Fractured: CW- depression
Mar. 26th, 2022 01:12 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
favoritebean_writesThe mind can be funny sometimes. Angry words directed at you when you were six suddenly burn hot as if stabbed into your heart five minutes ago. A careless phrase uttered by someone feeling snarky because you don’t fit into their box forever stabs at your psyche to the point that
you feel worthless, defeated.
Those words turn into what I call, “brain weasels.”
These days, brain weasels worm their way into my thoughts several times a day. They whittle away self-confidence, accuse you of trespasses you never made, but somehow, you begin to believe those little angry thoughts and belittling words, and you sink down.
Brain weasels take ordinary scenes from your daily life, and perhaps they only echo the negative parts of a conversation or an action. Or they twist words and actions originally positive or average, and somehow, you are reminded of your failings.
“Your student didn’t pay attention today because you’re bo-ring!” one might chime.
“My boss is only tolerating me because we’re short staffed, and I’m working for less than I’m worth,” claims another voice, “Even Sue said they were talking about me behind my back last week.”
And my favorite- “My friends really don’t like me. They are just humoring me because I exude depression, and they would dump me if they could.”
In some way, shape or form, these thoughts worm their way in, day in, day out, until I’m standing at the window, tears falling. Perhaps it’s because my biological father was a deadbeat dad to me, to my half siblings. Perhaps it’s because I lost my grandfather, who stepped in to be the father I needed when mine left. Doesn’t matter that it was cancer that took him so early. Maybe it’s the fact that as a child, I didn’t have friends. I had a few, but two exploited that friendship, and bullied me until I finally walked away in eighth grade. Perhaps it was because my mom was working 80-120 work weeks, and I didn’t see her much until I was in high school, or because depression runs in my family. I don’t know.
I do know that these months have been a struggle, and not just the mental struggle with brain weasels. Everyone lost someone dear during the pandemic, many of us lost our jobs and livelihoods. For some of us, we’re waiting for some sort of return to what was before. But it never comes.
By Christmas, I stopped brushing my hair for a while. I know someone who also stopped brushing their hair, and it’s like somehow, things like detangling knots from strands just don’t seem worth it. I know it’s a struggle. It took coaching from a friend to finally start brushing my hair again, and that someone who also stopped found that it took help from several to get back to even trying to detangle the tresses.
The mind is a funny thing. Colors seem muted, and everything is just a little too hot, or too cold. The white noise in the background is suddenly in the foreground, and nothing is pleasant to listen to. The migraines persist for weeks, but you can’t be bothered to seek medical treatment, because you’ve done that shuffle before, and nothing works.
So. You sleep fitfully and dream vivid nightmares. Of breakups and war, fire, and end times. You hear the preacher shout of fire and brimstone, and you counter that you’re an atheist, but the white noise swallows you up.
The brain weasels are waiting for you when you wake.
The noise is unbearable, and sometimes, I think it’s better to walk to the nearest bridge. But then I remember that I was rejected and shoved, and I can’t do that to my own family. Even if they’re only tolerating me, to leave like that would shatter things to a million irreparable pieces.
That’s when I decide that it’s better to numb everything and accept punishment for trying to be something other than mediocre. Everything gets louder, and I can’t hear you speaking, but the Weasels are loud and clear.
Some days, they are gone, and it is quiet. Then I hear people tell me that I am good at my job. That I am a good parent, a talented person who has created good for others. And yet- one little voice whispers in reply, “They’re lying. They’re just trying to make you feel better, so they don’t worry. Remember what your advisors said? These people don’t know that your advisors already told you that you don’t deserve a place on the gameboard. They don’t know that, because you didn’t tell them, did you? If they knew, they would see the truth.”
The mind is funny sometimes, how it mutes the genuine compliments and loving feelings from those you admire. You’re forced to face your fear alone. Your allies, if they’re there, are invisible to you, replaced by angry hecklers, hurling regrets and sadness until the alarm goes off, and it’s morning.
This internal struggle does not disappear with ten minutes of sunlight. It does not disappear with a little pill, taken daily. It does not disappear with cognitive behavior therapy, and it’s likely genetic. Reading diaries from those who have died, I see a similar pattern, and my greatest fear is that the pattern will emerge with my own children. A chemical imbalance, sure. A genetic defect? Perhaps.
Breaking the cycle of brain weasels is harder than any textbook will claim. It’s not enough to walk outside. When battling severe depression, the sunlight only burns, it does not lift all spirits. Cognitive behavioral therapy only goes so far, and that little pill depends on a doctor willing to treat you, and an insurance plan willing to allow you to use it. Oh, and don’t forget potential side effects!
Breaking the cycle takes more than these, and it’s dangerous to make suggestions to someone that they could just make their life better, somehow. But it would help to encourage others to be kind to each other, to help when others are in trouble. I know that I am broken, but I try to encourage my students to look out for each other, to take care of themselves, and to ignore those weasels. Or if they become loud, find someone to talk to.
The phrases mentioned by others which twist and turn in my mind were likely throwaway comments by others, quickly forgotten. I once apologized to someone that I feuded with in school, and they said they honestly couldn't recall ever having argued with me. Yet, it was an argument that played over and over in my head for decades! I couldn't help but laugh when I made that discovery.
The mind is a funny thing. The weasels are there from morning until night. They lie, but they can trick you into believing them. I'm trying to quiet those weasels, but it takes a lot of energy. I hope someday, I can help others keep their weasels away. I just have to find a solution first.
you feel worthless, defeated.
Those words turn into what I call, “brain weasels.”
These days, brain weasels worm their way into my thoughts several times a day. They whittle away self-confidence, accuse you of trespasses you never made, but somehow, you begin to believe those little angry thoughts and belittling words, and you sink down.
Brain weasels take ordinary scenes from your daily life, and perhaps they only echo the negative parts of a conversation or an action. Or they twist words and actions originally positive or average, and somehow, you are reminded of your failings.
“Your student didn’t pay attention today because you’re bo-ring!” one might chime.
“My boss is only tolerating me because we’re short staffed, and I’m working for less than I’m worth,” claims another voice, “Even Sue said they were talking about me behind my back last week.”
And my favorite- “My friends really don’t like me. They are just humoring me because I exude depression, and they would dump me if they could.”
In some way, shape or form, these thoughts worm their way in, day in, day out, until I’m standing at the window, tears falling. Perhaps it’s because my biological father was a deadbeat dad to me, to my half siblings. Perhaps it’s because I lost my grandfather, who stepped in to be the father I needed when mine left. Doesn’t matter that it was cancer that took him so early. Maybe it’s the fact that as a child, I didn’t have friends. I had a few, but two exploited that friendship, and bullied me until I finally walked away in eighth grade. Perhaps it was because my mom was working 80-120 work weeks, and I didn’t see her much until I was in high school, or because depression runs in my family. I don’t know.
I do know that these months have been a struggle, and not just the mental struggle with brain weasels. Everyone lost someone dear during the pandemic, many of us lost our jobs and livelihoods. For some of us, we’re waiting for some sort of return to what was before. But it never comes.
By Christmas, I stopped brushing my hair for a while. I know someone who also stopped brushing their hair, and it’s like somehow, things like detangling knots from strands just don’t seem worth it. I know it’s a struggle. It took coaching from a friend to finally start brushing my hair again, and that someone who also stopped found that it took help from several to get back to even trying to detangle the tresses.
The mind is a funny thing. Colors seem muted, and everything is just a little too hot, or too cold. The white noise in the background is suddenly in the foreground, and nothing is pleasant to listen to. The migraines persist for weeks, but you can’t be bothered to seek medical treatment, because you’ve done that shuffle before, and nothing works.
So. You sleep fitfully and dream vivid nightmares. Of breakups and war, fire, and end times. You hear the preacher shout of fire and brimstone, and you counter that you’re an atheist, but the white noise swallows you up.
The brain weasels are waiting for you when you wake.
The noise is unbearable, and sometimes, I think it’s better to walk to the nearest bridge. But then I remember that I was rejected and shoved, and I can’t do that to my own family. Even if they’re only tolerating me, to leave like that would shatter things to a million irreparable pieces.
That’s when I decide that it’s better to numb everything and accept punishment for trying to be something other than mediocre. Everything gets louder, and I can’t hear you speaking, but the Weasels are loud and clear.
Some days, they are gone, and it is quiet. Then I hear people tell me that I am good at my job. That I am a good parent, a talented person who has created good for others. And yet- one little voice whispers in reply, “They’re lying. They’re just trying to make you feel better, so they don’t worry. Remember what your advisors said? These people don’t know that your advisors already told you that you don’t deserve a place on the gameboard. They don’t know that, because you didn’t tell them, did you? If they knew, they would see the truth.”
The mind is funny sometimes, how it mutes the genuine compliments and loving feelings from those you admire. You’re forced to face your fear alone. Your allies, if they’re there, are invisible to you, replaced by angry hecklers, hurling regrets and sadness until the alarm goes off, and it’s morning.
This internal struggle does not disappear with ten minutes of sunlight. It does not disappear with a little pill, taken daily. It does not disappear with cognitive behavior therapy, and it’s likely genetic. Reading diaries from those who have died, I see a similar pattern, and my greatest fear is that the pattern will emerge with my own children. A chemical imbalance, sure. A genetic defect? Perhaps.
Breaking the cycle of brain weasels is harder than any textbook will claim. It’s not enough to walk outside. When battling severe depression, the sunlight only burns, it does not lift all spirits. Cognitive behavioral therapy only goes so far, and that little pill depends on a doctor willing to treat you, and an insurance plan willing to allow you to use it. Oh, and don’t forget potential side effects!
Breaking the cycle takes more than these, and it’s dangerous to make suggestions to someone that they could just make their life better, somehow. But it would help to encourage others to be kind to each other, to help when others are in trouble. I know that I am broken, but I try to encourage my students to look out for each other, to take care of themselves, and to ignore those weasels. Or if they become loud, find someone to talk to.
The phrases mentioned by others which twist and turn in my mind were likely throwaway comments by others, quickly forgotten. I once apologized to someone that I feuded with in school, and they said they honestly couldn't recall ever having argued with me. Yet, it was an argument that played over and over in my head for decades! I couldn't help but laugh when I made that discovery.
The mind is a funny thing. The weasels are there from morning until night. They lie, but they can trick you into believing them. I'm trying to quiet those weasels, but it takes a lot of energy. I hope someday, I can help others keep their weasels away. I just have to find a solution first.
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no subject
Date: 2022-03-28 01:51 am (UTC)It's been a long time since things were quite that bad for me, but after two years of a pandemic and limited social contact, I feel like I'm seeing some cracks begin to show. And even over the years, I have felt like it has the potential to come back at any time and just bubble under the surface and then explode if the circumstances are right.