Is 'Out of Your Mind' Really Such a Bad Thing?

For some reason the thought that I had already been 'out of my mind' ran through my head the other day (I am sure there was something that brought the thought to mind, something on TV, something I was reading... I cannot, however, remember what that might have been). I chuckled over this thought for a second before the thought hit me: is that really such a bad thing?

Let me explain.

I have several times told folks (moestly in a joking manner) that a persons mind is a dark and dangerous place. I suppose I am mostly talking about my own mind when I say this. Also I seem to have this conversation with folks with problems similar to my own so I suppose in that I am not far off. But as I got to thinking about it the other day it struck me that there was some possible truth to that statement and, as such, it may not be such a bad thing to be 'out of your mind'. Often, I believe, a big part of the distress I may be in is caused (or at least exacerbated) by spending too much time in my mind, too much time thinking things over, dwelling on things that I cannot change, berating myself for thoughts or feelings. That said, it seems to me that by spending more time 'out of my mind' I could possibly avoid a little bit of the distress that I usually find myself in.

Just a thought...

Forever Changed

I know what you're thinking: "Why in GODS name does she keep harping on this?!" After all, blog post after blog post centers around my last major depressive episode, for heaven sake find something new to write about, right? I would ask you to remember though, that one reason I have this blog is so that I have a place to 'talk' about things that, for one reason or another, I do not feel able/willing to talk about elsewhere. My last therapist seemed to think that one of my 'problems' was that I do not talk things out with others. I do not often go to friends and tell them what is wrong. I rarely tell someone how I am feeling (though a lot of that has to do with the fact that I don't know myself). What can I say? He's right, I don't do that. I could sit here and tell you some of my theories as to WHY I don't... but that can wait for another blog entry.

And so I write here. I write things I wish I could talk out with others. I write in the vain hope that it will help me figure something out, figure out what's wrong, figure out how to get my life back together, figure out if it is even POSSIBLE to get my life back together. I write because I need to.

So why do I insist on pounding this particular topic in to the ground? At this point I am trying to figure out how to deal with the aftermath of it. I am attempting to put 'it' into words in hopes that, by doing so, I will be able to understand myself. I have no idea what EXACTLY the hell I am trying to understand. I suppose that I am hoping that, by thinking about it, by writing it down, I will stumble upon that answer as well.

As I have said in previous blog entries this was not my first experience with major depression. It was, in fact, my fifth major depressive episode (though, lucky gal that I am, I had lived with dysthymia for some time before my first MD episode and have had the pleasure of living with it ever since, between MD episodes that is). Maybe I got cocky, I don't know. I can tell you that after a few episodes I came to believe that I had a pretty good idea how my depression presented itself. Sure it varied slightly but for the most part I knew what to expect. Better still (and maybe because of the fact that I thought they were so similar) I knew I could function through them. Even during the worst episode I was able to function well enough that no one seemed to notice anything amiss (to be honest at times even that surprised me as I was SURE the emptiness that I was feeling, the flatness, the 'Nothing', they exhaustion, everything was clearly visible in my eyes). What I didn't know was that it COULD get worse. MUCH worse.

I've described before that last, worst episode. I won't go in to detail here. That is not what this entry is for. For those of you who would rather not have to go back and find out what the hell exactly I am talking about let me see if I can sum it up for you (though it will not do it justice): Basically I quit functioning, at least, for the most part. I definitely stopped functioning well. I cannot tell you how much time I spent alone in my dark bedroom (I had put aluminum foil over the windows in the vain hope that I would be able to get more sleep... didn't know that soon I would be getting too much...) sleeping, 'hiding' under my pillow, or staring vacantly at the wall beside me, the ceiling above me. Then there was how I was feeling (if you're waiting for an explanation of that you're going to have to keep waiting... or go back and read some of my first blog posts... it's just too hard to even ATTEMPT to explain, probably because I just flat out can't do it, not as it should be anyway. No description does it justice). I'd never really been suicidal before. This time I hit three key points: the point where suicide actually became an option, the point where I could (and wanted so much) to do it, and the point where I was so far in the pit that I could no longer even kill myself (despite desiring it more than anything else).

That about covers THAT part. And now...

Forever changed.

*sigh* How do I explain this? It would help, I suppose, if I understood it myself. I suppose the best way I have been able to put it is this: It feels like I've been put through the wringer (you know, when they did laundry back in the day and would put the wet cloths through the wringer to get most of the water out before they hung them out to dry?) and I just will not ever be the same. That last episode took something from me though I'll be damned if I can figure out exactly what 'something' is. There was a time in my life when I felt capable, when there was no question whether or not what I had planned was something I could do. It was more of a knowledge, somewhere in the back of my mind, such that I didn't even think about it. It just 'was'. A time in my life when I knew (again, at the back of my mind) I could handle anything that was thrown my way. That time seems so long ago, another life time in fact. I had hoped to be in graduate school by now. The events of last year put that on hold, I had hoped, for only a short while. Now I am not sure I will ever get there and I am not exactly sure WHY I think that. I suppose it comes down to the fact that I just no longer feel capable of anything. I think of getting a job (I actually have a second interview this week for a job that I would actually like... I think.) and immediately feel something that I cannot really put words to other than to say that I feel incapable. I think the feeling comes from a fear that I will get to the same point I was last year, when I really WAS incapable of much of anything. I think... I think I'm afraid of going back there. I don't want to do it again, not if I can't make sure that I won't go back a third time (and there's only one way I can think of that would be a sure thing).

I'm not this person. I am capable. I am sure of myself. I am not afraid. At least, I wasn't this person. Now, well now I am forever changed.