The worst things about my depression…

It can sneak up on me. I can wake up one morning and it is there lying on top of me, pushing down on my chest with its leaden hands. It is as though it crawled into my bed uninvited while I slept. It is a violation of my body and mind.

It keeps me from taking care of myself. My blood sugar is low and my fridge is empty. The supermarket is 300 yards away from my apartment but it may as well be three cities over. And of course that makes sense since I also need a shower and my bathroom feels as though it is unreachable. The front door feels like a threshold that is impossible to pass. Through its awful grin it mocks me, “Thou shall remain hungry, dirty and inert!”

It is a cold, foggy, vast and uninhabitable moorland. A lonely place. It separates me from myself and others.

But the worst thing of all…It is not the sadness. It is not even the pain. It is the way it keeps me from living. It is the helplessness I feel as it wastes precious time. So much time….wasted.

Getting the random thoughts out so that I won’t feel lonely or trapped in my head…

It’s hard to have an open heart when you feel sad and lonely. I think it’s why I have been crying on an off for…god, I think it’s been about 3.5 days. There aren’t always sad thoughts preceding the tears; they often come the way hunger does–like an involuntary bodily function. Today I woke up and within a minute I had tears in my eyes. I got plenty of sleep. I went to bed with a relatively warm and happy mindset and yet my eyes were moist again.

I think I’m grieving. Only I don’t think it’s the sort of grief everyone would understand. There have been no recent deaths or breakups. Just changes in all of my relationships over the past few years. Good changes. Or rather, changes representing positive things in the lives of my loved ones. And I’m happy for them while at the same time feeling a bit sad for myself. Right now it doesn’t feel like self-pity. Though I cannot deny at times falling into self-pity, right now I just feel sad. I suppose the difference is that I don’t feel like a victim in any way. I just feel…like I need to find a way to create more of something.


I wonder how life would be if we didn’t have walls up. If there were no “isms” or violence or trauma. I like to imagine that people would walk around with open hearts and that their faces would be windows rather than masks. In a world where nobody has been deeply wounded, there would no reason to hide one’s joyful smiles or one’s sweet sad tears. Strangers would high five and hug one another. People would console one another. Nobody would be hungry because without trauma I don’t believe there would be so much greed. Nobody could bear to watch a fellow human starve. Friends would be made left and right. There would be a sense of community wherever you turned. I think that is my little fantasy. My little vision of utopia. If it is naive then so be it–that’s why it’s a fantasy.


Sometimes I impress myself. I realize how much I am able to do despite all of my mental health stuff. These tears have not stopped me from doing a decent job at work. They haven’t stopped me from exercising or keeping my apartment clean. They haven’t stopped me from keeping up on paperwork, hygiene or finances. I don’t think it’s easy to do so much alone even without mental health issues. I am an everyday hero (among millions upon millions of others, of course).


I realize that both depression and sadness make me want the same thing: to stay under a blanket and watch films and read. The difference is that when I’m sad I derive satisfaction from the blanket and the reading whereas when I’m depressed it doesn’t feel like a choice. I suppose the other difference is that when I’m sad others are, theoretically speaking, welcome to share the warmth of the blanket whereas when I’m depressed it is harder to make room for that.


Yesterday was my dad’s birthday. I not only told him I loved him but I told him that he’s a “good dad”. I have never told him that. I don’t know why I said it when it’s only one slice of the truth (by that I only mean that none of us are only one thing). I think I have become more aware of his mortality. I know that he will not be around forever and I don’t want him to focus on the ways he neglected me growing up. He once shared his pain about this (a good 15 years ago I think) and I want him to let it go. I want him to feel lighter. To feel less regret. I also thanked him for supporting me in all the ways that he does to which he said, “I’ll always have your back”. I think my dad is very very sweet in his own way. Needless to say when I got off the phone I collapsed into tears. Not bad tears. I was just…moved. I think it’s going to be really hard to lose him. I think when I lost my grandparents my walls were higher with them. My walls aren’t that high with my dad. And I know that’s a good thing but…yeah, it’s going to hurt.


I’m crying right now. I almost want to laugh at myself (not in a mean way). I am a walking, talking crying machine.

I can’t seem to stop crying the last couple of days. Or rather, I can keep it together really well during work hours, but otherwise I seem to be quite fragile. It’s not ideal but it’s not the the worst thing in the world. Sometimes my BPD can make it so that I don’t feel anything. It makes my nervous system involuntarily shut down. That is awful. This is just sadness and loneliness with a tinge of insecurity. I suppose I find this more bearable because this way I’m still right here–I’m not gone or absent.

I feel needy but I’m not disowning the neediness. Yes, that too is right there: the desire for hugs and companionship and affection. I want to stand on my balcony and scream out “Gimme love everyone!” This probably means I have to give myself love. That’s rarely easy for me.

Changing subjects (yes this really is just a random journal entry that I’m sharing because I feel a bit lonely), I realized yesterday that I generally work well with clients who are counter-dependent; that is, clients who are so deeply sensitive that they have learned to disown their vulnerability and their needs; those who see themselves almost exclusively as strong and independent.

A twenty-some year old client said to me yesterday , “I’m a chill person”. I looked at her and said, “I understand why you’d say that. But the truth is more nuanced. I think you are sensitive and feel intensely. I think you are profoundly deep. You learned to disown all of that. Well done surviving. But I want you to know that I see how much you have going on in there and that I’m ready for whenever it’s ready to come out.” The client immediately grew tearful and said, “Damn….okay yes.” I asked her what it was like to hear what I said and she replied, “Hard but I also feel a lot of gratitude”. She felt loved. I could tell. And, in that moment, it was true: I was loving her with all of my heart.

The thing is…that’s easy for me. Or rather, my work self has a much easier time of things. It is easier for me to be loving toward my clients that it is to be loving toward myself. When I’m with clients some of my own adaptations come in handy.

For example, the radar I have developed to read people can often hurt me so much in my day-to-day life because it can trigger me into painful narratives. I think my radar is quite refined but somewhere between the radar and my brain the message gets distorted. But at work the information the radar sends me is usually full of clarity and insight. Thus the narratives I write for my clients are more accurate and helpful than those I write for myself. At work my radar is like a super power. I put it to good use there. It’s one of the reasons I’m such a good therapist. I sometimes see things they haven’t seen yet. Or at least things they turn their backs on. And I usually get away with confronting them with it because I say things from a calm loving place. No, I’m not perfect and sometimes my timing is off or sometimes my motives are off but guess what? Work-Me is very forgiving. That is, I don’t tend to beat myself up for mistakes there.

It’s not ideal that my work life is where I feel like my best self. I mean, I’m grateful that I have place where I can utilize my traumas and my life experience in a way that is generally beneficial to others. It means the world to me. But I’m also aware that part of what allows me to be my best self there is that while it’s a very intimate sort of relationship I don’t see it as a place to get my needs met in a direct way (in an indirect way it fills all sorts of needs, to be sure) so I don’t get triggered. There I can’t be abandoned. There I can’t feel the intensity of my original trauma.

The self-judgment just came up for me right now. About this entire entry. I’m calling myself self-indulgent for talking about myself in a way that isn’t especially creative. Who am I to take up this space? I’m telling myself that it’s okay and that I’m a lovable person to counter that. But then tears come to my eyes again. Yup, the tears are streaming down.

It’s funny though, if someone said to me that the tears would keep coming for the rest of my life and that I would never again feel numb I would take it. I would say, “Yeah, maybe that’s okay.” I’m not saying that it’s what I want. I would like to feel lighter and happier more frequently. But between the two extremes of crying-fragile vs. numb it’s no contest. At least from here I can talk and get some catharsis. Here the river flows even if the river is full of tears.

Well, it’s time to rest and have a snack before my last three clients. If nothing else I’ll get a little break from the tears during those three hours. And I have a good film waiting for me to finish. Soulful. Smart. Beautiful. That feels good too. In fact, I’m willing to bet I’ll shed a few tears while I watch. Shocking, I know.

I sit and wait for my omelette and salad. I wanted the potatoes but I ate two big cookies last night. I place my coffee down on a table. A tiny table for one. My knees bang the bottom of the table as I pull up the chair. I do not fit. A bit of coffee spills. These tables are not made for one such as me. I am special and the spill on the table is my proof. I am not special and the mountains and the aches in my body are my proof. I smile beneath my mask before removing it. Naked faces all around me. I tell myself to keep looking up. Look up and smile with your eyes. No one sees me. I cannot tell if this makes me sad or if it is a comfort so I let it be both. Young couple. The pretty young woman takes a tiny bite of a strawberry. Her skin is white and smooth and unblemished. The pretty young man says something funny and the pretty girl laughs. His skin is olive and smooth and unblemished. They seem happy this morning. I wonder if they will be happy in the afternoon as well. A young girl leans her tired body against her mom. Her mom wraps an arm around her. How nice it must be to lean on someone with one’s entire weight. “Breakfast?” The server asks me as he sets the plate down before me. I wonder why he states it as a question. “Yes”, I say. The omelette is good. The ham is juicy and the vegetable bits are fresh. The cheese is extra stretchy and I think to myself that it must be a fancy cheese of some sort because it has a deliciously pungent flavor. I feel like a tourist in places like these. It is my version of traveling. I am the only one here alone. I check to see if that bothers me. It does not bother me this time. I finish my omelette. I feel full. Full with food. Full with people. It is time to go home and read. I am sleepy.

You grow accustomed to the quiet. It becomes a blanket. It keeps you warm and insulates you from the world. You could reach out. You could speak. But the longer you wear the blanket the less you have to say. You lose interest in what is out there and since your very Self is out there you lose interest in that as well.

Art is a reliable mirror. One you can depend on. You find your despair in a jagged guitar line. Melancholy in a minor chord. Loneliness in a well-written, well-drawn comic book panel. Come to think of it, it is largely through art that you largely found and constructed your Self. There I found the validation, companionship and understanding that I sought…that I seek.

In your typical fashion you want to vacillate between idealizing this way of being and completely devaluing it. Between leaning all the way in or destroying it. You resist the urge. You decide instead to continue describing it.

When you stay under the blanket long enough the outside world becomes a dream. You walk through a supermarket and somehow the people seem less real than the song or the characters in the book. If the cashier asks you about your day you watch yourself respond as though you were but a passive observer.

You no longer know what you want and need. Your thoughts become foggy and your emotions are a big ball of everything and nothing. You lose the fragile calm and reach for the novel or the movie or the comic and….there you are. You find your Self. Not directly. Just the reflected image of different parts. Just enough to cobble together a modicum of solidity. Enough to get you through.

Is this living or is this just a life support system? There you go again, trying to categorize things into polarizing opposites. The truth is that it is both and everything in between. Day to day and minute to minute it means something different. You can, even if distantly, see that you use this to avoid life. You can stand one foot to the left and see a staggering sensitivity to art, a truly felt sense of why it is so important. A few inches to the right and you pat yourself on the back for your resourcefulness. One inch back and you can access the crushing loneliness. Four inches further and you see how in many ways you are never alone.

And now you have spoken. And you check in with yourself and realize that you don’t care if anyone hears; that the blanket is thick. And you know that there is something both wonderful and sad about being free of expectations but also, perhaps, short on hope. And you know you must feed yourself. Not because you are hungry but because you feel weak. And so you will eat.

Aged out of delusions. The restless hunger is there but you no longer hunt. You build your chest. Create steel on the outside. You still cannot bear the weight. Beneath remains the hollowness and longing you have always known. Humbled hopes and dreams. One breath. One without the hollowness or the weight. That is all you wish for. Nothing more.

The small square entryway at the side of the house was painted green, the plain cement visible where the paint had been chipped. It had but two steps. It was here that I would sit and play for what seemed—what is time to a child of six years?—like hours. Despite an ample backyard and a front porch I chose a place where my play would be interrupted by the coming and going of family members; an area where I could still track the presence of others. Did I know then that I wanted to be interrupted? To be noticed? I cannot recall.

Out of a stained and tattered beige tote bag I would pull out a couple of dozen green plastic army-men figurines and six or seven plastic dinosaurs. The presence of a King Kong and dragon figurine was, at times, a perturbation that I managed by leaving them behind in the bag. I needed the world that I created to be just so: a clash between humanity and the Cretaceous, Jurassic and Triassic world of dinosaurs and reptiles. The anachronism of men was an allowance I could bear, the presence of two mythical creatures invented by men was somehow a blight on this world. There were already too many blights in my world.

I would begin by setting up the battle scene, positioning all the toys in whatever way was satisfying to me that day. I hated the army-men, all but the ones who were crawling on their belly. If there were to be any survivors it was them who would be the beneficiaries of my grace. Perhaps it is because they knew to supplicate themselves. Perhaps I simply enjoyed the design aesthetic. That too I cannot recall.

The result of the battle was always a forgone conclusion: dinosaurs would triumph over humankind and I would feel as though somehow I had won. And yet I recall being completely present in my play, somehow willing a suspension of disbelief to a script that I had already written.

As enthralled as I was in my fantasy world I, like a dog who raises one ear when it appears to be napping, was vigilant to whatever voices I heard emerging from the house.

“Where is P.?”

“He is playing outside.”

There was never negligence as it related to my physical well-being. This must have counted—it must still count—for something.

At the end of the battle I would take stock of the battlegrounds, surveying the casualties: the men knocked over dead, the few dinosaurs who sacrificed their lives to my cause collapsed on their sides. Among the triumphant was always the T. Rex. Even in play it would have shattered my heart to see him dead. I needed him—my avatar, my earthly defender—to live and breath.

Were I able to lose myself in this sort of play nearly forty-five years later I do not believe I would change the script much. And in that fact I find both comfort and disappointment.

Dream where I’m working in some sort of office. There is an abusive middle-aged man speaking to people in a rude and patronizing way. He brusquely tells me to make a copy of a large manuscript. I make the copy for him, go back to his office and hit him across the face with it. He falls off his chair and to the floor. He is bleeding and whimpering. I destroy the office. The other employees initially look afraid but then gleefully join in and join me as we smash windows and break computers.

I wake up. It takes me a handful of seconds to orient myself to “reality”. Immediately my heart sinks into my stomach when I remember I’m in my bed and that I have to live my day. I sit there for a moment and try to find that one reason…that one motivating factor…All I can come up with is “you have to”. I pour my cup of coffee out drowsily, wondering how on earth I’ll be able to do anything other than sit on my couch and see my clients. I give up. It is not even 8am and I have given up hope for the day. I’ll just watch it pass and try not to let the guilt eat me up. And maybe tomorrow will be one of those increasingly infrequent days when I feel alive.

“This will pass”. It doesn’t mean anything to me. Yes, it is true I won’t always feel this way. I might have a good day or even a good few days. And then this will come again. Whether it’s triggered by something external or I simply wake up in the fog for no apparent reason–it will come again.

It’s funny. The dream was sort of pleasurable. It felt like we were rebelling against something unjust. It was also awful. It was violent and anxiety provoking but it was okay. I didn’t mind it as much as the last two weeks where I have been dreaming of things that are sweet and sensual: people kissing me or holding my hand in a park. Those were far harder to bear because upon awakening I was left with my lonely reality. And maybe that’s what’s happening with my rare good days. When they finally come they only cause more pain. The good days, like the dreams, are just teasing me: giving me a taste of something that will get snatched away from me in a moment.

Everyday I am grieving a sort of endless grief and so I try to keep myself from it by not hoping for anything. If I can stay still and hope for nothing then I will not have to grieve. But it doesn’t work. This ancient grief: a childhood with glimpses of goodness and deserts of loneliness and fear and despair. Special moments and long bleak periods. I realize that this…is what my childhood was like. Waiting for that one day my dad would be in a good mood. Waiting for the excitement of a new video game. Waking up in pain–afraid to go to school with nobody to tell about it. This hopelessness was built into me and I feel trapped inside of it.

You wake up and the first thing you feel is a crushing weight on your chest that you are alive. Almost as big as the weight of the guilt you feel for not being able to actually live. You lie there staring at the ceiling above almost paralyzed. You are afraid. You don’t even know what you are afraid of but you’re constantly afraid. What finally gets you up is the reminder that you have to work to pay the bills. Just before you give in you play games with yourself. You wonder what it would be like to simply stay in bed and turn your phone off, to blow-up your own life and career. Or you imagine canceling every single one of them and getting in your car and driving away. But none of the fantasies are ultimately satisfying because no matter what you do with your actual life, you still have to face yourself. So you drag yourself out of bed and you start doing the things you always do. And you know you’re just surviving. And maybe the only almost-positive thought you have is: “fuck, I can’t believe I do this everyday–I could so easily just file a claim for disability, move in with my broken family and sleep all day”.

Elena – Part One

Elena entered her clean nondescript one bedroom apartment, successfully balancing the grocery bags in her arms while pulling the keys out of the door and shutting it behind her. These were the tiny triumphs of her life.

She was forty-six years of age and imprinted on her face was a look of defeated exhaustion. Her eyes eluded time’s cruelty by retaining some of their youthful luminosity. Though she rarely spoke she was ever watchful. The world was, to her, something to be privately observed.

By expecting no more of the future than what she knew in the present she found a sort of solace. Her life was defined by a quiet loneliness and the occasional simple comfort.

Elena put the groceries away and walked into her bedroom where she changed into an old baggy t-shirt and a decade-old pair of grey sweat pants. She sat at the end of the bed for a moment deciding what she would watch that night while fighting the urge to numb herself with food…