In Australia, where I live, New Year's Eve and Day fall around the hottest part of the year. It's not uncommon for the week after NYD to be filled with media reports advising elderly people to stay inside, issuing bushfire warnings for different parts of Australia and for there to be stories of people who have drowned, almost drowned or been bitten by sharks when trying to escape the heat at the beach.
Not exactly the best kind of weather to uphold your new years resolutions, then.
But I've got one. It involves starting with the Couch to 5K and then training further so as to complete the City 2 Surf in August this year. Roughly seven months training time by the time I finally get my act into gear.
I downloaded 'The Non-Runner's guide to Marathons' or similar and from what I've read so far, the author, Dawn Dais, decided to participate in a marathon in memory of her grandfather who had had a stroke and died. I got to thinking, exercise is supposed to be a fabulous way of stamping out depression. Now that I genuinely want to get better, if only so I can sit on the couch and read books without this fierce grey cloud threatening to unload every day, I think that it would be an amazing thing if I could get sponsored to run in the City 2 Surf in the name of depression.
This would involve admitting to people who don't know that I have this disease, chronicling my efforts in a blog (probably separate to this one) and, of course, training most days.
Which I would love to start, except that it can't be much less than 30 degrees out there right now and that's not conducive to the first day of the couch 2 5 k.
As always, updates to follow.
Monday, January 11, 2010
Monday, January 4, 2010
Wait, they don't love you like I love you
Happy New Year.
My NYE was spent at home online and purchasing books for my Kindle. I'm developing a pretty fierce Amazon habit.
When my depression first hit I felt such little satisfaction and accomplishment with everything that I stepped up my spending to feel in control. My therapist at the time, Tehani, said that compulsive shopping was a symptom of depression and that there were much worse things I could be spending my money on, like alcohol or gambling. In one weekend I blew $300 on a pair of jeans because I was feeling like I had no control over my impending UK trip. I guess whittling away at your finances before you leave is a pretty great way to sabotage a trip you're scared of taking. Nonetheless, though, I now wear those jeans and they remind me of a time when I had $300 to spend on jeans, when I felt accomplished enough and sure enough in my income and prospects to do this relatively guilt free. Plus they're Nudie.
So I guess it's lucky that I was given my Kindle now that my depression has become milder.
Now that it's milder, however, the bad days are even scarier. Is this what I felt like? I wonder when I feel especially depressed. It worries me because unlike last time, sensory memories of the dark days seem to have been stripped from my conscious. I can remember, mentally, how I couldn't raise my voice above a murmur or answer the telephone lest I have to speak to someone. I can remember how getting out of bed was a triumph. But I cannot remember how it felt.
I've been running from my first experience with depression, the one that hit in first year, with a very real memory of what that felt like. Maybe it's because that time I carved into my skin in an effort to feel real, whereas this time that seems a bit more folly. I think about it, don't get me wrong, and when the bad memories hit (my depression bank) I grab at my skin in a pinch, or I dig my fingernails into my palms, to focus on a physical pain that will replace a pain that rises from memories. I find myself looking for effective ways to self harm without actually doing them: it seems enough to envision digging a razor into my skin and remember how it felt when I did it.
My depression bank, as I've referred to before, is the name I've given for the bank of experiences, memories and feelings that inform depression but are too painful or perhaps seem too frivolous to deal with. For example, my fear of getting better from depression, which I spoke about in an earlier post, sits in my depression bank and makes me feel worse. I don't talk about it with my therapist as when I'm with her she makes it seem possible to get better; but when I'm alone and thinking about the ways I continually self sabotage, my depression kicks up a notch. Other things that reside in my depression bank include memories of times that I made an arse of myself at university when I was trying so hard not to, people who hurt me and who I misjudged, memories of childhood times when I felt ignored or oppressed and, of course, the sheer reality of my current existence.
Chalk up food issues and self esteem issues, like teeth problems and skin problems, to appearing in my depression bank. My parents' issues which spill over into what's supposed to be my sanctuary get a showing, as do thoughts of friends I've inadvertently dropped by only talking to the people who understand what's going on - all four of them.
It's not a pretty life. It's comfortable because there's no pressure to do anything but it's not glamorous or particularly fulfilling. I guess it frees me this time to spend working out my mind, which is an extremely valuable thing to do.
My NYE was spent at home online and purchasing books for my Kindle. I'm developing a pretty fierce Amazon habit.
When my depression first hit I felt such little satisfaction and accomplishment with everything that I stepped up my spending to feel in control. My therapist at the time, Tehani, said that compulsive shopping was a symptom of depression and that there were much worse things I could be spending my money on, like alcohol or gambling. In one weekend I blew $300 on a pair of jeans because I was feeling like I had no control over my impending UK trip. I guess whittling away at your finances before you leave is a pretty great way to sabotage a trip you're scared of taking. Nonetheless, though, I now wear those jeans and they remind me of a time when I had $300 to spend on jeans, when I felt accomplished enough and sure enough in my income and prospects to do this relatively guilt free. Plus they're Nudie.
So I guess it's lucky that I was given my Kindle now that my depression has become milder.
Now that it's milder, however, the bad days are even scarier. Is this what I felt like? I wonder when I feel especially depressed. It worries me because unlike last time, sensory memories of the dark days seem to have been stripped from my conscious. I can remember, mentally, how I couldn't raise my voice above a murmur or answer the telephone lest I have to speak to someone. I can remember how getting out of bed was a triumph. But I cannot remember how it felt.
I've been running from my first experience with depression, the one that hit in first year, with a very real memory of what that felt like. Maybe it's because that time I carved into my skin in an effort to feel real, whereas this time that seems a bit more folly. I think about it, don't get me wrong, and when the bad memories hit (my depression bank) I grab at my skin in a pinch, or I dig my fingernails into my palms, to focus on a physical pain that will replace a pain that rises from memories. I find myself looking for effective ways to self harm without actually doing them: it seems enough to envision digging a razor into my skin and remember how it felt when I did it.
My depression bank, as I've referred to before, is the name I've given for the bank of experiences, memories and feelings that inform depression but are too painful or perhaps seem too frivolous to deal with. For example, my fear of getting better from depression, which I spoke about in an earlier post, sits in my depression bank and makes me feel worse. I don't talk about it with my therapist as when I'm with her she makes it seem possible to get better; but when I'm alone and thinking about the ways I continually self sabotage, my depression kicks up a notch. Other things that reside in my depression bank include memories of times that I made an arse of myself at university when I was trying so hard not to, people who hurt me and who I misjudged, memories of childhood times when I felt ignored or oppressed and, of course, the sheer reality of my current existence.
Chalk up food issues and self esteem issues, like teeth problems and skin problems, to appearing in my depression bank. My parents' issues which spill over into what's supposed to be my sanctuary get a showing, as do thoughts of friends I've inadvertently dropped by only talking to the people who understand what's going on - all four of them.
It's not a pretty life. It's comfortable because there's no pressure to do anything but it's not glamorous or particularly fulfilling. I guess it frees me this time to spend working out my mind, which is an extremely valuable thing to do.
Friday, January 1, 2010
Nothing Happy Here
I feel down again. The fog is coming back. I have sore eyes and I'm sleepy and I find it really hard to concentrate for long periods of time. I just saw Sherlock Holmes with my friend and I spent a fair proportion of the film staring without taking it in. And I feel a bit sick to the stomach. And I'm not digging Jasper Fforde - Something Rotten as much as his first three Thursday Next books.
Whinge whinge whinge.
I finished reading 'It' by Stephen King which is a monster of a book. I read it on my Kindle and it took me four days.
That's really all I've got. I can't really cope with this mix of awful symptoms which could be related to anything or nothing. Might just be a sign of too much time at the computer/television/cinema and not enough outside.
On the plus side, I've thought of a way to open my novel.
Whinge whinge whinge.
I finished reading 'It' by Stephen King which is a monster of a book. I read it on my Kindle and it took me four days.
That's really all I've got. I can't really cope with this mix of awful symptoms which could be related to anything or nothing. Might just be a sign of too much time at the computer/television/cinema and not enough outside.
On the plus side, I've thought of a way to open my novel.
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