My first post about depression left me feeling exposed, so safety has been on my mind. People will form opinions about me — not random people, but the ones who thought they knew me. I could almost live with that. What I can’t live with is how it could affect my daughter. Her father already tells her that I’m mentally ill.
Let’s unpack that. I’m odd and I suffer for it. I don’t fit in. I’m not comfortable enough in my own skin to be relaxed when I’m with others. Don’t we all edit? Didn’t Freud say that we have sacrificed parts of ourselves in order to fit in? I don’t want her to be known as the kid with the crazy mother. Maybe that’s the line I’ve heard too many times from the ex. It’s hard enough to have a depressed person mothering you, now fatalism adds the fear of genetics and an eternity of pain and ostracization because of mom’s “mental illness”.
But wait! Am I mentally ill? Or maybe the question should be: Does being in existential pain qualify as a mental illness? What does it mean to have a mental illness? Someone once said that to be well-adjusted in this crazy world is the true sign of mental illness. Mental illness… such a loaded concept. So then, is there such a thing as mental wellness? Sit down and have an honest conversation with anyone and you realize we’re all suffering in profound ways. Some of us wear it as a badge of honour. It’s our identity. Others go stealth: they only appear happy and well-adjusted. Should the perceived state of your mental health be your entire identity?
There is a difference between saying “I feel depressed” and “I am depressed”. The former is just one of the multitude of emotions we experience. But the latter makes your emotional state your identity. It feels so heavy and hopeless.
This is what brought me to the beach today. This particular beach had been my happy place, my safe space. As I said, my first post left me feeling exposed. It was my choice. “Let me share so people don’t feel so alone.” “Maybe something I say would resonate with someone.” Or maybe I wanted to share so that connection would help me feel less alone.
My thoughts are scattered because for the third day I have had less than 4 hours of sleep. I don’t have a problem falling asleep. It is staying asleep that is my issue. I wake up in the middle of the night to check on my daughter, the newly minted night owl. We bicker about bedtime and sleep hygiene. By the time she finally relents and turns off her lights, sleep has become a distant memory for me.
Since I was committed to leaving the abyss, I got out of bed and started to walk…only to find myself at the beach. It’s only now that I discovered I was drawn there because I felt exposed…unsafe. In my late teens/early twenties, this was my spot. I’d come here to watch the sun set into the Pacific, to marvel at the magnificent colours, and rejoice at being alive to see another beautiful day. I hadn’t done that in years, almost two decades.
Today I realized I no longer seek out sunsets. I no longer commune with nature. Also, I no longer write. Writing was like breathing to me. I always said that if I couldn’t write then I couldn’t live. For the past two decades, I have simply existed.
Depression is not a dark cloud, it’s a thick blanket of fog. Everything is so dull and muted. It’s truly disorienting: Where am I? Who am I? What did I do previously? Did I do anything? Invariably, the advice is to engage in a hobby or an activity you once enjoyed. But here’s the thing: You can’t see anything; you don’t remember anything . Soon, you’ve given in and allowed the fog to permeate your soul.
Now, for the first time, it’s not the fog I fear, it’s the sunlight. It’s existing: it’s being seen, being exposed. In the fog, I disappeared and was forgotten. In the sunshine, how will I exist?
That’s my challenge, and my mission is to find an answer. If it means being given a label, so be it. I know I’m more than that label, and so does my daughter. I guess we’ll have to keep each other strong.
Much love,
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