Alcohol was my answer to The Depression. My first answer. It worked for a while, until it didn’t. It worked until it needed something…extra.
Tuinals, nembutals, lysergic acid diethylamide, seconals, amyl nitrate, mescaline, peyote, cocaine, crank, quaaludes, heroin. Just a little something extra on top of the alcohol, for the deep soul sucking hole inside of me…The Depression. It worked. For a while. Then…
Something extra, on top of the alcohol and the already extras, prescriptions were added like the cherry on top of an ice cream sundae, the finish touch. Sinequan, Valium, Elavil, Desipramine, Halcyon.
It’s been almost twenty years since I self medicated. Twenty years since I stopped taking two parts of this prescription and adding it to three parts of that one. Most of those years I don’t even think about The Depression…
except when I do.
And then there was Buspar, Effexor, Paxil, Lexapro, Wellbutrin. There were meetings and prayer. There was gluten free, lactose free, de-caffeinated, organic, hydroponic, hormone free, free range, steam distilled and still, sometimes, there is The Depression.
The dictionary definition of depression includes this: sadness, gloom, dejection.
That is not My Depression.
My Depression has romance. It is alluring. It is seductive.
It feeds on isolation and it stays hungry. My depression is paralyzing.
It tells me I have nothing to say.
JD Salinger is dead. Catcher in the Rye did not change my life. I am not JD Salinger
Charles Bukowski was a drunk,
Burroughs was a junkie.
I do not read Bukowski and I am not William Burroughs.
Jim Carroll is dead. Carroll changed my life; he made me want to be a junkie.
Dorothy Allison made me believe there is an audience for the darkest of stories, but still, I am not Jim Carroll or Dorothy Allison.
My Depression turns me away from tenderness, whispering in my ear that a tender touch or a soft word will kill me, will cause my house to crumble beyond repair.
It is avoidance and it is obsession.
Clutter & filth & unopened mail under piles of clothes and it is cleaning grout with a toothbrush. It is writing for eight hours
and getting nothing written.
It is deprivation and punishment.
It is not showering, or eating. Holding off meals until this and that are done and not doing this or that. It is meals that consist solely of chewing gum. Or tea. It is nausea and headaches. My Depression fights sleep until my muscles ache and there are sharp pains in my neck. It is not being able to sleep because there are aches in my muscles and pains in my neck.
It is early mornings and not enough sleep.
It is overscheduling classes & workshops & bells & whistles. Adding this here and that there and not taking care of here and now.
It is writing this,
now.
My Depression is sleight of hand.
It is the twinkling Christmas lights covering my house that keep you from noticing what is going on inside. That the floorboards are rotting, the plumbing is leaking, the windows are cracked and a cold wind whistles through the house.
My Depression has romance. It is alluring.
It feeds on isolation and it stays hungry. My depression is paralyzing.
It tells me I have nothing to say.
You have LOTS to say, Jodi. And you say it humorously and succinctly.
With empathy,
Lisa
Lisa said it well. Thank you Barbara/Gretchen for this connection. ;~)
@Grace, Who is Barbara?
Thank you for this essay. I’ve come back to it several times since you posted it and am so grateful that you did. I’ve done extensive reading on depression and found nothing that fit so perfectly, was so perfectly expressed as this.
Thank you, Jodi. A cold wind whistles through my house too.
@Roja, Thanks, I appreciate the feedback. Nice to know I’m not the only house on the block that has to contend with that draft now and again.