It’s 1 am.
As usual, I’ve waited until the day before the sprint ends to actually start my work. Not ideal when I don’t know wtf I’m doing half the time and I need input from other people.
Whoever invented Agile and Scrum needs a punch in the throat. But that’s not what my rambling is about.
I’m trying once again to battle the Depression Monster dwelling inside of me. For almost two years, it’s been in control with a few moments of reprieve.
It dawned on me that I don’t want to be old on my deathbed, thinking that I had a life of sadness. On life’s scorecard, I’m on the losing team against that Depression Monster.
I bet that fucker wears a custom jersey like he’s the VIP of his team of one.
A turning point happened after I read A Court of Silver Flames. I hate to be cliche, but if you know, you know. I’ve never read a book where the main character has a complex relationship with mental health (while also banging a hot dude with bat wings).
I’m cosplaying as a mentally fit person. Or at least, I’m working towards the cosplay. Instead of getting pissed because I haven’t gone back to working out six days a week, I’m doing it when I can (which is at best three days a week right now). I’ve lost some of the weight I’ve gained over the past two years as well.
A few weeks ago, I was at a small gathering of friends. One of them talked about her battle with mental health. She mentioned how CBT worked for her; whenever she was spiraling, she’d simply say “nope!” and force herself to think of something else.
“And that works?” I asked.
“It feels weird at first. But after a while, it becomes a habit,” she replied.
I’ve been to therapy for so many decades, I’ve turned to ChatGPT as my therapist. My history includes trying CBT but it seemed too conceptual. I need concrete things.
So…I gave it a try. And it’s been working.
It doesn’t take much to trigger me. For real, I could look at a Sharpie and it would evoke some emotion tied to shame and guilt.
Now, the moment I catch myself being pulled down into the depression pit of hysterical sobbing, I tell myself, “Okay, you’ve cried plenty over this. You can cry later. But crying now isn’t helping.” The verbiage changes but that’s the gist of it.
Somehow, telling myself that I’ve already done the crying helps me stop. Like girl, we’ve already played that movie. We’re good. We know how it ends.
During my darkest moments, it felt like I was being pulled further and further down into myself. A rope is tied around my waist, and as I pull to follow, it goes down darker holes. Now, I don’t feel pulled when I tell myself that the crying will always be there. There isn’t an urgency to follow the rope.
Am I a changed woman, going to farmers’ markets and buying herself flowers? Uh…no. Nowhere near that.
But the onslaught of boiling water has brought down to a calmer simmer. Sometimes it boils again, but I can bring the temperature down faster. I’m not chill water. But I’m simmering.
I saw a video of myself from 2013. In my brain, I still have that strong jawline with no jowls in sight. I took a moment to look at the video as if she were someone else and it breaks my heart: I thought I was an average, ugly human.
The day the video was filmed, I had scrambled to slap on whatever makeup I had at my work desk. My hair wasn’t styled. I wore a company t-shirt because laundry suffered when my kids were little (she says, typing while surrounded by five laundry baskets twelve years later). I was my ordinary, non-dolled-up self with a small hint of makeup.
I was so freaking pretty. I can’t bring myself to say “gorgeous,” but when I watch the video, I can say that I’m easily the hottest chick on the screen. If I could magically look like that today, I’d knock on every door to show my face.
I’m sad for that version of me. No one sees the depression and darkness she carried inside herself in the video. I feel bad that she had such low self-esteem about her appearance when in reality, she was extremely attractive.
And so, I cry to mourn the lack of awareness she had. Typically, I’d be curled up in a ball, sobbing and wailing. Tears are trickling down my face as I type but, I’m good.
I’ll get plastic surgery when I turn fifty and get that damn jawline back.
I used to treat depression like it was a straight path up, despite knowing full well that it’s a wave. My definition of a “great” day is simply one where I didn’t cry (usually on days when all I do is read until 5 am). I have to accept that’s the bar for “great” right now.
This is the new baseline. Or at least, I’m trying to make the baseline. After this state of “great” becomes standard, I’ll work my way up to a better definition.
Of course, this could be big talk coming from someone who may very well slip back into her OG Depression Cycle. I’m not going to think about it. On the tightrope of my mental health, it’s not about avoiding falling down the depression pit but slowly tiptoeing my way along the line. I sure as hell am not sprinting. Getting “rah rah” about my mental health feels fake. I need a slower pace.
My bank account isn’t stoked that I went down to one job. I get an urge every now and then to apply for a second gig, but I remind myself that healing from the insanity of working multiple full-time jobs at once will take a long time. I only need to focus on getting better at the job I’ve already got before I tackle the stress of another.
I’m also allowing myself to believe in what-ifs. I got a new planner (not realizing the reason it was so cheap was because it was from last year) and it had a vision board page. I had given up believing in a vision of anything other than myself, old, sad, and alone. I gave myself a “fuck it” burst of energy and listed the loftiest of dreams.
It’s not that I believe that I can manifest a mansion with a pool (and two kitchen islands, and a walk-in pantry, and a crafting room, and a beautiful porch, and loads of storage…). I have a flutter of hope.
While hope is not a plan, it’s still a feeling that keeps me mentally above ground. I’ve spent a lifetime with maladaptive daydreaming but they’re like watching a movie. Hope allows me to have a sliver of belief that it could be real.
Fuck. It’s 1:30 am and I have done jack squat for work. I have my 1:1 with my boss in a few hours. My procrastination and excessive sleeping are still weapons actively used by the Depression Monster. Maybe I’ll work on that next sprint.
Maybe.
If you’re in the mood to donate to my diet soda addiction to keep me awake as I juggle my hot mess of a life, I would be forever grateful: https://ko-fi.com/ninjagirl.
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This post was previously published on medium.com.
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Photo credit: Arthur Savary on Unsplash
