One step forward, two steps back- Waltzing with the black dog

What would it be like if you were trying to dance with someone who had four legs? You would have maybe half of your steps in time (accounting for their extra limbs), a pattern could be very hard to establish, and even if you did for a while it would seem disjointed and possibly as unnatural as the haphazard mess had moments before. The black dog doesn't have a clear rhythm, doesn't listen to the music directing it very well, steps on your toes all too often and just when you think it's moved to Argentina to instruct tango permanently it returns home again unexpectedly with all new moves you weren't ready for.

This is exactly how I feel living with depression. 

For the first time in my life recently I've had a few glimpses of what life could be like coming out of what seemed like an eternity of darkness. As I have had depression and anxiety for as long as I can remember- having suicidal ideations at 10 is apparently not a "normal" thing for children, but for me I knew no other reality, living in the special abusive hell that I did. These periods of feeling "good" have been quite raw as they're an entirely new reality. I don't trust them. I wonder how long it will last, and expect that soon enough I will walk around the next corner and bump into the black dog again.

I have now been off anti-depressants for more than 9 months, which is the longest I've ever gone since first going on them when I was 17. That's 15 years ago- almost half of my life; my entire adult life so far. 

In the last few weeks I have been feeling very low again though. With instability in work and relationships triggering off insecurity, fuelling anxiety and partnering up with insomnia I have sobbed myself to sleep 3 nights this week- afraid of the inevitable nightmares that ensue, and waking up exhausted. I feel pathetic saying that, and the confession doesn't help the cycle. 

I really should keep a dream diary and sell it to the makers of horror films- the graphic, violent images and stories could make me millions. This is why I never like to watch horror films- my life has contained far too much of it already. 

Sorry- tangent over.

So as the mask of normality is slipping, and the weeks begin to grind past rather than running smoothly again I find myself questioning if I should go back on to medication. When someone first suggested it to me I crashed- for days I had random bouts of uncontrollable crying (very embarrassing at work if you start suddenly, and for no apparent reason). The thought that I had to go back on medication seemed like the ultimate failure, and that "recovery" or being well was never going to be a reality for me. This in turn reignited the inclination to give up entirely- with no hope for the future, and if I will never escape or be able to enjoy life, what is the point in continuing? 

But onward I trudged. No matter what steps the black dog decided to dance, I kept doing my own and instead of letting it trip me up, I'd more heavily, stubbornly maintain my pace. Being aware of the problem and what it wants to do is the first step to telling it to shut up, and not allowing it to take control.  After the black dog initially took the easy opportunity to do a dip in the middle of the dance- "Oh medication again?- that's a failure and you have to give up all hope! Down we go!" I let go of its hands (paws?) and chose to fall to the floor and get myself up rather than stay in its grips.

It's not easy. There are still days when I feel like staying in bed, and want to avoid the world, but on the whole the world feels less sharp and grating- more manageable. I can't count how many times I've lived through the same pattern and had it not go well. Perhaps it's like the world's slowest exercise- little by little over many years strength is built and the fight gets easier. Instead of crashing for weeks and not being able to do anything now it's a few days, and the lows aren't nearly as low as they used to be.

Having processed it now, I accept that I might have to go on medication again one day- perhaps several times- but that if I do, it will be for shorter periods (not 15 years!), and I have a small amount of confidence that I'll be able to live without it again.

The thing I am most afraid of is hope, but now it creeps in most days. Hope that I will be able to have healthy relationships with people. Hope that one day I will have a family- although racked with guilt, and the feeling that giving a child me as a parent would be a horrible decision. I have received assurances from many people though that they believe my high level of awareness and experiences with what terrible parenting is, and deep desire to do it well means I'd be highly unlikely to stuff it up, and would make me a good parent. Although I don't have the confidence to believe it entirely, I am able to take it on board as at least an equally valid assessment as the one the black dog whispers- you'll fail, you'll be terrible so don't try. 

I don't know how to measure success, or if I believe in "recovery" as it suggests that there was a state of wellness to begin with that you're returning to, which was never the case for me. Perhaps it's knowing that although there are plenty of dips in the dance, the music is still playing, and I find that now I can keep up with the steps most of the time.

Fighting with the Biological Clock

Growing up, I never thought I'd want children. In fact, the idea of having children seemed like something for breeders- dumb centrelink-queuing bogans, and something for the stupid people to do. People who had a brain, as I [ever so modestly] perceived myself to be, would grow up to be career women, and have interesting, exciting, jet-setting and, importantly- childless- lives. This was not only how I thought it would be, but how it should be. 


I was the youngest child, and even youngest of all my cousins until an "accident" when I was about 10. As the accident lived about 3000 kms away though, I had very little contact with anyone younger than myself, and found kids to be loud, annoying, and didn't see why anyone would want them. I imagine this was somewhat influenced by my mother who always seemed to regret the time she had taken to have children, and the negative impact it had had on her life, career, travel aspirations etc and kept her locked in an unhappy marriage.


My involvement with children was limited to none until I moved overseas and worked as a teacher. As a 20 year old, fresh out of uni, I have to admit that my motivation to teach overseas had very little to do with wanting to teach, and more to do with providing me with the means to live overseas. 


Suddenly, I had a few dozen kids aged 5- 15 giggling and running around me on a daily basis, curious to meet, see, touch and torment the first white person they'd ever seen in real life. After my initial discomfort with the alien nature of this interaction, to my surprise I not only tolerated, but enjoyed the time with the kids.


As I made friends overseas, many of whom were older than myself, I spent more time with babies and toddlers, as my friends started families. 


Then as I reached about 24, an odd realisation struck me, and I found myself thinking "I would quite like a child one day". I laughed at myself when I realised how unlike me that thought was, and dismissed it almost immediately.


Much to my chagrin, when I was younger, so many people had scoffed at my attestations that I didn't want children, saying with a chuckle "just wait 'til you're older". I found it condescending, somewhat insulting to my intelligence, and disrespectful toward women who make a conscious choice not to procreate. 


Now, as much as I truly hate to say it, even through gritted teeth you won't hear me utter this much: They were right.


It hasn't been a miraculous overnight epiphany; no revelation after meditative self exploration- more of an erosion of what used to be- like barnacles growing on the base of a ship, gradually changing the way its parts are able to move, dragging on it's progress through the water,  almost imperceptibly slow in the changing of its course toward a new direction.


I still find myself wishing at times that I didn't want children- as being a single 30 year old woman, there are plenty of people who are only too willing to remind you that you have less than 10 years left. "Experts" who crap on at length in newspapers about how women's being "too picky" or selfish is ruining the fabric of society by not breeding on their desired schedules (See Post Don't get pregnant, won't get pregnant, can't get pregnant). Occasionally some kind person will accompany this with a comment about the biological clock or, my favourite: "Tick Tock!", with an ever so well intended clock-ticking finger gesture. 


Guess what finger gesture I feel compelled to respond with?


Not wanting children would make life easier. It's one goal where there's no promotions through merit or hard work. If you say you want a job, you study, apply and work hard- you'll get it. You say you want a baby to a date and he's  run out the door before you blink. The more pressure or focus you put on it, the less likely it is to happen, but forget about it altogether and it may never happen. Catch 22.


Being "that age" it seems that every week (or this week, every DAY) someone either announces their pregnancy or gives birth. As happy as I am for my friends, there's this overwhelming sense of envy that it's not me and anxiety that, especially since the cancer, it may never be. 


I used to laugh at the "pathetic" women I would see cry around babies, or when talking about them, and now, at work today when another person made their joyous announcement, I have become one. 

Karma is a fickle bitch.