The day I didn’t want to write

Content Warning: Depression

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The day I didn’t want to write wasn’t so long ago.

That’s never a great start to a story, right? Especially one about a writer.

Maybe not, but it’s the honest truth. I had been slowly spiraling down into the deepest depression I have ever experienced and that’s what depression does.

Depression isn’t just feeling down in the dumps and oh well time to smile and be happy again because everything will be all right. There is a thing called functioning depression, and that, well that has it’s own miseries to it.

But if you reach the point of not wanting to do the things you know you used to enjoy, when you no longer can enjoy them even when you try, that, my friend, is a deep problem.

The thing is, it’s an easily hidden problem. It’s easy to overlook. Others may have no idea. You might not even realize what’s going on.

I’m fortunate because I was watching closely. From one crisis to another, from one unsafe or careless or inconsiderate choice after another by others, I realized I was slipping away. I didn’t matter. Nothing mattered. Even as much as I still cared for the world at large, and even as much as I didn’t want the rest of my life, however long it would be, to be miserable, I felt that ultimately none of it made a difference or was worth anything.

I’d been practicing all sorts of self care methods, trying to be kind to myself, trying to make my expectations realistic and reasonable. I’d been seen, heard, understood by a few. I’d been misunderstood or perhaps even considered a nuisance by others.

I was living through trauma. We all were. And I had an extra complication on top of mine that some simply could not compute. They couldn’t see the world the way I did. I’m sure to them I was full of overreactions.

I’m not here to argue my trauma is worse than someone else’s.

I just know what mine did to me.

The day I no longer wanted to write, that thing, that singular thing I’ve been good at and enjoyed for years, the very thing I studied and realized I had found my treasure chest, something I could do for ever and enjoy the time-consuming, painstaking process. The day I no longer wanted to write was a day that part of me died and sat decomposing in my chest. And I just wanted it gone. I didn’t even want to mourn it. Because it didn’t matter.

So I stopped. In a way it was a kindness. I removed the pressure. The joy was gone; the guilt could die with it. The aspirations of publication, the wish to say something worth saying on a mass scale, and the desire to prove to myself I could do something even with the odds stacked against me, those were all gone.

Years of work and dreams no longer mattered.

It was a slow chiseling away, but not one that led to a beautiful statue or anything noteworthily good. And when that last piece finally broke off, I didn’t want to search for it.

That’s what depression did to me.

I wasn’t me anymore. I was a new being, but a shell of one. It wasn’t a rebirth; it was just a walking death.

Writing wasn’t the only thing that didn’t matter anymore. Nothing I did or could do or would do mattered.

That was a dark time, and one most people who know me didn’t know about. I’m grateful for the support from those who did. I’m grateful the intensity of that time has dwindled. I’ll tell you about the good things sometime, but for now, this is a story with an uncomfortable pause. Depression does that. Let’s talk about it. Let’s not always counter it with “happy happy joy joy.” That won’t help the people who are in their darkest moments. Listening and accepting them, exactly as they are in that moment will do more than you may imagine.

Those difficult emotions are there for a reason. And when apathy sets in, that’s a warning sign.

Listen to those emotions. Watch for that warning sign. If someone you know is going through this (likely, even if you don’t realize it), sit with that discomfort. Not to live in it forever, but to understand, to learn, to be curious.

That’s how you find the way out.

Acceptance, Mental Health, and Chronic Conditions

Mental health is a big part of living with chronic conditions. Since they don’t go away or last for a prolonged period of time, they change our lives. Sometimes it’s a relatively small change, and sometimes it’s bigger.

I had a big change when I was diagnosed with type 1 diabetes, more playfully and defiantly dubbed “DeTickles” on this blog. (Check out this fun read where I explain the silly name.) Suddenly I had to give myself shots (no, I still do not “like” needles), figure out what the heck a carb was and understand it’s not all about sugar, and monitor my body non-stop without breaks (yes, even when sleeping, I had to find a way).

I went about a year after my diagnosis before I asked for a referral to a counselor who understood diabetes and already spoke the lingo. It was one of the best health care decisions I have made. Taking care of my physical health required taking care of my mental health. And vice versa. My counselor helped me with that and still helps me to this day.

I had another change when I realized counseling and all the care tricks, tips, and yoga practice wasn’t enough for my mental health. I asked my doctor for antidepressants. Even knowing my mental health was getting worse was hard to take mentally and emotionally. I was doing everything right. I was taking care of myself and prioritizing my own self-care as much as possible. I was navigating life in a pandemic with a chronic condition, isolation, frustration, and a huge change from what I used to consider normal.

I knew I hadn’t failed, but I did feel like somehow I should have been able to prevent it. Accepting my mental health needs and that they had changed over time was a challenge.

I think I’m still accepting it. But I am immensely grateful to see improvement since starting on an antidepressant and continuing counseling.

Then another change. Now it’s a more official comorbidity, a common pairing of two (or more) health conditions at the same time. Thyroid problems are, unfortunately, common to have in addition to diabetes. Both the pancreas and thyroid are tied to the endocrine system. It’s not great, but also not a huge surprise when something goes wrong with one the likelihood of something going wrong with the other increases. I have no family history of Type 1 diabetes, but thyroid problems is another matter. Rich history, there.

So when I receieved my diagnosis of DeTickles and was told I had a thyroid goiter and we should check it out, I figured it would only be a matter of time before something went wrong enough to need correcting.

Somehow knowing that didn’t make it easier when it did happen several years later. That was recently. I didn’t want to accept adding another health condition to my life. I think I’m still working on that acceptance, and that’s okay. I’m lucky to have a wonderful doctor who caught it early when I thought I was tired and hot because it was summer, but she recognized signs of hyperthyroidism. A bit ironically, that was the opposite thyroid problem of my rich family history.

I didn’t know what to do. I barely understood my mother’s thyroid condition, and she never talked about it. Even though I had assumed it was a matter of time, I hadn’t spent any of it researching to understand or be aware of the symptoms and what to watch for ahead of time. Yet, here I had one more thing to deal with on top of an already overwhelmed and exhausted management and self-care plan.

What did I do?

At first, I thought I accepted it. “Fine. Let me take a new medicine and get on with my life.” But that wasn’t acceptance. I was bitter. I was also repressing my emotions, those enthusiastic messengers, and denying the valid message: This is hard.

I took the weekend, when I had time away from the responsibilities of work and keeping myself together to get the job done. I let myself be sad. It wasn’t fun. But it was needed. I needed that message, and I needed to take time with it. I needed to respect and honor both my body and mind’s response to another difficulty. I’m still taking time, but because of that weekend, I have made some progress. The burden has lessened. It’s also recent enough that I’m still in the process of fine tuning my treatment. I see my doctor again in a few weeks, when we can tell how much my medication has helped and what else, if anything, needs to be done or changed. That could also take time to process.

But that’s okay. It’s okay to take that time to process. It’s not only needed, it’s okay.

That’s a hard one for me to accept sometimes. I have to be happy, I have to be helpful, I have to have it together. Except, those are the lies. It’s okay if I’m not always happy. It’s okay if I’m not always helpful. It’s okay if I don’t always have it together.

I think I’ll read that paragraph again.

I think acceptance is a process. It’s not a one-time thing, and sometimes the process has twists and turns. Again, that is okay.

Not only is it okay, that process is self-care. That process helps my mental health.

That process builds my resilliance.

It feels weak, but it makes me stronger.

That’s okay.

What do you think? What have you tried to reach acceptance of a mental health or physical health need? Maybe we can share tips and help each other.