Frequently I ask myself, “self, what the hell are you doing?”
One might want context with that question, but really it can be inserted into almost all of my daily doings, and many of my less frequent happenstances.
This post, for instance, required the question. This is “supposed” to be a website for my future –something to be kept professional. Pity parties are hardly professional. Here I am though, partying it up.
In the space it took to write that extremely short paragraph, I asked the question again at least three times. 1 for the “don’t post that on your ‘professional’ website”, 2 for the “ha! you called yourself professional. You call what you do ‘professional’? It’s a poorly executed hobby, nothing more.” and 3 for the “really, another depression post? Talk about pitiful.” I’m sure even more WTH thoughts went through, but really to name them would be to spiral even further into my own psychosis.
So, what do you do when you know you are spiraling? This isn’t a rhetorical question. I am genuinely curious. I often find myself writing. I tell myself that I’m trying to help someone else deal with their own emotions by demonstrating my own — not that I cope so well. I think I just write because I don’t know what else to do. Maybe it helps me order my own thoughts into something coherent.
And what makes you spiral? When you start to spiral, do you find your triggers are more sensitive, and more numerous? That is certainly true for me. Every emotion becomes melodramatic, and each fault becomes my own. The things I begin to abuse myself over are both menial and meaningful in some bizarrely chaotic (yet sensical) way. First I name all the things I am stupid for, then I ridicule myself for being overly sensitive and name all the people whose struggle is more real than my own. Finally, I berate myself for having such “first world problems” and try to pull myself up by my boot straps.
But its hard to stand up with no floor below you, so I find myself falling. And I find myself both deserving of the fall, and undeserving of the rush I know it will give me. I’m not good enough for the adrenaline.
So what made me spiral this time? Basically it comes down to technology and a mind that should be sharper, all things considered (age and schooling and such). I lost my phone, couldn’t transfer money between accounts, and ended up having to leave a cart full of groceries at the store. I should have been able to get out of that — put some unnecessary items back and check out again — but my mind was already gone, down the rabbit hole.
If I had just kept track of my phone in the first place, this wouldn’t be a problem. I should have checked iCloud for my phone’s location earlier in the day. I should have looked longer at work (where it ended up being, and I had already “searched” earlier in the day). I should have gone BACK to work and found it (after finally consulting with icloud) before coming here.
I just snapped at my daughter for trying to talk to me instead of being kind and explaining this to her for future life lessons. Why did I snap at her? She was politely asking to get out of the cart. You’ve been screwing up like this all week. You locked your keys in the house just yesterday. You had to be bailed out then, too. Just like you needed to be bailed out tonight.
Can’t you do anything right on your own? You shouldn’t have added anything into that cart. Your husband asked for specific things. He probably made sure there was money for THEM in the account, not your extra crap. Did you really need any of that? You selfish money-spending ….
And so it goes. Relentless. Somehow I managed to leave the store, drive home and put the child in the bath– all the while berating myself. So the groceries were the straw that broke this camel’s back… but I had been adding straws all week. Tempting myself to see how difficult I could make life for myself without breaking… like I wanted to break, deserved to break, and insisted upon each straw.
So did writing help?
Well, it put it all into words… but no, I’m still… me.
And yes, I know that this is completely and utterly unrelated to writing, books, or my “professional career”, but my depression is a part of who I am. I cannot hide it any more than the bright blue too-expensive hair dye on my head. So I won’t. Not from me, not from you, not from anybody.