sevenhelz

For most of this year I've been considering starting a series of posts, "on depression and..."
say, cooking, or concerts, or whatever was bothering me at the time. I even had a couple planned, but never quite had the guts to admit this publicly, and regularly, that I deal with depression. So I didn't get round to it. But as I say, I've been reading the BADD links here, and this one sort of inspired me.

I rang up my Dad the other day to tell him how close I was to finishing all my coursework, and how great it felt, and how I've accepted that I'll probably get a 2:1 - not the 1st some of my tutors think I'm capable of, or that I vaguely expected to get given my background and accomplishments. But there's the thing: I have accepted it. I am utterly at peace with the idea that I will leave University with a degree, perhaps not as good as I "could have" acheived, but still a good degree, and with something more valuable: my life. My mental health relatively intact. My strength. I couldn't explain that to my Dad. He was too amused by the idea that I don't work at academia enough to get a first.Or that the academia didn't "work" for me. I think maybe he understands, but we use different ways of speaking about it, and couldn't quite get through to one another that night.

What I've been doing for three years is not just learn about music, but deal with various emotional problems, as I've chosen to call them. As my ex diplomatically put it, "your emotions affect you more than other people". (And I thought, really? People don't live like this? But of course they don't. I'm pretty sure.) It's difficult, as I feel sure I've mentioned but perhaps have only thought, it is very difficult to believe for myself how bad the space in my head can get, when the only times I'm capable of writing lucidly are when the bad stuff goes away. It's difficult to believe that, for someone like me, who functions well enough to get a degree, who can take care of others, who can keep depression at bay through regular meals, semi-regular exercise and generally giving myself the space to feel things and ignore others that might hurt too much... it's difficult to believe about myself, at the good times, that depression is really a problem, that it isn't just a personal failing, laziness.

Perhaps because I hardly believe myself, I fear not being believed, and so I rarely write directly about this. I often put something in my more private blog about the shitty situation that has set me off this time.

This is really hard.

I've never been diagnosed as depressed. When I was a teenager I wrote off my own rages and self-loathing (and actually, a craving to have something turn out to be really wrong with me, just to SHOW THEM) as hormonal, normal for teenagers, something I would grow out of. I can only accept now that it has been eight years of my life in which I've apparently been hormonal. Sure, some of that was on contraceptive hormones. A great portion of it wasn't. Sure, I put myself in difficult situations, with academic pressure, with partners who got too serious too fast, with too much to do and every band I joined wanting my entire self and soul*. Does that make what I experienced any less real? Is it somehow less of a problem to be miserable if it's arguably something you got yourself into? It still needs dealing with.

*not really. they just demanded a lot of time, and I pressure myself to commit to things (partly to be taken seriously)**, and playing has always needed soul. but I don't want to get too deeply into the music here.***
**It's difficult to get taken seriously as a young woman, particularly in my field. Watch this space for a post on that, possibly.
***though maybe I should, since it saved my life in first year.

So I've still never been diagnosed. I actually have spoken to a doctor about it, once. He had been very good about other stuff I'd taken to him, so I thought he might help. I forget how well he listened, but I told him about one particular patch I'd had - the one time I'd been having high days as well as low, for a month or two - and he told me I'd probably had a depressive phase. That was about it. No questions about whether this was a repetitive pattern. Yeah, every few months I get down enough to want to kill myself or quit the course (clearly equally serious), unless I'm bloody careful about noticing the bad moods. IIRC I even pointed out to him that I was only able to talk to him about it because it had lifted. And that I'd been on St Johns Wort (which at that time I had come off because I was so apathetic I was about the quit the course anyway. There's a good Danger Alert in my head, it seems)...
I switched to a different doctor fairly soon after, because I had a terrible case of thrush, and the lovely receptionists assigned me a female doctor. My thursh went on for somewhere between four and six months. It began with the antibiotics we took after an STD scare, and carried on through the contraceptive pill that made me paranoid, irrational and unpleasantly sensitive physically; I tried a pessary in the first outbreak, then it took four oral capsules to cure, one a month. During this time I was fortunately able to eat wheat, but our diet was strictly wholemeal (wholemeal everything!) with no sugar. That's a heck of a restriction, and I like food. I was fucking miserable. My new doctor, when I came in for some sort of check-up on the thrush situation, or possibly a switch of contraceptive, asked me if I'd like to talk to her about my emotional situation and I nearly cried, in her office, and I muttered something about the situation making me miserable and having the possibility of good health, a less restricted diet and a new job in the foreseeable future, I was sure I would be fine. My then-boyfriend was in the room, and I mention this because I'm pretty sure at that point I was desparately trying not to bring up "depression" because it was one of those words that set him off on a rant. Like "gluten-intolerant". Don't get me wrong, he can be a good guy, but sometimes he was not very understanding with me.

I'm not sure I can post this. It's cathartic to write, but I'm really not sure I can. I feel so stupid. Part of the time I feel like I'm being over-dramatic, another part I feel like I'm glossing over hard memories because I don't want to admit to myself how bad things got. Yes, I have wanted to kill myself. No, I have not attempted it. I haven't even harmed myself in a long time. Somehow walking down a street not looking at the cars and telling myself "You don't want to die, You don't want to die. You don't want to die" is somehow being "stronger" than throwing yourself in front of a car, yes? For a long time motorways made me think of death. It would be so easy to twist the wheel. It didn't help that he was critical of my driving. That made the anger rear up.

I don't know what to say. I'm going for a break.

Back to the original topic, or inspiration. My tutors, particularly my HoD (it's a small department, I know him quite well) have been pretty understanding about how wanting to kill yourself can take time and energy, and given me hella lots extensions on work that I feel full well guilty for not completing earlier. But the expectation is still that I can get a 1st, that somehow I've been dealing with depression in my spare time (ha!) and it doesn't affect my work. Believe me, it does. I wasn't being overdramatic when I emailed my tutor to say, "Hi, I've been struggling with this essay and just spent the weekend trying not to kill myself, could I possibly have a two-day extension?" (or if I was overdramatic, at least it was flamboyant, or something). I was being friggin' truthful. It doesn't matter if I "get over" each of my little crappy phases; I still have to get through them. The fact that I've done so, repeatedly, and I'm still on my damn degree course, is a huge source of pride and joy for me. I don't give a shit any more if I get a 1st or a 2:1; it's unlikely I'll get a lower grade than that, and it's still a damn good degree. Plus, for what I want to do, it doesn't matter.

Ahh, what about what I want to do? Well, ideally I want to fix instruments for a living. I have put very little effort into finding an apprenticeship, for which I feel appropriately guilty. Or do I? After all, I've been spending my time and energy continuing to live.

I'd love to end there, it's pithy. But I should also mention a couple of things; 1, I am now in the T.A., and while I will have to check whether "developing" depression would get me kicked out, in the process of applying I knew I couldn't get a diagnosis. Despite what confirmation that might give me. 2, I know this post is a rambling bag of shite. It probably says things I didn't mean it to, and doesn't say things I wanted you to know are important. Maybe I will clean it up tomorrow, maybe not. I've decided to post it anyway, partly because I have a streak of fuck-it in me, and partly because I know some folks would be interested.