I haven't been writing for awhile, I realized... first I was coming home tired from playing catch-up at work (we're short-staffed, and likely to become shorter-staffed before matters improve), desiring my pillow enough that even the half-hour or hour it generally takes me to post here felt like too much. (Yes, it really does take me that long. I'm a slow composer.) On Wednesday I started coming down with yet another horrible cold (having just got over one about two weeks before-- no fair!), and through the weekend I was far too stuff-brained to deal with "two new things a day." I was back at work on Monday, better than I was *before* the weekend (thank you for asking), not coughing and nowhere near as draggingly tired, but I'm still rather sniffly and a bit hoarse and not entirely with it.
Still (I hear you mutter in the background), well enough to get back on routine and supply your daily requirement of weird trivia. Yeah, but.... well, okay. I *was* working on cooking something up for Banned Books Week-- maybe you'll get that tomorrow (or Friday-- I'm very good at posting my little PSAs at the END of an event, too late to do anything about it ;) ) But...the past couple of nights Despair's had her hook in me, it seemed, and it was hard to write much of anything at all.
No, I was not actually despairing, in the "abandon hope" sense, just... suddenly depressed, with a strong tendency to dwell on all of my failings, flaws of personality or character, self-delusions and pitifully numerous shortcomings and wonder why anyone bothers to be friends with me. The saying that one is always one's own worst critic is quite true, at least for me. I could never be as harsh on another person as I am with myself when I'm at my blackest... if naught else, I'd always give someone else the benefit of the doubt. And perhaps there's the difference. I *can't* give myself the benefit of the doubt. It's my own self I'm flensing, here, and my mind knows exactly where all my bodies are buried. I can try to make excuses to myself, but I'll immediately recognize them as excuses. And because my sense of self-worth has never been particularly high (as opposed to my self-respect or self-confidence-- I feel fairly secure in my abilities and my honor, I just don't necessarily esteem the package they come in all that highly), I don't tend to cut myself much slack, either. It's... well, it's not pretty, when I get that way.
Thankfully, these little self-loathing pity parties are pretty rare for me, and generally just give me a bad night's rest. I don't worry deeply about them because, as I said, they only happen on rare occasions. Lest you worry for my mental health (too late, muahahahaha!!!), I've had several friends who were prone to clinical depression; I'm aware of the warning signs, and I recognize the differences between that and what I get. I may writhe in self-loathing for a couple of days, but I have never, ever been suicidal. I recognize the pattern of my thoughts as unusual, I'm (sort of) able to talk about it, and I'm usually able to work my way out of it. A strong faith helps me, in that case. No matter how worthless a failure I feel, even if I feel as though I'm doomed to die old and alone (good genes, bad socialization skills, oh boy), my God knows about *everything* I'm cutting myself with (metaphorically, that is). He knows the worst of my failings, understands me completely, and still loves me. Depression just can't get a decent handhold for long on that.
The odd thing about this time was that I had *no* idea what triggered it. I was feeling better from being sick, I'd had a mostly relaxing weekend, I wasn't particularly worried about anything from work. I'd had wine after dinner, but less than I usually drink, and whatever effect it might have had depressive-wise should have been balanced by the truly marvellous bit of chocolate I'd had with it. Ahh, well. Some weird hormonal dip or something, no doubt.
Anyway, as you've no doubt noticed, I don't talk about myself much here... that's deliberate. I'm a fairly private person and a wee bit paranoid, and that doesn't go well with a web blog. I don't like putting "me" out there for everyone to gawp at. But I wanted to talk about this for a few reasons... one is that, as I said, it helps to talk about it. Like nightmares, much of what I get depressed about shrinks down to managable size when it's brought out in the open. So, in a sense, this is self-therapy. :D
In another sense, I'm doing this as a small service to others... part of depression's crushing weight comes from the feeling that no one else will understand what one is going through, that these are things that are hard to handle alone but nigh impossible to share for fear of shame or ridicule, and it gets worse, stronger, because you have to face it all alone. Well, you don't, and you're not alone. I feel like this, and other people feel like this too. Everyone has their crushing self-doubts, their bouts of self-recrimination. Bottling it up doesn't make it go away-- recognizing it, talking about it, sharing your insecurities with people you trust (or a therapist or minister, if you prefer), can. They're not going to laugh at you-- it'll be obvious to anyone who knows you that you're hurting, even if you think they can't see it. And friends will want to help, if they can, but may be reluctant to pry, if you've been stand-offish. If you feel like this a lot-- get help. Really. You don't have to be like this.
And thirdly... if part of my self-loathing is that I feel no one understands me, partially because I never let anyone get close enough to understand me... well, you've just had a little window into me. Step one to striking that one off the list. ^_^ Thanks for taking the time to look.
Posted by gris at September 28, 2004 09:45 PM