Can I Just Say?

The Place to Bitch

Can I Just Say? #3

Like other people, especially clinically depressed people, I tend to isolate myself when I’m feeling down, which of course makes things worse. But what I really hate is when my depression manages to isolate me while I’m out with friends.

Like when people talk about their dreams (“I dreamed I gave birth to my boyfriend!”), I don’t feel like I can chime in (“I dreamed I drowned in my own blood, vomit, and teeth! Crazy, right?!”).

You might as well tell people that you killed a guy with a trident.

Can I Just Say? #2

I want to talk for a second about chain reactions. When an antidepressant gives you a racing heart, that’s not just about a racing heart. The racing heart makes it hard to take a deep breath, it makes you lightheaded and afraid to bend down to pick something up. It makes it even more difficult to exercise. In quiet moments, it reminds you that you’re sick and you don’t have control of your body or (at least in part) your mind. Which, of course, can give you racing thoughts and, very likely… a racing heart. Ooof.

Night sweats are the same way. Your sleep suffers. Your laundry situation suffers (the humanity!), you wake up freezing and clenched up in a ball, leading to muscle tension, a wicked headache, and a head cold the next day. You’re even more lethargic than the depression alone has been making you and you know why? Because you did a fucking fashion show of pajama tops in your sleep!

If you feel like you’re dealing with a shitstorm, it’s probably ‘cause you are. Be nice to yourself. We’re behind you.

Can I Just Say?

This is the first in an occasional series called, Can I Just Say?. I try to keep the regular posts kind of positive, but sometimes positive is annoying. This isn’t a blog about feeling good. It’s a blog about dealing with depression. Not everything is progress, and that’s ok. This is a place to commiserate, a place to bitch.

And can I just say, the hold music at my psychiatrists office sounds like a fucking horror movie. It’s terrifying.  Like calling your psychiatrist isn’t hard enough, they’ve got me checking my fucking blind spots from my living room couch.

That is all.