an imperfect person, and am even less perfect activist, but somehow, I had the epiphany. In the moment, I understood my own privilege so well. I was privileged to be standing there by choice. I was privileged to be be standing there safely. I was privileged to be able to get back on a cramped bus and go home to my family.

I wasn’t arrested. No one sprayed me with a fire hose. No one asked for my immigration status. No one called me a racist or homophobic slur. Yes, as a woman, I have faced challenges and harms that most men never have, but I hadn’t suffered for a cause, or for any other accident of birth. And I wasn’t even suffering as I stood there.

It is a privilege to stand up for others when you yourself have not suffered what they have suffered. It is an honor to serve those who have been marginalized and discriminated against. It is a duty to put yourself in the shoes of others if you want to make the world a better place.

And so, in my opinion, it will be an honor and privilege for our kids to serve detention for standing up against gun violence, because they will be doing so for the hundreds whose voices have been forever silenced by bullets.

Number three: If not for disrespect, and the intentional disregard of law, the United States wouldn’t exist.

Those who declared our independence from Britain were breaking “the law”. Those who dumped a cargo of tea into the Boston Harbor were disrespecting authority. They took risks with their livelihoods, and their safety. The very same people who helped to mold our still pliable Constitution, and added the Second Amendment, had disrespected their government and disregarded its laws.

Many of those disrespectful and law-breaking Founding “Fathers” weren’t a lot older than these “kids” who plan to walk out of school tomorrow. How many of us research our family history, and beam with pride to learn that one of our ancestors fought in the Revolutionary War, or that we are distantly related to Washington or Jefferson?

Even our founders were imperfect at activism, decency, and creating a nation. They let slavery live in a document that preached equality. They allowed discrimination to poison some of our most important ideals. But they did get some things right. They understood that for a nation to grow and prosper, it would need flexibility, and that we would need to be able to make changes when our society changed.

One of the most common arguments cried out when discussing any change to gun laws is that without unrestricted gun rights, we are at risk of not being able to stand against tyranny in our own government. If you really believe and stand by that, then you should actually be supporting the idea of peaceful protest. The only reason you can’t see that is because it doesn’t fit the narrative you yourself believe about right and wrong, and America.

But that’s number four: The great thing about America is that we don’t all agree all the time. We don’t all believe exactly the same things. We don’t think exactly the same way about everything. And because our founders understood this, the foundations of our country supports all of this difference.

We don’t have to agree with each other to be Americans. We don’t have to see things the same way to be neighbors, or even friends sometimes. And we don’t have to sit down to be patriots.

Friend language—the pain of being lost in translation.

So, the last month and a half has been pretty tough—not the toughest, but tough enough to remind me that we have gotten through harder times, and we will get through more. I don’t expect that life will just suddenly stop throwing the occasional curve ball, but from time to time, you experience a little bit of peace, and you let it wrap around you like a soft, warm blanket. It’s cozy.

In life, whenever you decide to take on any major life change, you usually consider things that might come up—obstacles or challenges. But life is really more like the Spanish Inquisition—you just can’t expect or anticipate everything.

All you can do when things hit you in the face like a hard, cold rain is hope that you will be strong enough to get back up when you’re knocked down, and that maybe you and your family will have the support of good friends to lean on.

But there are going to be times when finding good friends is as challenging as whatever you’re going through—not because the people you look to are malicious or uncaring, but because they just can’t be what you need them to be in the moment.

And sometimes, being a good friend seems to be just as challenging as finding one. We’re all trying to get over hurdles, and at times those hurdles can make us feel like being there for someone else is just too exhausting and draining. For some of us, expressing care and understanding is like trying to speak another language.

Worse yet, sometimes the lives we’ve lived, and the way we have unevenly healed prevent us from learning that language.

I have many social foibles. I know where most of them come from, but that doesn’t make them any easier to deal with. I’m awkward. My self-esteem almost never allows me to believe that another person truly values my friendship. I tend to “fall in love” with friends—not romantically, but I still know it’s an infatuation of sorts. In the early days of a friendship, I sometimes think about that person so frequently that I start missing them like we’ve been separated by oceans—even if we’re in the same town, and saw each other last week. Sometimes it happens instantly. I meet someone who oozes joy, kindness, life force, or any number of other qualities that sweep me off my feet. Other times, it’s a slow burn, as I start to learn and understand what connects me to that person on a deeper level.

It might sound sweet that I care about people so much. Sometimes it’s not. It can be painful, because as friends, we don’t all “speak” the same language.

I remember this being a challenge as far back as second grade. There was a little girl in my class that everyone wanted to be friends with. She was pretty, always wore the cute and trendy clothes, and she already seemed to understand her power. Even in second grade, I was awkward. I wanted her to be my friend so badly! Sometimes she even let me believe she was. That made it all the more crushing when she would be unkind or thoughtless. All these years later, it still hurts when I think about it.

That pattern continued through most of elementary school. I believed people were my friends, and then I would get hurt—sometimes literally. I remember a couple of “friends” putting me in a tall, metal trash can in the girls restroom—upside down. I was scrawny, and short—I had a really tough
time getting out. But they assured me they were my friends, so I continued to let them pick on me for several more years.

Most people would learn something from these kinds of interactions, and I was no different. What I learned was that when you want to be friends with someone, you just try harder. Sadly, I never learned that this doesn’t always work. I still “friend” hard. And I still get hurt. And I still feel like an idiot. And I still blame myself.

As an adult, I sometimes can’t decide if those feelings have gotten better or worse. Having lived in my current town for just five years, and being a stay-at-home mom, I can very easily “hermit” and tell myself that I am quite content to do so. I probably am content to do so much of the time. So, I actually think this makes things feel even worse when a friendship experience becomes uneven and painful.

In my introverted awkwardness, I already tend not to put myself out in the world as much as many people. Now, I have fewer naturally occurring events that take me out into the world. So, when I force myself out of my shell for someone, and things don’t go well, I end up feeling like I lost, or never had, my “only” friend. It’s sad, and ridiculous. It’s crazy and foolish. But being able to recognize this doesn’t make it hurt less.

I was an only child for nine years. I learned how to play independently early on. I liked having friends to play with, but I also found it easy to entertain myself.

Now, my daughter is, and will always be an only child. She’ll be four this week. She’s impulsive. Sometimes, she’s explosive. And she hates playing alone. As a socially awkward introvert, who has been hurt a lot, it can be excruciating to watch her work through loneliness and trying to find companionship. In her four-year-old calculus, anyone she plays with is her friend. She never asks others to play with her. She always says ‘Will you be my friend?’ I try not to interfere, because I know I can’t learn “friend language” for her, but it can be gut wrenching to watch the person she asks struggle to answer honestly and without hurting her. A lot of the time, they sheepishly agree, but then try to ignore the fact that she is trailing along behind them.

I know that everyone has to learn their own language when it comes to friendship, but as a mom, I can’t help but try to coach her.

I try to prepare her before we get someplace that we may have to play together—she and I. I also try to tell her that sometimes, she should try saying ‘Will you play with me?’ instead, but she has a little bit of a stubborn streak, and seldom accepts advice.

Her impulsive behavior led her to paint her best friend’s face at school—twice. It’s been over a month since the incident. They haven’t played together in an official capacity since. I can’t repair the situation for her, but I have tried to help her understand that if we hurt someone, or act badly, it’s our job to apologize and do what we can to make things better or right. I am also trying to help her understand that sometimes, our efforts just won’t work.

Not a week goes by that she doesn’t ask about playing with her friend. And every time, I try to explain that sometimes when we hurt someone, we can’t fix it. Sometimes, our friends don’t forgive us. Sometimes, no matter how much we want it, they aren’t going to be our friends anymore.

It’s hard to watch your child struggle, but I know that she will have to learn her own way, and while I always want her to try and to work towards repairing friendships, I am cautious.

The word “friend” may be a noun, but for me, it is always a “verb.” No matter how many times I “fall in love” only to be crushed, I am sure that I will never stop “friending” too hard.

I want my daughter to build strong friendships and relationships, but I hope she learns that friendship requires a mutual give and take. There are always going to be times when a friend needs more support and care from you than they can immediately return, but when the shoe is on the other foot, it’s fair to hope that they will return the favor.

The “language” isn’t always easy. The pain can sometimes run deeper than others realize. The greatest friendships can last a lifetime—even when there are stumbles. Sometimes, there is no question that working on the translations is worth it.