Editorial: My Life With Depression

**This is an opinion piece, not fiction.  It explains my current struggle with depression.  Read on with that in mind.**

I am so bitter and damaged.  I have zero patience for other people and their quirks.  I don’t expect anyone to have patience with mine, either, if I can’t return the favor.  And it’s not that I choose to have no patience for the way people talk around things, the games they play (willingly or not… a lot of it is completely unconscious), and how people will say something but have an entirely different motive behind their words… it’s just my past experiences combined with my psychological training that’s made me this way.  I equate it with my atheism: once I have the proof, there’s no going back.  I know so much about psychological phenomena and how the brain literally works (down to parts of the brain and neurons) that I can’t just pretend like I don’t know these things.  It genuinely influences my opinion of humans in general.

And don’t get me started on how my training and life experiences have affected my outlook on MYSELF.  Good god.  I think those are two things that make my depression so much worse.  I’ve studied depression in depth, and the fact that, even though I know, in theory, how to overcome depression, and what I should do in order to take steps to help myself, and I STILL can’t, tells me the power of the brain is SO much more than we will ever fathom (at least that is my educated opinion on that matter).  We learn more and more about the brain and how it works every year, but there are still so many questions that remain unanswered, or are answered with a, “We don’t know that yet.” 

I’ve always been a humble person, so I become extremely frustrated when a person who has never suffered from depression; or someone who thinks depression is just a big, dramatic tug for attention; or a person that thinks depression is a sign of weakness; offers me advice on how I should be able to ‘get over it.’  Really?  Do you think it’s that simple?  Do you think I wake up everyday and say to myself, “Gee, it sure does sound fun to be paralyzed and unable to move or be productive!  I really enjoy the thought of being paranoid and anxious over things that are simple everyday actions for everyone else.  I love crying, let’s cry all day long, that sounds great!  You know what would be fun?  Canceling my plans with friends because of my social anxiety and crippling panic attacks, because that’s exactly the right way to keep friends!  Oh, and let’s eat everything in the house and gain a ton of weight, cuz that’s exactly how one goes about boosting self-esteem and self-worth!”  Do you see how ludicrous it sounds now?

I also have a hard time with how my presence is seen now that I’m back in Minnesota.  I believe that many of my friends genuinely forget I’m here and available to go out and have fun.  I was gone for two years and was so crushed that I couldn’t see my friends that I didn’t call.  It’s too hard for me to hear the voice of someone I will never see in person.  I would text, but I do have several friends that won’t accept texts, and since I won’t talk on the phone, and they won’t text, we just didn’t talk.  Not talking for two years is almost like I fell off the face of the planet and… died.  And in a way, I did die.

I will never tell you exactly what happened to me that made me ‘run away’ to Arizona.  Never.  You just have to believe me, if I hadn’t left, I would have done something really ‘stupid’ to myself, to put it nicely.  If you’d like to think of me as weak and ‘running away from my problems’ whatever, I don’t care, you can think what you want.  No skin off my nose.  The result of my two year disappearance is that many of my friendships, that were so incredibly close at the time I left, are now irreparably broken.  I’m invisible.  I’m shunned.  I might as well be dead.

Which, of course, leads to my depression worsening.  I was trying my hardest for a very long time to build up the courage to go out and meet a guy (who shall remain nameless).  To talk, to laugh, to perhaps date eventually.  I couldn’t do it.  Yeah, it’s my own fault, I couldn’t get past my own fears and insecurities.  Of course the guy blames me for it and doesn’t understand any of the mental illness underlying it.  Whatever.  It’s for the better to get rid of people who have zero understanding of mental illness.  But it’s discouraging, because there were TWO times that I got all dolled up, drove out to where we were going to meet for a beer, and had such a severe anxiety/panic attack that I had to cancel.  It’s something I need to work through, but it makes me feel even less human than I already do.  I get the question, “So, are you seeing someone?” and when I answer, “No,” the overwhelming response is ridiculous.  “Oh, that’s too bad,” or “You need to get a man!” or other such silly things.  No, I don’t need anyone, thank you very much.  I need to work on me.  And that’s exactly what I’m trying to do.

I will not be forced to meet up with strangers for dates.  If you can’t be patient enough to wait for me to be ready and ask you if you’d like to go out for a date, then you don’t deserve me.  And I don’t need any man forcing me to do anything.  The next time a man does that to me, they are going to get an eyeball gouged out, and I’m not even kidding.  I’ve been hurt by men both physically and emotionally one too many times in my life.  If it even comes close to happening again, the man is going to be sorry.

My mind is a complex hurricane, yet at the same time, it is a paralyzed, throbbing organic ball in cardiac arrest.  So much is going on, yet the level of complexity cripples me.  It angers me when people try to suggest simple things that might help.  Some time away.  A nice cup of tea.  A movie.  No, no, no.  Nothing will help me.  Not you, not anybody.  It’s hard to talk to someone when I can tell (I’m a professional, you can’t pull the wool over my eyes) they aren’t interested in what I’m saying.  And just like I’ve been saying all my life… I don’t say much, so if I am going to use the breath to talk to you, by god you better listen to what I’m saying.  If not, I’m never going to confide in you again.  Simple.  If someone comes to me with a problem or concern, I give them 100% of my attention and really listen.  I give more feedback than just “yeah.”  If you convince me to talk to you, you better be willing to put in some effort.  If you’re a man, don’t touch me or try to cuddle with me.  Just don’t.  That is the last thing on the face of the planet I want.  Just listen.  Don’t try to crack a joke, don’t try to fix me.  Just listen.  It’s not rocket science, I promise.

Drowning (A Poem)

Wavering lines of blue

Rising, slowly

Like a lover’s lips.

Warm, too

And embracing tenderly

Little by little.

Muscles relax,

Eyes close,

The mind accepts its fate.

Suspended in warmth,

The temperature rises

And the air bellows.

It is pleasant, yes,

But the implications are deadly;

The perfect solution.

The waves envelope neck,

Chin, lips, nose.

Almost gone now…

The senses scream

And the mind and body
Are washed clean.

Copyright 2013 by Erin M. Truesdale

I Was A Diamond (A Short Story)

    I was a diamond once.  Bright, sharp, flawless, precious and highly sought after.  The years have not treated me well.  I’m not so much a diamond anymore.  I’m not sure how I’d even describe myself now.  Dulled, elusive, boring, produced from the great pressure and heat of life, like volcanic rock.  I was once rolling along, red hot and dangerous, but now I stand still petrified, full of holes, and forgotten.
    The call of a crow echoed in the distance, but outwardly I didn’t acknowledge it.  In the ever dimming night, I kept my eyes cast down, their tunnel of vision skimming past my weaved fingers to the dirt beneath my Doc Martens.  A wind picked up out of the west and blew several strands of hair across my forehead as the flowing air changed the trajectory of the cawing.  It morphed and amplified, as if the crow itself was inches from my head in a single instant, inside my head the next, and a mile away just as fast.  I knew it was just an illusion, but I felt my eyelids tremble minutely from the after effect.  Some hair became lodged in my eyelashes, sending an odd feeling through my face and a chill down my spine, but my hands stayed still, steadily poised in the turbulent wind.
    The metal I sat upon jumped into my awareness then, and only one word came to mind: cold.  I had been sitting in the same stationary position for hours, but my body warmth could only go so far once the temperature started to dip closer to freezing.  Thin and spanning miles, the single train track I balanced skillfully on doubled as a fantastic bench, as long as its occupant was well aware it was active and a train could come shooting by at seventy miles per hour at any time.
    My body finally moved when I chuckled to myself.  Elbows still resting on my jean-covered knees, shoulders slouched forward, I lifted my head.  My neck seemed to creek and crackle as I moved.  How long I had let my head hang like that?  Maybe the entire two hours I had been sitting there?  I lifted my eyes and winced, the lids felt like sandpaper.  Before me was a wall of trees, the leaves and branches reaching up to an infinite sky.  It seemed even more infinite as the sky darkened, the tops of the trees vanishing into the black hole, stars struggling to be seen.  It was the first day of October and the leaves were now every shade of the rainbow.  As night fell, they turned into a million shades of gray.
    The spot in which I sat held a million sentiments for me, as much as a place can be emotional.  Not only was it a place of solitude, but it was a wild place, a dangerous place, an exciting place, a constantly changing place.  I had to hike to reach it and, most of the time, it was a quiet spot in the woods made especially for introspection.  Other times, though, it turned into chaos.  Since that part of the tracks was nowhere near a city, the trains didn’t have to slow down.  They roared around the curve with mind-bending speed and with deafening noise.  When I felt one coming, (you’ll always feel it before you hear it) I would hustle into the trees so the conductor wouldn’t see me.  This is important because he would report me for being so near the tracks; plus, he would unleash his horn.
    Though I love the controlled chaos of trains, I hate their horns.  The sound is like fingernails on a chalkboard, the three notes of the horn combined make my teeth hurt.
    The crow called out again and I began to wonder if the poor soul was lonely.  I only heard one caw and no beating of wings.  If a murder of crows were afoot, there would be a million caws ringing out at once with a bass beat of flapping wings.  Not tonight.  One single crow calling and nothing else.  No other people, no trains.
    As my eyes slowly scanned the gray-toned trees, a scene played itself in my head.  I had stopped at a gas station after midnight to pick up a pack of cigarettes and a can of Mt. Dew.  When was it last night?  The night before?  It was all blurry in my mind’s eye, so I wasn’t certain.  I paid the clerk and walked back to my car.  Inside the car again, I threw the pack next to my purse in the passenger’s seat and put the can in the cup holder in the middle console.  I looked straight ahead and out of the windshield as I brought up my key to the ignition with my right hand.  The tip of the key touched the metal rim of the ignition and that’s as far as it got; I froze.  My eyes widened as I noticed several people in the abandoned parking lot across the street.  Strangely enough, I didn’t hear a shot, but I saw a man fall to the ground in a heap with two men standing around him, hunched down, knees bent in the rising dust.  It looked as if they were preparing to run away.  One shoved something in his pocket, and like a huge spotlight was on me, he looked up, turned his head and, though I didn’t expect it, his eyes met mine.
    I remained frozen, my car still quiet and my key still paused in midair.  I stopped breathing, as if the noise of my inhalation would make him take what I assumed was a gun out of his jacket and propel a bullet through my windshield and between my eyes.  I panicked under the uncertain circumstances and could do nothing but stare back.  I felt like I could see more detail in his face than I would have preferred, but his black eyes struck me. 
    As I looked on, his eyes narrowed to slits.  His eyes shrunk but mine grew.  I felt the corner of my mouth twitch as he brought his opposite hand up, curled his gloved fingers into a fist minus one, and as he stared at me still, he slid that one finger across his throat.  He mouth moved then, and the sudden movement startled me.  I jumped as if electricity were surging through my veins.  He mouthed slowly and deliberately, “You’re dead.”
    With that, I realized I had lingered too long, that in my panicked state I should have fled, but I froze and now he knew my face, my car, and possibly even my license plate number.  I shot out of my stupor and plunged the key into the ignition with such force I crammed my fingers into the dashboard.  The pain registered, but I knew I only had one objective: get out.  Get out, now.
    The engine roared to life and I shifted before it was even done turning over, foot to the gas petal.  I was normally a cautious driver, but my tires spun and I burnt rubber out of the parking lot.  I was bracing myself for flying bullets as I sped off, but, against my best judgement, I took one last look at the men, along with the one lying on the ground.  That same man was still staring at me, his gaze strong and not faltering, his eyes following my car’s movements fluidly.  A blood curdling smile rose up on his face at that moment.  He stood up taller and ran his finger across his throat menacingly again before I tore my eyes from him.  I drove over the curb and onto the street, the metal of the my car’s frame complaining about the drop with a loud thwack.
    Now, I was constantly plagued by the situation, wondering if I should have done something, if it was now too late to do anything, if I did anything would that guy with the black eyes find me, if I didn’t do anything would that guy with the black eyes find me, would I be in trouble with the law if I did nothing, had I imagined the entire thing, had something really gotten murdered at all?  Had it been an illusion?  Just some guys fighting?  Playing in the lot like kids do sometimes?  All the questions, all the what-ifs, just couldn’t compute, and the bottleneck they were forming in my mind made me malfunction.  So, back to my element I run, just like I do when I feel overwhelmed or helpless, and though the trees and the trains help a bit, it’s never a catchall for my existential conundrums. 
    But it was a nice escape.
    The air seemed to move, and just like I did in the car at the gas station that night, I held my breath.  My senses seemed to heighten when I did.  The metal track on which I sat began to tremble ever so slightly.  It was coming.  The highlight of my night was coming.  The disarray I reveled in, that matched the discord in my mind, was coming to me now.  I jumped to my feet and a high pitched squeal escaped from me.  A smile began to form as the rumble became audible.  It was coming and it was coming fast.
    Ripples ran through the air, bending it and bunching it up, making it more dense in places and more thin in other places, resulting in my ears plugging up and popping constantly.  I heard the crow one last time over the rumbling, and it sounded more song-like, more cheerful, that it had before.  Maybe the bird was looking forward to the coming of the huge metal contraption that shot through the forest, too.
    As I ran to the trees, I stopped by one that grew at the outer most layer and placed my hands upon it.  It shook, as did the ground beneath my feet.  I tucked myself behind it, running my fingers on the dry, rough bark, and braced myself for the engine to flash by so I could run back out and stand recklessly close to the tracks.  There was no feeling in the world like standing a foot away from a speeding locomotive, the wind and momentum and entropy threatening to knock you off your feet and sweep you up in the zephyr.
    A bass surged through the trees so deep it made the hair that hung about my shoulders dance without the use of wind.  Before I could stick my head out from behind the tree to spy the oncoming engine, I felt a hand on my shoulder.  It was not merely placed there, but it grasped a handful of my jacket in its fingers.
    He said something to me.  I couldn’t hear it.  I couldn’t bear to move in order to see who it was that had appeared amidst the pandemonium of the train’s descent on my spot.  I had an ex-boyfriend who had showed me this spot years ago, but this would be the weirdest way for him to greet me.  I wanted to ask the stranger to speak up over the loud passing train, but I froze once more.  After he was done speaking, his fist tightened and he shook me violently.  Tears began to sting my eyes, but I dared not blink.  My frozen facade melted and my eyes closed when a long metal edge pressed against my throat.  In the paralyzing fear I felt, only one thought was floating through my mind: At least you are in your favorite spot.

Copyright 2013 by Erin M. Truesdale