My ‘Edge of Glory’ with depression
When trying to articulate the feeling, sometimes I like to throw a cute “crippling” descriptor in front of my state of depression. Why not? It adds a nice touch, some pizazz, a quirky little glimmer. To me, the word fits snugly. Although, I wonder if it ever gets lost in translation with my friends who have never experienced depression.
I envision that these friends have created a mental picture of me sitting atop my six-week-old mountain of dirty clothes, fingers riddled with Takis dust as I watch Lady Gaga’s Super Bowl Halftime Performance … for the 500th time.
Well, they’re not wrong.
When there’s reason to catastrophize, procrastinate or hunker down into a stale and dull reality, I’m certainly not above it. I have spent many days feeling like a pig in a blanket, lips parched from dehydration but too tired to care. I have let my hair grow greasy and my texts go unanswered, almost basking in my numbness.
Most of the time, though, my depression is quiet, passive, mean little whispers. They don’t always obliterate me, even if I sometimes want them to. Instead, the whispers implore me to spend a few extra minutes laying in the bathtub. Harmless enough, right? Laying there, floating, I suddenly become acutely aware that the water is too hot and find myself grappling with a sense of looming existential dread. I skip my daily dose of Brazilian Bum Bum Cream, and my sunscreen goes untouched. I leave my water bottle empty on my desk, next to the medication bottle I ignore.
During these times, my direct responsibilities seem like the only ones that are critical to my existence. Immediate survival in a stressful academic environment means compromise. Inevitably, my brain stops reminding me to do things that do not reap immediate dopamine or lift an urgent sense of panic.
I binge on the rush of posting on Instagram and power my brain with a $6 coffee. When I’m overwhelmed with maintaining a chaotic balance of attending school, work, meetings, clubs, eating three meals, taking my medication and — if I’m proactive — exercising, everything else falls to the wayside. Arguably, the important parts of life that make me feel balanced, fulfilled and happy fall to the wayside. I forget to find a new tree on campus to circumambulate, to figure out what cute little fairy sitting on a mushroom I want to embroider next or to actually relax in the bath.
Sometimes though, between the cycles of feeling stuck in the reality of life and all its obligations, I find a gem — like when I chat with my other coworker, Rachel, about how our Pisces placements turn us into emotionally enlightened crybabies.
It is during the most ordinary times I rediscover the easily overlooked but overwhelmingly beautiful details of life. It is during these seemingly mundane moments that I remember critical details about myself, which is strange because depression sometimes makes me forget who I am entirely. These little moments are the romance and the magic. When the sunshine hits my face just right, I imagine a symphony playing behind me.
My depression has not gone away. What has changed, though, is that my productivity, or my output for the day, what I was able to accomplish, is no longer the primary measurement for how I reward myself.
Just because I sometimes choose to spend a whole lot of time watching “Ask Wendy” compilations and eating Ben & Jerry’s Half Baked Ice Cream does not change how deserving I am of having nice moments with myself. I no longer feel guilty after being sucked into a state of avoidance. I’ve learned to be kind to myself, to pick up where I left off and sometimes even start the day indulging in the little pleasures that bring me joy. Every sliver of peace counts, regardless of whether I’m stuck on the first, fifth, or 50th step of my to-do list.
I try to start small, with the basics: What I know will definitely make me feel better. I adjust my octopus plushie to a smiley or frowning face, depending on how I am feeling. I give myself permission, and sometimes force myself, to journal every day and write the affirmations, “I am beautiful, powerful, and capable,” as many times as I need.
I do the work to rewire. I cry whenever I need to, and I hammock every Friday. And most importantly, I’ve learned when to cut depressive bath time short and whip out my Brazilian Bum Bum Cream because every day of existence deserves its own dollop of coconut ecstasy. I just wait for my verse in “Born This Way” by Lady Gaga:
“I’m beautiful in my way /
Cause God makes no mistakes /
I’m on the right track, baby, I was born this way.”