I Don’t Know Why I Am Still Trying

Photo by Brett Jordan on Unsplash

Making forward progress feels like it’s not a thing right now.

Today, keeping my head above water is my primary goal. The process of moving forward seems labored and just outside of my grasp. This morning, I am wondering how I managed to fake it for so long. There’s no way I have really been getting things done. Any visible forward progress is just an act to keep everyone from seeing I have depression.

My concealed depression is just that, concealed.

Fear of “what they will say” has kept me silent about what is going on in my head. That, and stigma. As awkward as a mental health issue is today, imagine being open about it 40 years ago. Heck, in high school, I used to walk around Colonial Williamsburg and see the high stone wall of Eastern State mental hospital. My imagination went wild as I envisioned those on the other side of the wall.

I had no idea that had I come clean, I could have been one of “those” on the other side of the wall.

At that point in my life, I wasn’t even admitting to myself what was going on. Even as I went through my “lost year.” I was incredibly careful not to look behind the curtain. Knowing what was going on with me had the appearance of trouble. Staying away from the causes, I focused on how I can get back to my day-to-day life.

It was clear that I had something going on inside that was making my life a big struggle.

But facing it, or even considering what the problem was, was a problem for me. Seeing what was going on was just too raw. I needed the PC version. My concern during my lost year was to:

1. Find a reason to get out of bed
2. Pretend everything was all right when I came in contact with people
3. Figure out an excuse, even if it was just for me, to go to bed early

This routine made the day cut and dry.

I was a small business owner at the time. As a professional chimney sweep, I took jobs that worked around my own needs. As long as I made enough money each month to pay the rent, buy gas and a bit of food, I was OK.

I could fill an entire book just with my chimney sweep stories.

But that would just be one more way to avoid what I was actually doing and thinking. It is easy for me to consider a topic, and to start writing about it. Then, I seem to go off on a tangent, where I write in depth about a related idea that is not confronting my depression. Eventually, I circle back and begin to write about the subject I wanted to confront.

This morning, with the grey rainy sky beyond my sliding glass doors, I feel I am avoiding what I sat down to write.

And it is time to get ready for work, so I will need to stop writing until tonight. Then, I will start the process all over again. I have become an expert at avoiding what I am thinking. Writing about it, while it happens, is extremely hard. By writing about similar experiences, I can justify my writing without writing about what I am thinking.

The whole idea of writing about an idea is making me see how hard I make it to write about an idea without rationalizing the idea first.

Now that I have totally tangled up my thoughts, I am going to leave this and take my shower. I need to be ready to walk out the door in 30 minutes. Saying that, I am still writing and not stopping. It is clear that I like a challenge. Getting everything done so I can leave the house in 29 minutes is a way to test the limits of my ability to get ready.

Or I am just making the morning more difficult than it needs to be?

In the end, I made it to work 7 minutes early. That’s just the way I like it. I can scan work email on my phone and get a sense of what I am walking into. And if I am even earlier than that, I will skim my personal email, too. Even if I only read one or two emails, I feel prepared. At work, I have a routine that helps keep me focused. I know what to do and have done it hundreds of times in the past.

At work, I am sure of myself and sure of my role.

And if the feedback from my employees, staff, my boss, his boss, his boss’s boss, and his bosses, bosses’ boss is any indication, I am definitely earning my paycheck. At work, I do the best job of ignoring my depression. Pushing out all sorts of high-functioning depression, I can get through the day without revealing my true feelings.

When I am not at work, I am less sure that I am projecting concealed depression in a believable fashion.

Most of my conversations with my depression do not happen at work. I am too busy for that kind of thing. Yet, off the clock, I feel my depression lurking in hopes of getting my attention. As I’ve said many times, my depression does not employ a hard sell. Rather it drops hints and suggestions. If one of these trial balloons catches my attention, then depression goes to work.

But my depression is very patient, waiting for the best moment to bring up an idea.

Suddenly, I am surrounded by all of these thoughts and ideas that are foreign to my day-to-day world. I begin to wonder what if? It feels like I am about to “should” all over myself. Shoulda, woulda, coulda, is a place I have been to many times. They have a booth I always sit at. Everyone knows my name (just like Cheers). But after my stay at Five east, I am finding I don’t go there as often.

In fact, I am realizing that I don’t time travel as much as I used to.

It was easy for me to slip into the past and wallow in my own crapulence. Even though I wasn’t saying woe is me, I was spending vast amounts of time worrying about what I did or did not do in the past. I could not fix those issues back then, and I still cannot fix them now. And when I would time travel into the future, I would have conversations with myself about what might happen.

After observing the situation, I would make up the ending, without speaking with anyone.

Ok, I would talk with my depression, but the end was always the same. Having made up my mind about the outcome, I didn’t need to speak with anyone. I knew what was going to happen. I have been stellar at time travel. This became a big part of depression’s toolbox.

So, I am certain that my depression has something to do with how I am feeling.

Using energy to “try” seems like a waste of time. I know that I am not sure what I should write next. It seems to me that a dramatic finish is needed. I just don’t have the energy to construct something like that. In the end, I will just stop writing. I imagine there is more to think about.

Once again, I am stopping to figure out why I feel so blah.

The good news is I am stopping to figure out my blah. The shocking news is I have blah in the first place. I try to trick myself into feeling that this is just a short “one of those things.” That tomorrow will be brighter, happier, and more balanced.

Then life and my depression get in the way, and I am back to being blah.