Buckets of Shit

Today is the first anniversary of my mother’s death. Some people believe that everything happens for a reason. I call bullshit on this. If everything happens for a reason I’d like to speak to who ever is in charge because I’ve been short changed. Whoever is in charge either doesn’t like me or has singled me out for some pretty shitty events. I’m yet to find the reason for both my parents dying before my 35th birthday. I prefer to believe that we live in a world of chaos. Each of us are responsible for our own bucket of shit. Our buckets contain different amounts and type of shit but in the end it’s all the same.

In the age of social media, it’s easy to get distracted by what others were given in their buckets.  When engaging with high light reels from other people’s lives, it’s difficult to remember that they also have shit that stinks. It can be inconsistent with the individual’s brand to reveal what real life looks like. They may work hard, have taken advantage of some fantastic opportunities and learnt a skill or lived a life that many of us dream of but at the end of the day once the make up is removed and the lights are off they’re humans just like we are.

I’m not playing the victim here. It would almost be justified if I did. I grew up in a household with domestic violence, spent my early twenties recovering and then in my thirties started to get my life together when within five years of each other both my parents were taken out by cancer. After my father died I struggled with a mountain of unresolved issues. I had the kind of daddy issues that made me crazy more then sexy. After dealing with that and feeling like my life was on the up we were informed of my mother’s diagnosis. After everything I’d already been through it didn’t feel fair. To top it all off I have a brain that is prone to depressive episodes. Life can feel like a hostile jungle, anytime I relax a predator appears. Now you know what some of the shit in my bucket looks like.

Life is still good despite all the stuff that’s been dumped on me. To quote Matt Smith’s Doctor Who- ‘the bad things don’t always spoil the good things and make them unimportant’. In other words, the bad doesn’t make the good any less good. The two can successfully coexist. I’ve had great coffee and conversations on days that I’m dying inside. Emotions aren’t absolute. One moment does not have to ruin a whole day. My point is don’t let the horrible shit override the good, useable shit. Examine what you have, acknowledge the bad and appreciate the good. Not everything happens for a reason. If it does it’s often because you or someone else made a decision that produced a consequence you may or may not want to deal with. It’s up to each of us all to decide what we do with our buckets of shit. As for me, I’m going to try to turn my bucket into a masterpiece, even if it doesn’t turn out the way I hoped at least I can say I tried.

A Change of Weather

Years ago, at the end of my first serious bout of depression I remember waking up one morning feeling fine. I gingerly explored all corners of my mind to see where the heaviness was hiding. I couldn’t find it. After several weeks of rock bottom, I found myself not trusting this new state of being. There was nothing to fight, no darkness to push through before I could go about my day. When you’ve been fighting for so long, waking to find the enemy has disappeared during the night is disorientating.

The last several years have been heavy. After Mum was diagnosed it felt like every phone call was a threat. There was the constant awareness that things were going to get worse. Even the good moments were overshadowed by what was to come. Even though it was a relief when she died, it marked a new phase of sadness. The sleepless nights that come with raising a child added to the precariousness of my mental health. It was quite a surprise last week when I realised that for the first time in a long time I felt completely fine. I searched for any residue of sadness, but it wasn’t there.

Although I can’t say exactly why I’m feeling better, I can take a guess. I’ve let go of friendships that were doing more harm then good. That was hard. But as the saying goes, don’t hold onto a mistake just because you’ve spent a long time making it. It’s hard to recognise when someone you love isn’t good for you. It’s almost impossible to untangle and let go. I’m started actively putting time aside for creativity. I’m standing up for myself and asking for what I want, when I don’t get it immediately I’m learning to negotiate to get the best outcome I can. I’m taking the time to exercise and eat healthy. I’m reading some fantastic novels and listening to podcasts full of interesting ideas. My brain is getting fed. I’ve started pursuing some ideas that have been simmering away for some time. I’m being proactive with my emotional, mental and physical health. I know the storm clouds are likely to reappear. But I’m going to do everything in my power to make the most of this sunshine.

The Black Dog

I don’t like saying that I have depression. I prefer to say that I’ve battled depression or that I struggle with depression. To me, saying that I have depression implies ownership. The last thing I want is to encourage it to stay. It’s not mine, I didn’t ask for it and I would very much like it to go back to where it came from. I’ve tried medication and therapy, but the black dog still comes back to haunt me. 

Sometimes it’s arrival is sudden. I’ll wake up in the morning with it in bed with me. Before I had Lucy I would know it was going to be a tough day when during my morning ride the dominant voice in my head would be screaming about what a failure I was. It would tell me that I couldn’t make it up the hill. That I was too fat to be out there on a bike. To turn around and go home. On those days I knew that I had to make it to the top of where ever I was going. Because if I could beat the voice and make it up the hill I could get through the day with minimal damage.

Other times I can feel it coming. It’s like there’s a long shadow that falls and turns the atmosphere ice cold. I know what’s coming. If I exercise, socialise, read and maintain a level of miscellaneous activity I can delay the arrival. This happened over the weekend. I felt it coming. I almost cancelled my regular Sunday dinner arrangements, but I’d already promised to take dessert and I couldn’t think of an acceptable reason to bail. Dinner was great. I was quiet. I couldn’t think of anything much to say. We ended up walking around the neighbourhood looking for Christmas lights. Even though I love Christmas lights, it all just felt bleh. I walked in silence surrounded by other people’s chatter. After I left I got a text.

‘What’s going on?’

Telling people that I’m not ok but I’m ok is hard. Sadness is not a bad thing. Hermits used to be people who got depressed, disappeared from society and then reappeared when they were better. That’s a romanticised version anyway. The truth is I can function with the black cloud over my soul. It’s not pleasant and there’s no fun in it but I can do it. It’s difficult for other people to watch but I’ve spent years learning my boundaries. Knowing when it’s just sad and then when it’s time to haul myself to the GP for some external assistance.

The hardest thing now is trying to figure out when it’s grief over depression. They are very close cousins. But grief has a purpose. It’s something that I need to walk through. Engaging with the sadness of grief can bring healing. If I entertain the activities of depression it gets worse. It’s a delicate balance that I’m yet to work out. I’m not sure if I ever will. But until I do I’m going to do all the things I know are good for me. I’m going to go for walks with friends, socialise, read good books, dance around my kitchen to music that I’d be embarrassed to otherwise own. I’m going to look after myself. Because as much as other people care, when everything is said and done I’m left standing by myself. My tribe is always behind me but I’m the one that must face this ugly black thing. I’m determined not to let it win.