The Unwritable

I don't see many oldies writing about depression so I'm punching down on the keys here today and writing about my visits from the Black Dog.

He's been away more years than I can count and I have written about him before which I will link to later.

My PHC, who is pretty terrific, marked all the stuff going on with me yesterday and ordered lab work on new criteria one of which was B12. Not often done so special requisition.

Then she said: I can put you in touch with a therapist if you are dealing with depression.

Now I seriously had not added depression to my list of issues and I gaped slack jawed at her (further convincing her, no doubt, that I was definitely in the dark clutches of it.) I managed to sputter "Hang on a minute here, I'm NOT suicidal."

So I check in with Dr. Google on the symptoms to refresh myself

The psychological symptoms of depression include:

• continuous low mood or sadness.
• feeling hopeless and helpless.
• having low self-esteem.
• feeling tearful.
• feeling guilt-ridden.
• feeling irritable and intolerant of others.
• having no motivation or interest in things.
• finding it difficult to make decisions.

I would add constant pain and exhaustion and grief to that mix.

And I imagine you could call me full blown and cuddling down with The Black Dog.

These are the forbidden things to write about.

But I do write about forbidden things.

I'm running out of old people who have the unmitigated gall to run off on me and die and not be around to discuss their visits with the Black Dog.

But I truly believe I'm not alone as a depressed oldie.

And I owe an apology to my PHC, she knew.

Links to other posts on this forbidden topic.

The Fine Line

 

I believe there's a fine line between sanity and insanity. I'm writing today as I feel quite massively overwhelmed by the last two years.  See, I'm understating it terrifically. For who wants to read a depressing blog post about the State of The Union? The Union of the body parts, the brain, the physical well being, the social interactions, emotional and mental intelligence.

The last few days I don't feel I'm functioning as I should. Living alone is an enormous challenge in this Time of the Plague. No one to monitor me on a daily basis. No one to see how well I'm coping, no one to share with. 

I feel everything is catching up with me. The isolation, the risk of emerging out of my cocoon into the virus infected world. The deaths of two very close friends, all the health challenges I've had.

I count out and sort all my pills every Sunday. I say all. I mean all. Over 30 every day. Stringing my beating heart and blood pressure and pain into acceptable numbers. I read them out to my doctor, usually once a week and we talk about my blood lab results.

This morning hopelessness set in. On March 14th here, all restrictions are removed. But seniors are dying in unprecedented numbers in this province. Vaccinated, unvaccinated? We haven't a clue. Those stats are deemed private. Expendable senior philosophy, economy comes first.

There are three in my bubble, Daughter, Niece and a close friend who has her own tiny bubble.

This is not a whine. Just throwing it out there. I feel quite anti-social as I feel I have nothing to talk about of any interest and my creativity and my equanimity are in extremely short supply. 

I honestly feel like I am just marking time, waiting to die. My dreams are full of death, dead friends, Ansa, my lost daughter.

My friend Lana, in her assisted living luxury environment said on our phone call this week that she had put up a big sign in her room saying:

"THIS IS NOT ASSISTED LIVING, THIS IS ASSISTED DYING."

It caught the attention of the management in a big way so she's marching the halls again and dictating to the kitchen staff about healthy meals.

I don't share this stuff with family. Because it would distress them. Everybody has issues around this falling apart planet we're on. I can't add to their burdens.

Another "buck up, it could be worse"  would have me screaming in a corner.

So there, I'm just not fit. I've lost the run of myself.

Truth in blogging.

Doldrums

Well, it's not the pit of despair, the familiar old Black Dog of depression I tell myself.

And it's not like we have the polar vortex here (we don't).

The sun has shone every day for a long time now (it has).

But sleep calls me too often. I nap long and hard and go to bed and sleep and my time with eyes closed begins to exceed time with eyes open. (Shame keeps this under lock and key)

Not good, I tell myself. (And I stay away from over analysis of the situation, it makes it worse)

I add 2 Tylenols to the CBD oil to alleviate the pain which halts me in my tracks, a bony hand yanking at my collar in parking lots, shopping aisles, galleries. I review the gentle yoga class I took and think: "tomorrow" I'll start this daily follow up process. {Tomorrow is a fallacy. The only change is in the "Now")

I make notes about change, mindful of the mantra: If nothing changes, nothing changes. Which sounds as if written for a simpleton but the kernel of truth lodged within forces me to think about why I am sitting/lying in this home-made waiting room of death.

I bore myself. I text the one friend who understands this malaise, the one being on the planet I can be honest with, who never judges me as I don't judge her lapses and failings. (She crucifies herself with alcohol, I do the same with sugar). We can only share with those who have their own dark nights lapping at their days. Understanding and compassion and no lectures about boot straps and getting a grip (on what?).

What can I commit to today? Emails from the local library, full of books I have ordered on line.

"I will get dressed," I text her, "I will go to the library and then buy some baby clothes for a brand new grand-niece named Hailey. And then I will change the sheets on my bed and work on a client's tax compliance problem that I have procrastinated endlessly that has a vicious grip on my sense of well-being." (Procrastination being voracious in its destructive appetite, boring into the psyche).

We'll see how these tiny changes ripple outwards.

Black Disc

I wish there was one.

To hang on one's door. Or on one's Twitter or Facebook account or give an automatic email response. When one is incommunicado, please don't bother.

Like for today.

Feeling scowly and sad and a mite worried and physically challenged and super-tired.
And you know, this is when everybody decides to call, bang on the knocker, phone, message. Want to visit, want to make social interaction with me. And frankly? I don't. Not at all. I feel like one long week of rain. Miserable. So I ignore. And hide.

What makes it worse is the gorgeous weather outside, the blue of the ocean.

And yes, thoughts of Irma and the dreadful happenings of climactic weather conditions for our neighbour down below and to the left of where I am. And they have a guy in charge, so I hear, who doesn't believe in climate change and the warming oceans that cause this and that it's going to get a whole lot worse.

So I should feel grateful and safe.

And that makes me feel small and selfish and self-centred and even more miserable.

Bootstraps don't work.

Sleep is the antidote to misery.

I curl up and sleep and assure myself, like Scarlett, that tomorrow is another day.

Which is exactly what I did yesterday.

Hello Darkness, my old friend....

I was wondering when you'd show up.

It's been a while and you're way overdue.

Yeah, there's been changes. It seems to me you always sense these life altering corners I have to turn. You give me a few days, maybe a week, to feel confident and secure and then, without a knock on the door, in you walk bringing your cold breath and that murky miasma that clings to everything you touch.

I ran. Upstairs. And into bed. I couldn't face work, and there was a bit of it, not much, but I knew you'd take that weird position on my desk and shoot those thoughts into my head, the why bother ones, the life is hopeless ones, the lonely ones, the nobody really cares ones.

Bed is safe, though not as safe as with Ansa in it, I have to admit. It gives you free reign really when I'm this vulernable. Though you haven't stolen sleep from me yet. Maybe that will come.

My analytical mind just about destroys me after you show up. I think: what attracted you back. The Handicapped sticker the doctor suggested? My young friend saying to me yesterday she was having a hard time seeing me taking up residence in the apartment as we sat in it drinking coffee? The suggestion made by a facilitator-friend of taking the Living with Chronic Diseases series of workshops? Finding so much poignancy in every aspect of my life at the moment? Losing interest in cooking for myself?

Yeah, none of it mattered to you. You saw the opportunity and you rushed through the door.

I don't know if I can summon the energy to shove you out.

Down the Rabbit Hole

Happy New Year in the old Irish tradition.

It was like that for a while. Black Dog weather. There are advantages to having the old BD by my side. I brutally edited some of my own work. It's the best place to be for this writer. Of course I isolated and had the misfortune to share with a good friend over lunch who left me far worse off than the condition she found me in.

At the end of this bleak weak I forced myself out the door to get some groceries and on my way back another friend called, intuiting I'd lost the run of myself, and said he's meet me for fish and chips at our local pub. He's one of those great listening guys who never offers solutions, he just listens, dredges up some similarities in his own life and offers comfort. They're a rare breed these friends.

He left me far better off than the condition he found me in.

Isn't that life though.

I find accumulation of challenges and downswings and disappointments and worries press down on me so hard at times that I sink further into the hole with very little encouragement.

The loss of Ansa has been terrible. I've been trying to be a pillar for my friend who lost her daughter. The mess next door and the loss of 100s of more trees weighs heavily. And I'm waiting on some more medical tests to sort out some baffling health issues which have impacted my mobility. I've lost interest in my community, which is understandable, I suppose, as measures were never taken in the past to implement and enforce a town plan and zoning.

The bright side is that I entered two pieces in a competition, I saw a wonderful show (a treat from Daughter)on Saturday which had us both gasping for breath we were laughing so hard. I can't remember when I last laughed like that.

And Grandgirl has suggested, and strongly, that the three of us hoof off some time in the spring together to celebrate the completion of her undergrad and her stellar academic year.

Something to look forward to.

Like the Old Man said.

Natural Selection

Today (for Dog knows I wasn't up for it yesterday)I wonder about life's manifestations and nuances.

And birth order.

And how some in the same gene pool escape the afflictions of the others.

And nature vs nurture.

And hereditary vs environment.

Is everything in life a balancing act - i.e. a vs?

Like some eat and never gain weight.

While others can't even look at an ice cream without some kind of osmosis taking place.

Are there trade-offs - like you get so many talents but you also get all the angst, whereas you, you over there, get none but you're oh-so-happy-all-the-time. Because money/beauty/wit/Harvard.

And addiction? Is that genetic roulette?

Is adult life all about unmet needs from childhood?

Existential moments.

From me.

Who doesn't feel quite all there, right now.

The Upside of the Downside.

Many positives can be extracted from the negatives, right? That being a scientific fact 'n all.

Thanks for all the supportive comments that I received. Depression is normal. Especially for those of the creative and/or addictive bent. I choose to remain unmedicated. Caveat: I respect those who choose otherwise. Many years ago, medicated, I lost myself. I flat-lined. I chose (for me) not to live that way. So the 5% rough and tough facets of me co-exist with the 95% smooth - this ratio was a lot, lot worse, believe me. Sometimes it's a bumpy ride. I lose the run of myself for a while and I retreat. And breathe. And get sad. And morose. And prickly. And overly sensitive. And choose, very carefully, who I spend time with (Yeah, I know: with whom I spend time. How distancing is that CORRECT sentence structure? Just sayin'.)

I had to appear, yet again, on public media yesterday. And because I'm in the sub-human (all too human, really) condition I'm in, I didn't give a rat's you know what which serves me extraordinarily well as I'm not in the least bit nervous in front of the cameras and I can look grim and forbidding and no-nonsense (downright saucy my granny would've called it) which was just what was needed. You should see the emails on my "magnificent" performance.

Little do they know the prerequisite is the Black Dog.

I fooled 'em all.

Side-swiped

Things go along really well but then, like a bolt out of the blue, that Old Black Dog thunders into my psyche. I'd been in denial for a while. Noticed some subtle changes in my behaviour and the absence of any kind of joy. Desiring just to be Left Alone. Not reading too many blogs, not doing much of anything apart from socks. I couldn't stop knitting socks. Ripping socks. Re-knitting socks.

Avoiding the phone. Lurking. Pretending I'm alright Jack at unavoidable social events. Fooling myself. And nobody else. Mentioned depression once to others, tossed it out there into the conversation pit, nobody bit, drew it back in again.

Just dying to get back home. And hide. And avoid.

"Aren't we all a bit bats?" said an old friend from Ontario on the phone today: by a fluke I picked it up when she rang, my 200lb telephone, "I think there's comfort in that, don't you?"

Well, sort of. My oldest friend is away, sunning herself on some beach in Portugal, unplugged. I miss her. This is completely illogical as she lives in Dublin but we track each other every day by email and the odd mailing and phone-call. And the Black Dog is our familiar, we bat him back and forth.

My perception of the world, in this condition, is that everyone is having a great time and I'm stuck somewhere, poised between frowning and lemon-faced, miserable, desperately lonely and wanting to stay that way. Forever. Being completely unfit for company as I am.

Did I mention the awful dreams?

They truly are.

Bear with me. This will pass.

I throw it out there as I know I'm not alone.

To Soothe the Inner Beast

I know. Some of you haven't a clue what I'm talking about. I do have inner beasts. I would slay them with alcohol, food, whathaveyous. Sedate them into briefly napping. And then they would wake up and start to savage me from inside once again, they were insatiable. It was an endless cycle.

Not anymore. Not for today.

I felt them tickling my brain earlier today. I made a few phone-calls. Talked to others who like me, feel the dragons stretching and yawning. Not all the time. But especially this time of the year when the intensity of the Christmas is passed and there is a lull before New Year's and all is quiet. And then the slow stirring of the inner monsters begins.

I don't entertain them, these dragons followed closely by the Black Dog. I put plans in place: my annual Nollaig Na mBan for Sunday, January 5th. I reach out to others. I think: I need to paint this place. I think, like my father in his time: what can I truly look forward to this year? I think: my town has put me in such a position of trust, I will not let them down. I think:what a gloriously awesome day, can I put grippers on the soles of my boots and negotiate the now ice-layered snow. I think: what else can I do with turkey, what was that dish I would do with noodles? Tetrazini or something.

And I play Haydn's Maria Theresa Mass, see above. It soothes. Oh, how it soothes.

For a truly and thoroughly recovered former Catholic that is ironic, n'est pas?

Blog Jam

I bring you an iris from my walkabout the other day.

Sometimes old clichés - tried and true wee sayings - keep me going when everything else seems to fail.

Focus on what works and not on what doesn't is the mantra of the moment.

I've been doing that lately. A lot. It staves off depression that keeps banging on my door. Depression over stuff that doesn't work. Family shyte as I term it. Puzzling and powerful and wounding and awful and unfathomable at times.

So what's working?

Leo cleaned out my chimney. Leo whipper-snipped the meadow and around the trees. He was off in his own wee world for a while and I was beginning to think I should get a sheep. Or a goat. Sometimes I think I've got too much land. And then he defugues himself and I come home to a sparkling chimney and outside haircuts on all the grass.

Some new friends and I ploughed the Rennie's River Trail yesterday. It was wonderful. I didn't know the city of St. John's had this magical hidden path running through it. We walked up hill and down dale in this fairy tale setting. Waterfalls, flowers, all kinds of blossoming trees and wildlife.

Daughter calls with good news of full steam ahead in the disposal of her Toronto house and her potential move of her base of operations to here. And Grandgirl's annual flight out here is booked for September (she's a working student now).

And tonight, an old friend, this makes me choke up, thanked me for saving his life three years ago. And meant it. He had severe depression and was suicidal and all I did was listen. And understand. And share some of my own flirtations with death with him. Sometimes we don't know when we're helping people, do we? All that's needed is time. And a willing ear. And compassion. He made my year so far. I had no idea of how close he was as what he didn't tell me that night was about the hose he had stashed in the trunk of his car. And ending it all that very night once I had left.

I need to stay focussed on these positive items at the moment as other stuff, that I can do absolutely nothing about, is trying to send me over the edge.

Of Books and Potatoes

Scattered week.

Out of sorts. Flu-ish. Black Dog pacing around the house. Far too close for comfort. The ghosts circle and start chattering and I miss the ones who vanish without a farewell or a reason, and then it's a very short hop to self-flagellation. And Black Dog gets within biting distance.

I worked on Grandgirl's afghan.  She never reads this blog so I am safe in saying that.

I knitted a prototype for the book design I was struggling with for weeks. Thanks for all your help, Grannymar.  Now, what do you think?

And then, the best part, some overdue writing for the conference at the end of the month.

And then the jobs that pay my bills.  Without them I would not survive. Freedom 95 I call it. I can't see my way to affording the writing lifestyle, much as I've wanted it for all of my life. This depresses me. Utterly.

Given my druthers I would write all the time. And create knitting designs and read. And play the piano at night by candlelight. And take long hikes with Wonder Dog.

I wrote about routine this morning in my journal. How it can be the salvation of elders. Lay out the day and evening clearly and ahead of time and stick to the routines. No matter what. I thought creative spirits didn't need routine but the research I'm doing shows that it is just what we need. If everything around us is organized and we have a routine it frees up the creative juices like nothing else. Nothing acts more like a distraction than living in a mess and a formless day, or week or month. Then nothing gets accomplished.

So at the beginning of my day today I laid it all out piece by piece and allowed time for all the things I love to do, like write and knit and even meditate and I even put little rewards in for stretches of the bill-paying work. And a good long walk with Ansa.

And later, Leo comes over with the potatoes from the edge of my back meadow.  And laughs and laughs at this particular one:

 

Can you see the face and the big ears and funny hat?

Hallelujah!

Thank you for all your kind comments and personal emails. Wow, I am so lucky to live in Blogland!

I was at a meeting a week or so ago, where the topic of anger came up. Anger, a fairly useless emotion, is just the mirror side of depression. Often when someone is depressed, anger will be exhibited, masking the more authentic emotion. I witnessed that in my family of origin.

Well, to make a long story shorter, I had finished posting here yesterday, feeling at sixes and sevens, when that meeting came to my mind and the solution to anger had been presented:

Action Plan. Determine. Follow Through.

What was my Action Plan apart from ranting and raving and allowing the black dog into my living room?

What could I do? OK. I looked up the head office address of Bell Aliant. And went a-calling. It was Saturday. I was the only customer with 3 service reps.

Bottom line, they produced a hub. Brand new improvement to cellular highspeed, they assure me. I was entitled to a free upgrade and two months free service. The hub would provide wireless high speed for up to 5 computers.

Disconnects? No service for days? A thing of the past, the triplets assure me. If I'm not over the moon happy, the triplets again assure me, I bring it back. No questions.

Cynical and jaded I leave. I am so unexcited about this whole experiment that I take a nap in front of the fire that Leo has so kindly laid down in my absence, once I get home.

Then, yawning, I set up the hub. You wouldn't believe how easy. Something this easy has to go sideways. Hardy-har. Wireless internet all over my old house as the triplets had envisioned for me? Dream on, baby!

Action plans can result in dreams becoming reality. This hub - kiss, kiss - has given me unbroken and powerful high speed. For the first time ever out here at the Edge of the Atlantic.

As I type this on my netbook in front of the fire I feel I can shrug off the slithering remnants of depression and shoo the old BD out into the May sunshine.

The world, my friends, is full of fresh possibilities.

Blog Jam

(1) I've had a horrendous tax season mainly due to the unpredictability and/or unavailability and/or disconnectivity of my cellular internet connection and how much I desperately need it even for Taxware updates which are no longer provided on CDs and necessitate a high-speed connection. Not to mention e-filing.

(2) Moving into another business venture here I realized how absolutely slow-brained I can be. Well, duh, I need highspeed for that too.

(3) All of which gives me enormous doubts as to whether I persist in staying on here. Seriously.

(4) I have exhausted all political avenues and even the newspaper - which has always published me heretofore - now no longer publishes my rants of frustration on the lack of even the most basic business infrastructure.

(5) On a slightly lighter side: Other opportunities present themselves. This week I was asked to hold the auditions for a dinner theatre in another area which was a wonderful experience.

(6) I feel I'm becoming a one-note samba with my incessant and constant rant on the lack of high-speed out here on the Edge of the Atlantic which has me driven to distraction and

(7) A horrible depression preceded by the Black Dog which refuses to leave.

(8) It's not just the internet it's other bitty things which added up has me sourfaced and pissed off. Example?

(9) A guy I don't particularly like or respect reverses his truck onto my property when I wasn't there and just about lops off the roof of my pump-house, completely disconnecting it from the walls. He shrugs his shoulders when I ask him what he's going to do about it. He is clueless and penniless. When I asked him what he was doing trespassing on my property in the first place he also shrugs and mutters about picking up some plastic from Leo.

(10) With no internet in my house in the last couple of days I am in town at Starbucks on my little netbook. I would like to patronize Coffee Matters which is privately owned but the hefty parking ticket from the church parking lot across from it (on-street parking nearby is by permit only) is a complete deterrant.

Signed:
The Grumpy Geezer.

And PS apologies to some of my regular commenters - New Blogger decided all by itself to throw you into the Spam Bucket. Thanks to Ramana for bringing it to my attention!!!

Noticing the Wee, Tiny, Dooshy Things.

It's too soon to say if He is gone but I began to notice the wee things today. How lovely were two phonecalls, one completely out of the blue as she had a 'vibe': my fellow sufferer of these occasional devastating depressions. I had wanted to call her too, as I knew she'd understand but I figured my 10.30 a.m. and her 9.00 a.m. might not mesh for alertness only to have her call me at 11.30. Synchronicity as always. The other call was first thing this morning from a dear friend who had been with me yesterday through cast rehearsals and planning for the play opening (shortly, shortly!) but there was no time for a private conversational check-up. She also suffers from periodic depression. It is so wonderful to have understanding and non-judgement and tolerance of this and I am so grateful to blogfriends as well who take the time to leave a little note of support.

I also have the loan of a good piano keyboard (gawd, I miss my piano!) and played a few old Irish melodies on it today. All symptoms of the black fog clearing. I would think. How lovely to create music even for the self.

I am not taking anything for granted. I really, really want my normal joie de vivre back and be rid of the Hound from Hell who never speaks with kindness but only to berate, condemn and isolate.

I walked around the meadow and noted the mint I thought had not overwintered is pushing its way up in the old sink it nestles in and my basil is smiling and the multiple pots of flowers I scattered under a tree are nodding gracefully.

I thought to remove the little gate I have on my front deck to keep the dog in. She is so well trained now that she won't go down any steps without my explicit permission, thought I. I hadn't realized she merely thought her goodly behaviour performance art.

As I watch Ansa from my office, she stays on the deck for quite a while and then paces by all the windows looking up intently. She doesn't see me with the sun reflecting off the window. With one final sly glance she scoots down the steps. "Excuse me, Madame" I run to the front door and catch her heading off down the driveway, she skulks back up the steps, silently, avoiding my eyes and heads for her bed. Foiled. By Old Two Legs. Damn.

She did made me laugh, though. And that is a very good thing.

Approval

I am a great fan of Anthony De Mello, leaving the religion out of it. I've read most of his books and admire his wisdom and humour and his great gift of insight into the human condition.

He was a Jesuit priest who was much influenced by Buddhism and incurred the wrath of the present pope, Benny, which adds an additional level to my admiration for him for daring to think so far outside of the Vatican box.

One of his many stated profundities was the fact that we hook our children early in life, as infants in fact, on a drug. That drug being "approval". And it distorts and diverts our journeys as we seek it throughout our lives whether in financial rewards or other material and personal benefits. We get lost in the diversion of it.

I was thinking about this today and remembering a time, not so long ago, when I stayed in Ireland in this rambling old farmhouse with a mish-mash of family and friends and we were commenting on how ridiculous the custom of applauding the pilot for a safe landing of a plane was. It was his/her job! Then we discussed how lovely it would be if we applauded others for a job well done.

So from then on in for the whole month anytime someone swept the floor or washed the dishes or hung out some laundry, they received lavish applause with supportive remarks.
"Beautiful job on those dishes there, sis," *clap* *clap*, "I don't think I've ever seen a floor so well swept there, bro, take a bow," *clap* *clap*. And so on, to much laughter and gracious curtseys from the recipients.

It is a great drug, approval. A terrific motivator. And it's free. And when one is in a depression, a goodly dose is needed.

Especially for the nearly insurmountable task of being vertical.

Chatty Cathy

I made a long road trip today. Very long. 500km there and back. We had two cars in the caravan. We were all accompanying a friend who was being honoured with a prestigious environmental award.

In my car was a woman I had met a couple of times before, I am far more vivid in her mind than she is in mine as I am the CFA* and she is an attractive prominent local. She was shocked I hadn't remembered her until I gently reminded her I have met about 1,000 people since I moved here a few years back and how many new people had she met in say the last 5 years. She thought maybe 10. I said tell me their names. She couldn't, apart from mine. I said case closed.

She was five hours in total in my car and I don't think she drew breath once. Keep in mind I am going through a period of depression at the moment which is nearly invisible to my friends (I have a very convincing front but am super-sensitive to slights both real and more often perceived, amongst other depression-fails)so my condition would not register with a virtual stranger.

A silence of any kind was an affront to her vivaciousness. She had an attractive voice, one of those voices that is fringed with cigarette smoke (I was right, she's a smoker)and charmingly anecdotal. A story for everything. A passing 5th wheeler, a truck, her marriage, her house, her garden, her accidents. I turned off the background music and let her at it.

When I got home after the long drive I had to lie down. I haven't been that exhausted in a long time. But it crossed my mind I had completed the journey without a depressive thought. There wasn't room in my head. Seriously.

But now the black dog is here again. Maybe I should suggest a new career for Chatty Kathy as a paid therapist?


*Come From Away