Brb My Brain is in the Shitter

TW: depression, anxiety, eating disorder

I’ve been a little bit glossy about this, but I want to be straight up about things: I’ve been battling/struggling/surviving depression for about fifteen years now. Not properly diagnosed or anything, but um, I’m pretty freaking sure.

I’m well aware that I’m not alone in this, especially right now. And while I’ve been reasonably creative during the Q, having written at 65K-word novel for NaNoWriMo, read 52 books, baked several new desserts, etc, that’s not to say that I haven’t been wildly and relatably ~not okay~. And it’s even harder during the holidays, when everything is supposed to be cheery and warm and happy.

Quite simply, the pandemic has hit us all hard in different ways. Some far worse than others, and my sincerest condolences lie with those affected by our administration’s terrible handling of this. I know that doesn’t really do anything, but it’s all I personally can give at this moment. But next to COVID, our collective maxed out mental health has been sort of a pandemic itself.

For me, it’s been bursts of mad productivity flip-flopping with weeks of glazed numbness. I read, I re-read. I watch, I re-watch. I doom-scroll. I write really bad poetry to try and figure out just what’s on my mind. I do my best to find comfort in things I know bring me joy, but sometimes it just doesn’t cut it.

For the first few months, I felt pretty good. I was reading a lot and finding my footing on bookstagram. I was working on a new story and revising an old one. I was dancing around my room to upbeat music. I really, truly thought I was doing okay. And in some ways, I was. But I noticed quickly that being holed up in my room for several months, I was constantly looking at myself in my mirror. Non-stop. It was impossible to not do it. All I did, all day long, was analyze my body. What it looked like, where it jiggled, where my cellulite was its most noticeable. I’ve worked for a long time now to try and be happy with—or at the very least, indifferent to—my body, but it’s an every day thing.

I caught myself, though. I’ve since hidden my mirror in my closet, only taking it out if I really need to look at how an outfit looks. Good thing I don’t go anywhere! I’ve really only used it to check out newly purchased clothes (I got some new athleisure pieces) and when I had to present something over a work video call. And really, I felt better immediately. My room felt weird (it still does), but it was easier to focus on actually doing things without it looming over me.

Until summer came around and I no longer fit into my favorite cut-offs. And then I spiraled again, trying to sort out why exercising wasn’t working, why whatever “healthy diet” I was consuming wasn’t doing jack-shit. It’s not like I’d been trying to lose weight, but I certainly was trying to maintain it. I tried a few different things and got typically frustrated by it. Haunted by numbers and macros and stupid, fucking nutrition facts. When I went to visit my parents, I tried eating better, I walked with them almost every morning, and then there was the first red flag: I carefully tracked my macros and calories. Which was quickly followed by the biggest red flag of all: I was secretly working out in my bedroom. Doing jumping jacks and push ups and squats before bed.

I was nothing if not determined. And I knew how wrong it was. I knew that I was falling deeper into my toxic mental state. Letting numbers get to me.

About halfway through my trip, when I’d cried myself to sleep (sort of—I wasn’t really sleeping at this point) enough times, when I’d gotten tired of my self-loathing, when I saw these shadows over my window that inspired one of my best flash fiction pieces, and when I got a migraine so bad I thought I was going to die (a bit melodramatic, but it was a bad one), I was done. Sort of.

I was still doing some of those things I shouldn’t have, but I’d backed off a little. I was still not great, but I was trying to be better.

When I got home, I backed off even more. I started running regularly. My shorts eventually fit again. But I didn’t feel different. I didn’t feel good. I didn’t like measuring myself in ways I know only lead me to ruin. And I hated that I cared so much.

I’ve since stopped counting things and paying close attention to numbers. I don’t track anything on my Fitbit anymore except steps and work outs (when I do them). I do still run regularly, but it’s only for the routine of it to keep me from sitting around all the time. It gets me away from my computer, if only for 40 minutes. I eat chocolate when I want and drink wine when I want.

But I’m not great. And I don’t know if things are worse than I think they are and I just don’t see it. I always have hindsight, but I also never have hindsight. I live my life in a loop.

I’m uninspired by my writing, and books don’t keep my attention like they used to. I’ve been doing way too much sudoku for my own good. I’m not sleeping. I feel guilty for feeling all these things when I have a job and a roof over my head. I feel stupid for worrying about what my stomach looks like when people are dying, losing their jobs, losing their homes, and continuing to face rampant racism, homophobia, antisemitism, and so on. I hate that I’m a selfish person. 

And that’s how shitty it is to be depressed right now. It’s like a microcosm of my usual cycle, condensed into these four walls of my bedroom, circling above me. No amount of candles or new body scrubs or Christmas cookies can cover up the cracks.

And I mean, I’m okay in the grand scheme of things, I am. This isn’t a sign that people should be worried about me. This is me saying, “hello, I’m here, and I’m feeling it too.” We are all going through hell in one way or another. I’ve been seeing a lot of people “owning up” to it on social media (when you don’t have to, you really don’t owe anyone an explanation!). I’ve talked to my friends about how much we feel like we’re in a black hole.

Blame it on 2020 all we want, but this isn’t going to end when the clock strikes twelve on January 1st. I welcome you to pretend (though not in a way that will keep COVID up and running), because I certainly will be. But the fact is, the shitter is real, and we’re going to be here for a while, therapy or no therapy. Vaccine or no vaccine.

…wait, I think I was going to try and be positive here.

Truth is, there’s only so much positivity I’ve got right now. We’re in limited supply and we’ve got to put it where it matters. For me, that’s watching Chuck and Insecure, listening to my friends’ music recs, writing letters, and trying to write really sad stories (kind of an oxymoron, I know). It’s texting my friends new Taylor Swift theories or dissecting The Mandalorian on Friday afternoons (that finale though). It’s telling my friend in the best words I can how incredibly proud I am of her for finishing her Bachelor’s degree and going to nursing school. It’s also finding ways to be a productive human being and reading about issues like: the death penalty/capital punishment, Congresspeople trying to throw out the election results, the COVID vaccines, climate change, the awful antisemitism and violence occurring during Hanukkah right now (full disclosure Hanukkah might be over by the time this post goes up, but it’s happening while I’m writing this), systemic racism (obviously)—and then figuring out what I can do about it. But then sometimes, it’s watching Pride and Prejudice for the umpteenth time this month.

We’re doing the very best we can right now, and that might not be much, but it’s something. I’m not forcing myself out of my funk like I typically do, but I am trying to coax myself out of it. And that’s really the most I can hope for at this point.

So I hope y’all are as well as you can be. I hope you’re reading books that make you smile, watching TV that helps you forget the real world, baking cookies to make your house smell wonderful, and, quite simply, just hanging in there. I’ve got you.

Happiest of holidays to you and yours.