"Coming Out" of My Head
My normal?
Crippling anxiety. Debilitating headaches. And living with my 'depression voice'. I named it that when I dealt with a particularly serious bout of depression in 2008. In the leadership class I teach, we call it negative self-talk. But just like my anxiety occurs on a grander scale than most and my headache isn't the same as your headache, this isn't normal doubt about your self-worth. This isn't being sad. It's not even that feeling when you lose a loved one. My depression voice speaks to me every day, every hour, telling me I'm not good enough. Telling me I'm a burden to my loved ones. Telling me life's not worth it. Luring me into dark, quiet rooms for three hour naps. The fantasy of television. The anonymity of the Internet. Pulling me into bed at night, with promises of a quiet sleep that never materializes. Keeping me from friends, from family, from enjoying the things I used to love, like scrapbooking and reading and blogging and leaving the house. Honestly, from leaving my bedroom.
I know what you're thinking. Wow, you need therapy.
You think? I've tried that.
Seriously?!
Tell me how you feel. Like a big pile of crap.
Why do you think you have those feelings? I'm pretty sure it's a chemical imbalance in my brain exacerbated by stress. What is your job here?!
Have you ever thought of harming yourself? Like, who would say yes to that?!?! That's a one-way ticket to the loony bin. And don't think I haven't thought of taking that little vacation from reality. A few days of eating, sleeping, wearing pajamas, and chatting with a group of people who feel the same way? Sign me up!
Scientists have no idea how the brain really works. I recently learned there have been three theories around negative self-talk. (1) First, we decided you needed to find the events that triggered the thoughts in order to prevent them. Stress bad. Avoid stress. Oh. Easy. Ahem. (2) Next, the experts said we needed to just prove to ourselves the thoughts simply weren't true. I'll probably get a mediocre review with no bonus. False. My students trust me, people laugh at my jokes, and my survey scores chart higher than average. (3) The latest theory says that these thoughts are just chemical misfires in the brain that you can willfully ignore. I'm worthless. Hmmm, no I'm not. I'm not going to recognize that as valid. Next. Oooh, there's a shrimp sale at The Crab Crib! Duly noted. Next.
How is someone asking me how I feel going to help? How can I relate the last 25 years of my life to complete stranger and expect them to "fix me" all in the course of 50 minutes? When Aly was two, I tried a local therapist. He took my history at his desk with his back to me, verified that all my kids had the same baby-daddy, and condescendingly explained post-partum depression. I left his office in tears, feeling violated. He obviously didn't hear the part where this was my only normal newborn to toddler experience.
But you have a job, you think. How can you do your job?
True. I do have a job. A job that requires me at least every other week to get on a plane (or two) and stand up in front of a room of 100 newly hired people to teach them about our company. A job that starts at 7 AM and doesn't end until dinner is finished at 9 PM. And every other week I do that job. And I'm good at it. Actually, I'm great at it. I will be rated "exceeds expectations" this year.
Except some nights,during training weeks, I don't make it to dinner. Some nights, I collapse into bed at 6PM. Some mornings I wake up with a debilitating headache and a voice that tries to convince me to stay in bed. But I'd like to keep my job (because I once almost lost it, seriously), so I take a handful of Excedrin on top of my regular medication. Some lunches are spent in the ladies room, just breathing, trying to stop the shaking. And more than once I have frozen. Stopped mid-sentence. Looked at my co–facilitator and said "Can you take this?", and working with a high performing team, I've a gotten away with it. But most weeks, I do it. Most weeks, I'm a rockstar. Then I come home. And those weeks, those are the dark ones. It's like I only have so much energy, and I spend that energy at work. I spend that energy on "happy Tonya". And the real me is crumpled, broken mess. A ball of pain, and anxiety, and darkness. In fact, recently I've begun to wonder if my clinically diagnosed depression is actually bipolar disorder (also known as manic-depression). My work schedule may perpetuate the weekly cycling. Is it mania showing during my rock star work weeks? Am I just putting on a front those days I collapse into bed? If I trusted a therapist, maybe I'd go in for a new diagnosis. But for what? A label? Different drugs?
I know it's not fair. I know I'm shortchanging my family, my friends. Even myself. But I don't know what to do.
More drugs? I'm pretty sure my family doctor isn't going there. The last time I went in because I was feeling the slide into darkness, he asked the usual "hurt yourself or others" question and I gave the usual "of course not" answer. He said, and I am not making this up, "oh good. That really makes me look bad."
Therapy? Oh, I tried it again. My last therapist couldn't hold a normal adult conversation. She copied dozens of pages out of pop-psychology books and handed them to me at each of the two appointments I kept. She also recommended I do some Bible studies.
Ok, let's talk about Jesus. A random idiot on Facebook responded to a post about depression saying it was caused by spiritual warfare and depressed people just weren't praying hard enough. I do believe in God, and by extension, the spiritual realm. One of my favorite books is This Present Darkness by Frank Paretti, which tells the struggle of humans through the eyes of the angels that watch over them. But, NEWS FLASH, Christians can suffer from anxiety and depression just like they can suffer from diabetes or cancer or MS. The joy of the Lord is my strength. YEAH, and the chemicals in my brain are my weakness.
So do I just keep going? Can I? When will my energy run out? When will the darkness take over? When will it all just stop?
Crippling anxiety. Debilitating headaches. And living with my 'depression voice'. I named it that when I dealt with a particularly serious bout of depression in 2008. In the leadership class I teach, we call it negative self-talk. But just like my anxiety occurs on a grander scale than most and my headache isn't the same as your headache, this isn't normal doubt about your self-worth. This isn't being sad. It's not even that feeling when you lose a loved one. My depression voice speaks to me every day, every hour, telling me I'm not good enough. Telling me I'm a burden to my loved ones. Telling me life's not worth it. Luring me into dark, quiet rooms for three hour naps. The fantasy of television. The anonymity of the Internet. Pulling me into bed at night, with promises of a quiet sleep that never materializes. Keeping me from friends, from family, from enjoying the things I used to love, like scrapbooking and reading and blogging and leaving the house. Honestly, from leaving my bedroom.
I know what you're thinking. Wow, you need therapy.
You think? I've tried that.
Seriously?!
Tell me how you feel. Like a big pile of crap.
Why do you think you have those feelings? I'm pretty sure it's a chemical imbalance in my brain exacerbated by stress. What is your job here?!
Have you ever thought of harming yourself? Like, who would say yes to that?!?! That's a one-way ticket to the loony bin. And don't think I haven't thought of taking that little vacation from reality. A few days of eating, sleeping, wearing pajamas, and chatting with a group of people who feel the same way? Sign me up!
Scientists have no idea how the brain really works. I recently learned there have been three theories around negative self-talk. (1) First, we decided you needed to find the events that triggered the thoughts in order to prevent them. Stress bad. Avoid stress. Oh. Easy. Ahem. (2) Next, the experts said we needed to just prove to ourselves the thoughts simply weren't true. I'll probably get a mediocre review with no bonus. False. My students trust me, people laugh at my jokes, and my survey scores chart higher than average. (3) The latest theory says that these thoughts are just chemical misfires in the brain that you can willfully ignore. I'm worthless. Hmmm, no I'm not. I'm not going to recognize that as valid. Next. Oooh, there's a shrimp sale at The Crab Crib! Duly noted. Next.
How is someone asking me how I feel going to help? How can I relate the last 25 years of my life to complete stranger and expect them to "fix me" all in the course of 50 minutes? When Aly was two, I tried a local therapist. He took my history at his desk with his back to me, verified that all my kids had the same baby-daddy, and condescendingly explained post-partum depression. I left his office in tears, feeling violated. He obviously didn't hear the part where this was my only normal newborn to toddler experience.
But you have a job, you think. How can you do your job?
True. I do have a job. A job that requires me at least every other week to get on a plane (or two) and stand up in front of a room of 100 newly hired people to teach them about our company. A job that starts at 7 AM and doesn't end until dinner is finished at 9 PM. And every other week I do that job. And I'm good at it. Actually, I'm great at it. I will be rated "exceeds expectations" this year.
Except some nights,during training weeks, I don't make it to dinner. Some nights, I collapse into bed at 6PM. Some mornings I wake up with a debilitating headache and a voice that tries to convince me to stay in bed. But I'd like to keep my job (because I once almost lost it, seriously), so I take a handful of Excedrin on top of my regular medication. Some lunches are spent in the ladies room, just breathing, trying to stop the shaking. And more than once I have frozen. Stopped mid-sentence. Looked at my co–facilitator and said "Can you take this?", and working with a high performing team, I've a gotten away with it. But most weeks, I do it. Most weeks, I'm a rockstar. Then I come home. And those weeks, those are the dark ones. It's like I only have so much energy, and I spend that energy at work. I spend that energy on "happy Tonya". And the real me is crumpled, broken mess. A ball of pain, and anxiety, and darkness. In fact, recently I've begun to wonder if my clinically diagnosed depression is actually bipolar disorder (also known as manic-depression). My work schedule may perpetuate the weekly cycling. Is it mania showing during my rock star work weeks? Am I just putting on a front those days I collapse into bed? If I trusted a therapist, maybe I'd go in for a new diagnosis. But for what? A label? Different drugs?
I know it's not fair. I know I'm shortchanging my family, my friends. Even myself. But I don't know what to do.
More drugs? I'm pretty sure my family doctor isn't going there. The last time I went in because I was feeling the slide into darkness, he asked the usual "hurt yourself or others" question and I gave the usual "of course not" answer. He said, and I am not making this up, "oh good. That really makes me look bad."
Therapy? Oh, I tried it again. My last therapist couldn't hold a normal adult conversation. She copied dozens of pages out of pop-psychology books and handed them to me at each of the two appointments I kept. She also recommended I do some Bible studies.
Ok, let's talk about Jesus. A random idiot on Facebook responded to a post about depression saying it was caused by spiritual warfare and depressed people just weren't praying hard enough. I do believe in God, and by extension, the spiritual realm. One of my favorite books is This Present Darkness by Frank Paretti, which tells the struggle of humans through the eyes of the angels that watch over them. But, NEWS FLASH, Christians can suffer from anxiety and depression just like they can suffer from diabetes or cancer or MS. The joy of the Lord is my strength. YEAH, and the chemicals in my brain are my weakness.
So do I just keep going? Can I? When will my energy run out? When will the darkness take over? When will it all just stop?
Labels: health
posted by Tonya at
11:15 AM
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